Dying is Not An Option Installment -5-
I returned to the local oncologist alone for the results of the CAT scans and blood work. I entered the inner sanctum of the center with a big old smile plastered on my face, ready to change my mind about the oncologist and win him over.
Nope! It didn’t work. In a few seconds, I realized we weren’t going to be compatible, ever! He was curt, short, hurried, and still acted as if my brain was located in my big toe someplace. He read the results of my lab and CAT scans off a piece of paper, never breaking into even the slightest acknowledgment of my actual human presence, remaining within his “take no prisoners” personality. When he was finished, I asked one question. “How extensive are the nodes?” (meaning . . . Duh, how far have the nodes spread and how many are there?)
He gestured with his hands, and said, “Many, many – everywhere!”
“Vital organs?” I asked, slipping into his shortened language skills.
“No, No,” he responded. “Not in the vital organs, yet!”
Ah, goody . . . I think . . . that’s a good thing.
I actually read the report myself when I got out to my car. The bad news was that the nodes were plentiful and extensive. Many of them were up to an inch in diameter, and pervasive throughout my immune lymphatic system. On the good side of the coin, my blood work was still within the normal range, and my body was still able to fight back against the invading leukemia and heal itself from colds, wounds, etc.
The greatest news from my visit to the local oncologist came for me on a personal level. I was being referred to the oncology/hematology department of the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale for a consultation. All my labs and scans, DVD’s of biopsies, etc. would be forwarded on to them. Referral and consultation only . . . my sweet-butt! I was going to make an appointment at the Mayo, and stay with them if I found an oncologist I liked. If I felt comfortable at the center in general, I would stay with them even though it meant a long commute from Prescott to Phoenix. There was still the big, “iffy”. If . . . they’d take me on as a long-term patient at all? I definitely had made up my mind that I wanted to change the direction of my treatments for the future and change doctors. I didn’t want to deal with any more robotic and stilted one-sided communications. I needed a second opinion or “choice”, or I was never going to be a happy camper during my treatment phase.
I was beginning to understand that leukemia had multiple layers to consider. First, the oncologist, he/she must be someone I felt comfortable and confident to be with. Second (and almost as important) . . . I needed to feel in control of my own destiny, and of the progression and treatment of my disease within the oncology facilities. I needed to participate in the decisions about the future of my mental and overall well-being. I also needed a feeling of absolute professionalism and humanism from the staff and the doctors, and yes, good vibes from the actual office staff and building in general. Vibes are important to me! They come from the humans within the walls of the institutions they represent. I needed people who were honest, witty, and “got me and my high-energy personality”. I also wanted the oncology department to be optimistic and daring about my leukemia treatments in general. Leukemia is a long-term commitment and relationship of many years. It damned well be satisfactory and good, or no one would be happy campers. Doctor, staff or patients!
More later . . .