Cancer has declared a stand-off. Not moving forward, not moving backward.
In some ways, this is the worst possible news. Had my numbers gone up, I’d be making appointments for scans, plotting my next move to enter a clinical trial.
Had my numbers gone down, I’d relax and coast. Get back to writing my novel and creating a new normal, instead of haunting medical research sites and online drug dictionaries.
Instead, my numbers stayed the same, holding me hostage in uncertainty. Rubbing my nose in my vulnerability.
When you’re feeling vulnerable, there are two roads you can take: Victimized Avenue or Pioneer Boulevard. Early on, I chose the Boulevard. But I have to admit, sometimes the Avenue appears like a shortcut, and I can’t help turning down it.
Yesterday I presented my clinical trials chart to my oncologist. He seemed impressed with the work I’d put into it. His practice is in the process of aligning with MD Anderson and will soon be offering that cancer research institution’s clinical trials. Four of my top five choices are MD Anderson trials.
My chart is in an Excel spreadsheet which can be hard to read on paper. So while I handed a copy to him, I also told him I’d email him a version. It would be easier to read and more importantly, easier to locate for a phone call he said he had with MD Anderson folks the next day. I grabbed a business card from his desk while he nodded earnestly.
When I got home, I went to email him the info, but his card didn’t have his email address. So I called his office. The receptionist told me she’s not allowed to give doctors’ email addresses out. Her name is Anita. I’ve renamed her We Need A – as in we need a lot more like her. She mentioned that I could go online and find it. I thanked her for the suggestion.
His email address isn’t online, but it wouldn’t take a third grader more than a blink to decode it based on the email addresses I could find. Within a few moments, I’d emailed him the chart.
But then I started to wander down the Avenue. Why hadn’t he told me about the email Cone of Silence? Why hadn’t he just been honest and either given it to me or offered me another solution? Was he just blowing smoke about the whole thing? Did he even have a phone call about clinical trials set up?!? Or the moment I left, did he just throw my chart in the trash and move on to the next patient? Most of all, mired in my vulnerability, I began to wonder, can I trust my quarterback to have my back?
Uncertainty casts grotesque shadows and the Avenue looks like a straight, well-paved road, before it veers off into ruts and potholes. This part of the journey seems unbearable. My mind monkeys have taken the steering wheel while I dive in the back seat to subdue my nausea that’s intensified by the taste and stench of chemicals exuding from me, the result of drugs I’ve just been infused with. Drugs that may or may not be working and demand a lot from me in the meantime. Mind monkeys are poor drivers. It’s a wonder I ever give them the wheel. In my weakness, though, the offer of letting someone else drive is too tempting. I can’t resist. I hold my stomach as they careen over every bump and hole along the Avenue – and this far in, there are plenty. I pray we get back on the Boulevard soon, even though, at the moment, I’m not feeling much the pioneer.
This morning, I got an email reply from my doctor. A short thank you sent from his cell phone letting me know he’d received my info. It’s enough to make me park the car and wait until I’m feeling better to take back the steering wheel as we both head out onto the Boulevard.