Dying is Not An Option / Installment -3-
On my first oncology visit, my granddaughter, Lauren, attended the appointment with me. Shortly after finishing the insurance forms and personal information paperwork, Lauren and I were ushered into the inner sanctum of the oncology center. We met the oncologist assigned to my case, and my first impression was that he was reserved and distant. He was the scientific type, rushed, quick, alert, smart, and totally off my vibe level. I realized this wasn’t going to be the doctor who would be in charge of my treatment for the many years ahead. I needed someone who got me. One of my grandsons relayed to me once . . . “You get me, Grams.” It was one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever gotten in my life. I knew intuitively that this specialist wasn’t ever going to . . . get me.
He told me what I pretty much already knew, that I had CLL, B-white cell leukemia. He also threw in another set of capital letters, SLL. Small Lymphocytic Lymphoma. Or CLL/SLL. I already knew that sometimes oncologists joined the two classifications of leukemia together because of the presence of enlarged lymph nodes in the lymphatic system.
The oncologist estimated my stage of leukemia to be a 1 or 2, and ordered a number of MRI scans to learn how invasive and large the nodes were within my lymphatic system. He also ordered another more aggressive CBC count of my blood cells.
Lauren asked a million questions, which he answered by writing his answers down on the pages of her notebook. He acted as if I was slow-witted and didn’t understand or hear him, which irritated the crap outta me. He rarely spoke out loud, so I was beginning to get where the shushy/hushy feeling in the waiting room had emanated from.
Lauren and I went to a nearby I-HOP after the visit for breakfast. We sat at the booth and tried to make sense of what the oncologist had told us, but finally concluded that nothing was nothing, until there was something to actually see on paper. We had nothing more than when we walked in the oncology center’s door, and wouldn’t know anything until the scans and blood work were completed. It would be another week before my next oncology appointment. My blood tests and scans were being arranged and I would go for the necessary tests within a day or so. It was a beginning of sorts. So far, we had nothing substantial to go on. Nothing I could report. Nothing is, well . . . nothing! It was disheartening and depressing.
Leaving the I-HOP restaurant after breakfast, the wind was whipping at 50 plus miles per hour, and we could barely open the door to get out of the building. The wind grabbed Lauren’s notes (all 123 pages of them) and they went flying all over the parking lot and spread at least a quarter mile in all directions. It was so funny to watch her scampering all over the parking lot of the I-HOP and nearby businesses, swearing like a seasoned marine, as the sheets of paper floated down, came close to the ground, only to watch them fly off again into the swirling wind pockets. I followed her around with the car and offered advice on paper retrieval methods, which wasn’t met with much enthusiasm or gratitude.
I think the angels scattered the paperwork for us to have a good laugh, or at least, so I could have a good laugh. Lauren was not pleased at my teasing and fits of giggles, as I watched her trying to make some sense and order out of the paper trail chaos. It was a fitting reprieve and I felt the load of the world vanish from my shoulders. Life is very elusive and constantly changing. Hanging on to reality is sometimes tough. The gift of laughter lightens the load. The flying notepaper was a gift and a reminder to me how fleeting life actually is. How we try so hard to fit life into its many compartments, then along comes a strong wind and scatters your perfect plans around like they’re worthless. It set a new attitude and tone for me for the weeks to come. It was time for me to lighten up.