The Man Who Took The Wheel

Dr. T introduced himself with a big handshake accompanied by a luminescent smile that lit up his apple cheeks. Even more fetching was his very bold and colorful shirt and tie combination which paled his white coat all the more. I don't know what oncologists are supposed to look like or seem to be, but, "bright and smiley" were not words I would immediately associate with them. Beneath his shiny veneer, Dr. T is a well-credentialed and experienced oncologist and hematologist. (Wow! Two birds with one stone. Begone! pesky blood clots!). Naturally, because of his good reputation, he had a busy practice. And it was apparently difficult to get an appointment to see him. "He's one of the best. You're blessed," said the Chaplain to me.

Yes, his credentials and reputation were certainly important. But, I knew that I wanted him as my oncologist when I shook his hands and looked into his eyes. Dr. T exuded confidence, but not ego. He was professional, yet cordial. He was also very forthright, assuring and compassionate as he delivered the news that he couldn't tell what cancer it was. Were he another doctor, I probably would have fallen apart. Instead, I appreciated that he wanted to have more tests done, including further examination of the biopsy by the pathologist. Without my asking for it, Dr. T was going for the "second opinion."

Even though he had no answers by the time we said "goodbye" at the hospital, Dr. T sent me home with this comfort: Whatever type of cancer he found, it was going to be treatable and "We might even be able to make it go away." Again, said with THAT smile. What a great big dollop of hope! And what a lot of boost, as I set to left the cocoon the hospital to face the world. At least at that juncture "Now what?" had an answer. Unequivocally, that answer was to put my life in this man's hands. Altough very sad and scared, I felt assured that Dr. T had taken control of the wheel of the most out-of-control and scary ride of my life. After that, I was prepared to ride that car where ever Dr. T took it; because I knew that he had mapped it to go to a place called "Treatable."

A week from my hospital releas, I was going to meet with Dr. T so he could tell me what kind of cancer I had and we could start treatment. It would still be a scary ride. But, I had confidence in the driver. I knew he had it under control.

It Wasn't Lymphoma Afterall

I met my oncologist at the hospital soon after the Chaplain left me. After a quick (almost harried) introduction and a big, warm handshake, he told me that he is not convinced that my cancer was lymphoma. He was uncertain as to which organ the cancer was originating, even after reviewing all the tests, the biopsy and the "pictures." Without knowing which organ the cancer was coming from, he could not treat it effectively. So he kept me in the hospital longer, and ordered tests, including a few blood tests (the "rainbow" as the phlebotomist nicknamed it) as well as an MRI and a PET scan. He also sent the biopsy back to the pathologists for deeper examination.

If I felt like someone struck me with a baseball bat when Dr. Z told me I had cancer, finding out that this wasn't the case at all and that the doctors did not know what type of cancer it was felt like a free fall to a bottomless pit (the pit being death). Confusion and panic reigned. How could I retract what I had just painfully told my nearest and dearest? "The good news is, it's not Lymphoma. The bad news is they don't know what it is. But it's still Stage 4." I wanted to hurt someone! But I couldn't. I don't know if it's ever possible to get numb from too much pain. But that's what it felt like. I was too confused , discouraged, doubly frightened and panicked to make a fist, let alone hit anyone.

Denial. That's how I survived the time between the last time I saw my oncologist at the hospital and the next time I saw him at his office -- the longest week ever! If I didn't ride the denial train, I would have needed a strait jacket and a big padded room. Because each time I got off the world of denial and visited reality, all I could think was that cancer was eating away at me and the doctors couldn't tell where it's coming from. Then I would be paralyzed with rage and angst. It's like a "ghost in a machine," only it's a ravenous ghost in my body and it's eating away like there's no tomorrow! It was impossible to contend with that consciously So I pretended nothing was the matter. I hid behind work and more denial.

Finally, on March 5, 2009, I was diagnosed with Stage 4, Ovarian Cancer, metastesized to my abdomen and my chest.