Monday of this week, the waits were longer than usual at Moores Cancer Center and the Infusion center staff had scheduled my treatment late in the afternoon, which would have put my exit time at around 10pm. They had told me last week they would change the time per my request, but hadn't. This just wasn't do-able on a school night, so I go in early determined to get in. The staff is less than accommodating, and treat me like an annoyance. But they do let me in reluctantly for the blood test, and the nurse tells me that I should get my treatment as my platelet count was at what she reads is at the minimum, at 70,000. Another hour passes and I am called not from the chemo wing but from the other side. The charge nurse informs me that my oncologist had ordered that my chemo be cancelled.
"What??!!!!" I demand.
I thought I was alright. I had been there 4 hours already and I need to make a case for my chemo. She pages my doctor and he doesn't answer. She suggests I see if his assistants down the hall could page him, which I do. Again, he is paged, and doesn't answer. I tell his assistant that I am not leaving until I speak with him. I decide to give the poor lady some space and move to the lobby. A few minutes later she calls me back. He has called, and just tells her that he would call me when he could and to let me know that "it isn't urgent."
"Well, this is urgent to me," I snap, loud enough for the entire lobby to turn their heads.
"This is my life, and I am not being respected as a human being today."
I march outside away from the spectators, and call my family to break the disappointing news. While I am on the phone my oncologist calls. He explains that he was in a meeting, and sounds irritated.
"I am just really hoping you can reconsider cancelling my chemo today," I say. "I've been here all day, and I am really fearful of the cancer spreading the longer we postpone treatment."
He tells me that I want things to happen at a certain time and a certain way, and this is just not how it works. He explains that low platelets could be at risk for bleeding to death, which I don't really buy, because I haven't had any problems with bleeding. Finally, he says that if I think he's not being aggressive enough, that I am welcome to seek a 2nd opinion elsewhere. I feel like this is a dismissal. He would rather not have to deal with me as a patient.
I feel like Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption when he tells the prison guard that he has an alibi and can produce evidence of his innocence, and the guard dismisses him to cover himself. In order to avoid heavy swearing, I found this scene best illustrated in 2 short clips:
How Can You be so Obtuse?
This is My Life!
We have a face-to-face meeting with the said oncologist on Wednesday and I am worried that it will be incredibly awkward after Monday's tense phone conversation. He is very kind and empathizes with the extreme stress I am feeling, but gives me the ultimatum that if my platelet counts are not up by the time I go in to attempt my next treatment (Monday Labor Day) that he will have to remove me from the first-line-of defense treatment and put me on a secondary plan which would be less effective and have more toxic side effects. I have asked several if there is anything I can do to raise my platelet count, and the answer from my medical team is nothing but wait, and maybe rest. Nutrition savvy people and the internet say papaya juice and wheat grass are effective for raising platelet count, so I have been diligent with those, but not doing as well with the resting part as sleep doesn't come so easily for me. I feel like I am feeling overwhelmed by an upcoming test which I feel like I must pass, but for which there is no study guide.
While some say they work well under pressure, I tend to crack under pressure. When I was 18, I worked for a short stint as a cashier at an upscale produce mart. Eye to hand coordination and quick movement has never been my strong suit, and one day my boss told me that if I didn't speed up things up, he would have to let me go. He told me he would give me a week trial and that we would re-visit things after the week had passed. If I knew then what I know now, I would have quit while I was ahead, but I needed to earn money for college so I put all my energy into saving my job. However, the more he watched, the more nervous I felt, and it wasn't too surprising that by that week's end, I no longer had that job. The night I got the news I had a date with a guy that I didn't want to break because I really liked him at the time. However, I ended up wishing I were just home by myself to cry. I ended up getting another job quickly at a slower-paced market, but this and under experiences have taught me that I don't work too well under pressure. Although Monday's test has nothing to do with my personal performance or strengths and weaknesses, I feel a great amount of pressure to pass it.
On one hand, I feel like asking the world to pray that my platelets will reach this magic number (at least 80,000) but on the other hand, this feels like too much pressure.
I can't help but insert the timeless classic by Queen and David Bowie here:"Pressure."
Hmm...Did Vanilla Ice get in as much trouble as Ed Sheeran did with Marvin Gaye's family members for ripping off that beat?
My platelet count 2 weeks ago was at 60,000 the following week it was at 70,000 so logic follows that it should reach 80,0000 this time, but there is still a risk that it won't.
Since the recurrence showed up in July after I had put so much energy and hope in being delivered from this plague, I feel more reluctant to solicit a particular outcome at each critical interval. I feel a little like Drew Barrymore's character in "Never Been Kissed."
In case you never saw that 1999 flick, the plot summary goes something like this:
Josie Geller, a 25-year-old journalist goes undercover as a high school student to further her journalism career. On the job, she has to come to terms with the heartache of her high school past as a bullied nerd, and realizes that she still carries scars as she has not been in a real relationship nor has ever been kissed. With her intelligence and recently discovered beauty,Josie also attracts her young hot English teacher, played by Michael Vartan, who thinks he is not allowed to like her legally, and her journalism peers want to exploit this story. Eventually the past and the present come to head and she blows her cover in an emotional outburst after being crowned prom queen. With her career on the line, she makes herself vulnerable to the public by sharing her painful high school past and reconciled present in a compelling newspaper article, and invites Vartan's character to give her a first kiss in front of a packed stadium at a high school baseball game. Both her journalism colleagues and high school peers wait in anticipation for the prospective beau to show up and provide a happy ending to a sad story. He fails to show before the starting pitch and she drops the mic and shrugs sadly to the audience. Then, just as she is about to walk away, he comes running through the stands to give her that magical kiss.
He was just packing his things to move when he read that newspaper article just in time to make in to the baseball stadium and rush through the crowd of expectant fans. Of course the girl gets the guy and happiness prevails with a Beach Boys tune in the background in a romantic comedy movie, but the cynic in me questions what would have happened if he hadn't showed? She would have lost her journalism career and her chance for true love. Maybe she would have found success later though, but she would have to pick herself up after an anticlimactic humiliating public display.
As I feel like I am navigating between the genres of comedy and tragedy in my real life, I realize that I can't see the big picture from beginning to end. If the blood test result Monday doesn't go my way, then maybe this "first line of defense" chemo will prove more toxic than is beneficial, and I will just have to put my confidence in a larger plan.
I have so little control over the outcomes I want, but at present I don't feel like I'm anywhere close to dying, so I will hang on to that. On the aforementioned dreadful Monday, my day at Moores Cancer center ended with a glimmer of hope. After coming to terms with the fact that I wasn't getting my treatment for at least another week despite my fight, I sit outside and waited for Carl to pick me up. I put my face in my hands and just silently sob. I am completely oblivious to people walking by and am unaware of the fact that I am visible to anyone. I am surprised by a tap on the shoulder.
I look up and see a kind lady with long silver hair: "Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice you and just wanted to make sure you were alright," she says.
"I'm fine; my husband will be here any minute," I reply through sobs.
I then explain the struggle I'd had the entire year, my recurrence, and my rejection from chemo.
She tells me that she had experienced a similar struggle, but was cancer free now. We chat a bit longer, and when Carl pulls up she gives me a hug, looks me in the eyes and says, "It's going to be alright."
Although I don't know when or how it's going to be alright, I have faith in these words from an unexpected angel.
