Dying Is Not An Option / Installment -2-
Visiting an oncologist for the first time is a little more daunting than visiting your local family doctor. On my first visit, I noticed a sort of hushed atmosphere when I entered the oncologist’s office building. A feeling of deathly quiet existed within the doors. It was scarier than hell! I would have appreciated something upbeat, noisy and a little more joyful than the silent hush of empty that greeted us.
After checking in, an office assistant handed me a clipboard with a thick wad of insurance papers and personal history to fill out. On the first page someone had used a red ink stamp that stated “Amount of patient’s insurance available for treatment”. The red words were followed by a long red line and someone’s handwritten words, “TWO MILLION DOLLARS”.
I gotta tell you. I had a hard time getting past that first “intro” page, staring instead at the available dollar amount for my treatment. I pointed out to Lauren the TWO MILLION DOLLARS. She began laughing, breaking the empty hush with her genuine amusement at my first “real” moment of financial reality.
“Well Grams”, she gleefully retorted. “Now we know how much you’re really worth. Anytime you think you’re being under-appreciated, remember, you’re actually worth two million dollars.”
“What happens if it runs out?” I half-heartedly joked.
“Then” . . . she smiled her little sardonic smile, “I guess . . . you die!”
Her joke tickled my funny button and our laughter broke the chill in the waiting room air. A nurse appeared (with an amused smile on her face) from somewhere within the white walls. She sat down with us and began asking personal questions about our lives, as well as questioning me about my leukemia diagnosis.
I gotta tell you though, turning that first “Insurance Availability” page over and filling in the rest of that paperwork was harder than anything I’d done in my entire medical history. It was akin to turning a page into another era, another time, another space, another life. All I really wanted to do was . . . beat-feet it on home, curl into a ball, and suck my thumb.
More later.