What Kind of Cancer Do You Have
Maybe there are some questions you're not suppose to ask.
For instance, we all know it's probably not a good idea to ask an overweight female if she's pregnant. EVER. Not even in an OB/GYN office with "What to Expect When You're Expecting" propped up on her perfectly round bookshelf of a belly. not even then.
In my case, it was a different kind of doctor's office. Nuclear Medicine to be exact. The kind of medical facility that has magnets at the doorway to zap you, willingly or not, of whatever it is that can be zapped and destroyed.
When I walked in I saw her pacing. Not nervously, just strolling. Kind of like it was her daily exercise. Like a monk in a waiting room temple.
We passed each other as I went to the front desk to get checked in and retrieve the clipboard. One day that clipboard will be replaced with a small computer terminal that patients will go to in a corner of the office. Gone will be the days I look patiently on the elderly couple squinting to read the print. Instead of "Gladys, what does that say right there, under colonoscopy procedure?" it will be "Gladys, where's the damn shift key again?"
Yes, I've had too much time to think of such things.
When my paperwork duties were finished, I settled in next to the now exhausted female, with only an end table of magazines with their nervously turned pages separating us. As I do almost 100% of the time in waiting rooms, I grabbed for my book from my purse but at the last minute I put it back.
Why not ask, I thought.
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
I didn't feel the compulsion for pleasantries. No hello, how are you? Beautiful weather, in San Diego today, can you believe it? None of that.
Unlike the pregnant (or not) female in a doctor's office, my new friend was a bald female in a nuclear medicine office. Not a shiny Telly Savalas bald, but the kind of bald that has strands of hair coming back scared. Sticking straight up and out so it can be forewarned of any future attack. I honestly thought it was the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen. So brave, so wanting of life.
Just-
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
She looked at me with such depth, I had to suck in air to catch my breath.
I knew how she felt. Acknowledged. Seen. Validated.
There was a tenderness in her when she said, "Breast."
"How are you today?" I asked.
She told me she was tired. It's been a year of chemo and radiation for her. She's just tired.
"You?", she asked.
"Thyroid Cancer".
I saw it right there. The fear. She looked at my scar and I could tell she didn't know much about thyroid cancer and immediately I could tell what she was thinking.
Life or death?
That's the thing with cancer. It's always life or death.
"I'm going to be okay." I said.
We sighed together. I appreciated that sigh from her because I knew it was for me. This woman, whose every sigh is a strain, sighed for me.
I was called then, to face my fears with a diagnostic dose of radioactive iodine. It is nothing compared to the dose I will receive next week, but I admit I was still a bit afraid.
I hoped those magnets worked on my way out of the office.
When I left, she was also gone. I'll never forget her and how sometimes, it's okay to ask.
For instance, we all know it's probably not a good idea to ask an overweight female if she's pregnant. EVER. Not even in an OB/GYN office with "What to Expect When You're Expecting" propped up on her perfectly round bookshelf of a belly. not even then.
In my case, it was a different kind of doctor's office. Nuclear Medicine to be exact. The kind of medical facility that has magnets at the doorway to zap you, willingly or not, of whatever it is that can be zapped and destroyed.
When I walked in I saw her pacing. Not nervously, just strolling. Kind of like it was her daily exercise. Like a monk in a waiting room temple.
We passed each other as I went to the front desk to get checked in and retrieve the clipboard. One day that clipboard will be replaced with a small computer terminal that patients will go to in a corner of the office. Gone will be the days I look patiently on the elderly couple squinting to read the print. Instead of "Gladys, what does that say right there, under colonoscopy procedure?" it will be "Gladys, where's the damn shift key again?"
Yes, I've had too much time to think of such things.
When my paperwork duties were finished, I settled in next to the now exhausted female, with only an end table of magazines with their nervously turned pages separating us. As I do almost 100% of the time in waiting rooms, I grabbed for my book from my purse but at the last minute I put it back.
Why not ask, I thought.
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
I didn't feel the compulsion for pleasantries. No hello, how are you? Beautiful weather, in San Diego today, can you believe it? None of that.
Unlike the pregnant (or not) female in a doctor's office, my new friend was a bald female in a nuclear medicine office. Not a shiny Telly Savalas bald, but the kind of bald that has strands of hair coming back scared. Sticking straight up and out so it can be forewarned of any future attack. I honestly thought it was the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen. So brave, so wanting of life.
Just-
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
She looked at me with such depth, I had to suck in air to catch my breath.
I knew how she felt. Acknowledged. Seen. Validated.
There was a tenderness in her when she said, "Breast."
"How are you today?" I asked.
She told me she was tired. It's been a year of chemo and radiation for her. She's just tired.
"You?", she asked.
"Thyroid Cancer".
I saw it right there. The fear. She looked at my scar and I could tell she didn't know much about thyroid cancer and immediately I could tell what she was thinking.
Life or death?
That's the thing with cancer. It's always life or death.
"I'm going to be okay." I said.
We sighed together. I appreciated that sigh from her because I knew it was for me. This woman, whose every sigh is a strain, sighed for me.
I was called then, to face my fears with a diagnostic dose of radioactive iodine. It is nothing compared to the dose I will receive next week, but I admit I was still a bit afraid.
I hoped those magnets worked on my way out of the office.
When I left, she was also gone. I'll never forget her and how sometimes, it's okay to ask.