Am I? Can I?

I found myself at the Oncology clinic every day this week for iron infusions.  This is because my hemoglobin and iron were dreadfully low at my chemo appointment on Monday.  Dr. Oncologist said that I'd lost two units of blood since she'd last seen me!  Well, I knew exactly where it had gone, and suffice it to say that my ovaries are on some continuum of healing but are currently behaving like those of a 50-year-old woman.  We don't yet have a plan for how to deal with that, and I probably won't discuss it further on the blog, but the significant point is that I am periodically weak and bloodless.

Dr. Oncologist ordered iron infusions into my port to get me fixed up as quickly as possible.  They were a piece of cake, only 30 minutes each day for 5 days, and the only side effects were dreadful headaches on each of the first three days.  By Wednesday I had more spring in my step and was feeling better.  However, I was surprised by how much they disrupted my mental game.

I have become accustomed to only having an appointment every three weeks.  It has been glorious.  I have picked up every thread of my life, I think.  I'm still behind on some science things and some house things, but I'm working hard on everything and having so much fun doing it.  Receiving treatment once every three weeks is a sustainable frequency that allows me the freedom to live my life while still being responsible to my disease.

Going to Oncology every day messed with my head for numerous reasons.  Reason 1:  It is disruptive to my other lives.  In my science life, I am having a hard time keeping up with my bank of paid leave that I can use for medical appointments.  I'm using it faster than I accrue it.  In my mom life, Eleanor was home sick a few days this week, so I had to call on a friend (D you rock my world!) to sit with her so that I could go get my treatments.  The coordination kinda stressed me out.  

Reason 2:  The waiting room.  Oh, the oncology waiting room.  I have blogged about the waiting room before.  Sometimes I overhear endearing conversations among old folks, and other times I learn life lessons from new friends.  This week, however, I struggled to find inspiration in the waiting room.  Everyone seemed particularly glum, bald, and phlemy.  Dr. Oncologist has told me that she avoids the waiting room, and now I understand why.

On Wednesday I sat somewhat in the middle of three men who seemed to be together.  The two nearest to me were talking the cancer talk, trying to one-up each other with the procedures they'd undergone.  "Drug X?  Oh, that was nothing!  You don't know pain until you've had your Y biopsied.  I tell you what, that's the worst I've been through!"  When they both paused for air, the third man tried to change the subject.  "Did you see that article about the Keystone pipeline and politics?  He's for it, she's against it, and I just don't know what I think."  The other two men did no more than blink at him before resuming their cancer conversation.  "I was an electrician, union man.  I retired 5 years early, and boy am I glad I did because I got this cancer diagnosis the year I was supposed to retire.  Glad I got to have a few years of fun before I go!"  Oh man, they couldn't call my name fast enough that day.

Because I'm not one of them, right?  I mean I am, and I was, but I'm not?  Not now?

And if I am one of them, should I be doing all of these other things?  CAN I do all of these other things?  Maybe I can't actually do these other things but I think I can?  The imposter syndrome meets stage 4 breast cancer.    

I am actually no more or less mortal than the rest of you all, I just spend more time thinking about it than you do.  Average folks probably think about them once every five years or so, when they get rear-ended or have a bout of high blood pressure.  My experiences in the oncology waiting and treatment rooms bring these thoughts to the surface all the time, whether I'm ready for them or not.  For my part, I acknowledge that they are a part of me while trying to think about them less often.  However, I have a PET scan next Friday (4/24), so I don't anticipate any mental breaks in the near future.

In the meantime I'm going to polish a 5-year research proposal, submit a grant proposal, and finish a manuscript.  I'm going to buy some paint and rearrange some furniture.  I'm going to keep working on the bike-riding and shoe-tying lessons.  I'm going to discuss books with friends.  I'm going to go to the movies with my husband and eat a ton of popcorn.  I suppose that I am, and I can, until someone tells me otherwise.  One day at a time?  Ignorance is bliss?  Just do it?  Something like that.  
       

Lessons from the radiology waiting room

While I was sitting in the radiology waiting room on Monday waiting for my toe x-ray, an old old man engaged me in conversation.  His wheelchair plus oxygen accessories were overbearing, nearly obscuring the small figure among them.  He was thin with translucent skin, and his thick white hair remembered the shape of the pillow that was recently beneath the right side of his head.  His oxygen pump breathed in his lap.  When he spoke, it was with a high, reedy voice that was accustomed to complaining.  Indeed, before our conversation I observed him arguing with his caregiver about being 1.5 hours too early and how he could better use that time.

He said I looked familiar and inquired as to my place of work.  It turned out that I was not the person that he was thinking of, but we discovered something else in common:  his father worked for 35 years at my current place of work, as a heating and cooling specialist.  We visited about this for a few minutes, but his name was called 1.25 hours ahead of schedule (never have a I heard a more sincere "Halleluja!") and he was pushed away.

This short interaction inspired so many thoughts.      

I thought a lot about his hair.  At first I thought how unnatural it looked for someone so old to have such a generous helping of hair remaining on the head.  Then I thought about the hunk on the side that was sticking straight up.  I thought what a shame it was that none of his caregivers had the time or inclination to force that piece down before he went out in public.  However, my perspective on this rowdy lock changed as he spoke.  He was so present, so coherent, so with it--perhaps he didn't want anyone to comb his hair that day.  Perhaps he never wants help with anything.  Or maybe he just doesn't give a hoot if there is a piece sticking up.  Indeed, what if he's proud to have so much hair that he flaunts the unkempt look to draw attention to it?

Then I thought about his complaining to his caregiver.  At first I had antagonistic thoughts towards the caregiver, thinking that she shouldn't make a helpless patient sit somewhere for that long.  But then I thought about how important it is to be a patient with patience, especially after I learned that he was coming from another appointment in another wing.  An hour and a half isn't that long; where are you going to go and still have time to get back?  Plus, what is the sense in leaving if you're already there?

After he was wheeled away, the caregiver returned from the soda machine, befuddled by his absence.  I explained that he was called back ahead of schedule.  She expressed relief, saying she had thought about heading out on her own for 1.25 hours and returning in time for his appointment.

Now I was back to feeling antagonistic towards the caregiver, imagining my new friend being ditched in the radiology waiting room against his will.

I found my series of disparate opinions to be quite interesting.  Before I became such an experienced patient, I think I wouldn't have given this man and his situation much thought.  I would have defined him with some cliche like "old and cranky".  I would have felt sorry for him for not being cared for at a level high enough to have his hair combed.

Now I saw more complex possibilities for his definition.  Maybe he had been in the hospital overnight unexpectedly, and now he had yet another frustrating appointment to delay his homecoming.  Maybe he's such an impatient patient that the caregiver schedules all of his appointments in one day so that they don't have to go to the clinic as often.  Or maybe he simply doesn't see the point in combing his hair.

I enjoy visiting with people in the various waiting rooms.  It's a good chance to know another being for a fleeting minute, a minute that could impart lessons for a lifetime.