Life Continues
Ino was gone, and I was trying to get my life back on track. Rediscovering how to live when your body is attempting to kill you is a difficult road to walk. I continued my treatments and eventually reached the end of my infusions.
I had returned to the hospital to speak with my oncologist for a checkup. Time dripped like wax from a candle as I sat in the waiting room. The wait became a distant thought as an old man slowly ambled in front of me. He moved sluggishly like he was in a daze. I was in the oncology department, so his movement was not out of place. After my treatments I typically walked like a zombie.
There was something about his steps that was different, he was anxious, nervous perhaps. My doctor nearly bumped into the old man and a nurse asked him to stand out of the way. He started to speak, he said that he wanted to ask the doctor one more question. His voice was low, it had a worry-full energy to it. I watched a small group of people walk by while noticing the man shift his weight back and forth between his feet.
Once the commotion passed the nurse summoned the doctor. The older gentleman had a stutter to his voice as he spoke. “Is it years, a year, how much time do I have left?”
The doctor stood rigid, his eyes staring coldly.
In the pause the old man filled the space, I could feel the wary anticipation in his voice. “A year?”
“Months, maybe months.” The doctor replied with an almost robotic tone.
The old man’s head lowered. I could hear his voice break as he repeated back to the doctor. “I have months to live, how many months?”
“Maybe two or three.” The doctor said before walking away.
I watched the old man take a few steps, his feet sliding slowly across the tile floor. His shoulders slumped, and I could hear him whisper to himself. “Months…”
My doctor entered the waiting room and closed the door. I thought about the old man and how horrible he must feel. If I were him I would’ve want to have been treated like a human, or receive some compassion. I wanted to step passed my doctor and give the old man a hug, console him in his darkest hour, but I had nothing to give.
My doctor began speaking to me. His accent was thick so I had to really concentrate on what he was saying to understand him. I pulled a notepad out and started asking him questions. Recently I learned I had more options than he told me before I started treatment. There were specialists, better treatment options and research trials. I asked him why he didn’t know this information, why did he treat me if he didn’t know anything about my cancer? He had no answer. Instead he mentioned the possibility for more chemotherapy and I demanded to have the port removed. I was done with chemotherapy, I would rather die than endure that horror again.
I was angry and tired of how his team treated me. They didn’t care about me, I was just another notch on his rare cancer belt. My body hurt, my mind was destroyed and his medicine ruined my life. I was done with him and this terrible place, so I fired him. I went searching for answers, I needed a new oncologist, one who specialized in my cancer. After some digging I found one, so I booked an appointment and went on a road trip.
