Why I Made A Big Change For The Big C
It was almost May, and I had high-dose chemotherapy drugs pulsing through my veins. This particular treatment took 48 hours to dispense and a week of recovery time in the hospital.
Highly trained nurses delivered the drugs, wearing protective gear from head to toe. The chemo bag was too risky for my pregnant nurse to touch, so a different nurse hung the drugs and connected me to the IV pump. Another nurse called out my serial number, full name and date of birth to verify that I was the right patient, receiving the right treatment.
At the same time, an elixir of hydrating fluids pumped through my port to protect my kidneys from the harsh chemicals. Quite literally, this is NOT your grandmother’s chemo. (I’ve never seen my grandmother’s oncology nurse wearing a hazmat suit.) But I’m relatively young, so I guess my body can take this, even if my hair follicles cannot.
At this point I’ve lost track of how many chemo treatments I’ve had. They were supposed to end last year, but since January 2017, my doctors have been saying “one more time” — every single time. At first I trusted their guidance about needing to strengthen my cancer-riddled bone before surgery, but then I started to question the judgment. Why didn’t I have a clue when (or if) I’d be cleared for surgery? Why did my oncologist keep ordering more chemo, against his own instincts? While we’re fixing this one bone, who’s fighting for my overall health and wellbeing?
Then I thought of the hospital roommate who told me she was facing a second cancer due to the relentless radiation and chemotherapy she received for her first cancer.
So while I was gearing up to be hospitalized for yet another “last” chemo treatment, I went to a different hospital for a second opinion. My first hospital was large, reputable and equipped to treat all kinds of ailments, from AIDS to Zika, but I wanted to consult a cancer specialist.
I scheduled an appointment with the oldest and most reputable cancer treatment center in New York City. If I’m going to get a rare, risky surgery, I want to have it done by the best surgeon insurance can buy.
As soon as I met the new team, I knew it was time to transfer.
What won me over? The new doctors have excellent bedside manner and communications skills. They spent hours explaining my condition, listening to my concerns and medical history, and offering their outlook for treating my cancer. These doctors showed a level of compassion I had only associated with nurses and therapists. While my original surgeon seemed to fear potential complications at every turn, the new one inspires confidence in his expertise.
Believe it or not, a scene from the show Grey’s Anatomy convinced me to seek a second opinion. On a recent episode a team of doctors was discussing the plan for a young patient who injured his hand. Ben Warren, a surgical resident, suggested amputation because it was the fastest, easiest option with the least risk. But Jackson Avery, the more experienced surgeon, asserted they would perform a challenging procedure to reconstruct the hand because, clearly, no young person wants to lose an extremity ever.
After seven months of treatment, I didn’t get the impression I was dealing with a Dr. Avery. I couldn’t tell whether my doctor saw me as just another case he’d read about in a textbook once, or if he could empathize with my desire for the best quality of life. So I cancelled the admission — the new doctors said I’d had more than enough chemo already.
Last week I had a few X-rays and an MRI at the new hospital. Tomorrow I’ll take more tests to prepare for surgery. I’m finally feeling good about the team tasked with my care. There are no Ben Warrens in the bunch.
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