Warning: This post contains language that some may find offensive. Proceed with caution.
Good afternoon, dear reader. I hope this weekend finds you well and relaxed. This has been an interesting week with many conflicting emotions for me to battle. I’m doing my best to stay positive, but doing so has proven difficult several times over the past few days.
The major occurrence this week was a visit to my surgical oncologist. This was the first time I’ve seen him in three months or so. True to his nature, he has retained his very skillful approach to his practice of medicine as well as his totally rubbish bedside manner. After the standard weigh-in and minor interrogation by one of the staff nurses, I was visited by a junior doctor, one of the new members of my oncologist’s team. Apparently, those interns/residents with whom I spent my time in the hospital have gone on to better things. However, this new resident (I’m assuming) informed me that my case had become somewhat legendary around the hospital corridors. I found that mildly amusing.
Finally, the oncologist himself arrived. After a few more questions and a brief examination of my airway, he consented to the removal of my trach tube. While at first the sensation was awkward, I acclimated very quickly. Suffice it to say, I’m thrilled to not have something lodged in my throat at all times. As he continued the exam, he was explaining the surgery to the new resident. As though he were oblivious to the fact that Adrianne and I were in the room, he made statements like, “This was as bad as a cancer of this type can be.” Once he finally acknowledged my presence again, he added, “We’re not out of the woods yet.” He then scoffed at the mention of the CT scan that was scheduled for two days later (by my chemotherapy oncologist) saying that I was not sufficiently past radiation therapy for the images to be of any use. He said that he wouldn’t ask for a CT until six months after radiation was over. When I offered to have the imaging center send him copies of the scan, he said point-blank, “No, they’ll be useless.” Charming, right? At least he’s a talented surgeon.
What gets to me is the fact that this gets to me. I hear the indifference in his voice and the warnings in his words, and I am immediately pulled back to the exact same place I was four or five months ago when this was going to kill me. I feel like all my progress is gone, all my resolve is gone, and I feel the same fear that almost overwhelmed me when this all began.
I don’t like feeling that way. I don’t want to feel that way. Quite frankly, I shouldn’t have to feel that way. A healthy respect for the legitimate concerns posed by this disease is one thing. Doom-and-gloom from a jackass physician is something entirely different. Is there no glimmer of hope, Doc? Really? My surgical margins were clear. The PET scan that was conducted before I began radiation therapy showed no signs of cancer anywhere in my body. I threw a (virtually) experimental combination of chemotherapy drugs at this monster while undergoing thirty-five radiation treatments (on the large side of the spectrum of radiation treatments). Not out of the woods? Thanks. Good to know. P.S., you’re a dick.
As for the rest of the week, I suppose it went alright. I think I’ve been hampered by the brush with the physician more than I consciously realize. I haven’t slept well. For much of the weekend, I simply felt off somehow. It’s hard to explain. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something, but I haven’t yet figured out what it is. Perhaps my subconscious doesn’t really exist.
Have you ever thought that you may be a figment of your own imagination? I’ve felt like that quite a bit lately. The person I was six months ago is gone. He simply does not exist any longer. For that matter, nor does the person who sat down and began penning this entry several hours ago. Between those times and now, there have been thoughts and ideas and fears and revelations that distinguish me from those men. The only me I know to exist is the one who is here at this very moment. Why should I fear my own mortality, my own death? The I who is is neither the I who was nor the I who will be.
Until next time, dear reader, take care of each other.
If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things. —Rene Descartes
