Dear Dr. G, Surprise! I’m Still Alive!
But I am not alive because of you
I know, I know, you don’t remember who I am. I don’t know if you ever really noticed me in the room during our appointments. After waiting hours to see you with tumors pinching nerves and shooting stabs of pain through my body, you would breeze in and sit back in your chair. Your legs would be crossed at the ankles like some kid who didn’t want to be in summer school. And you would barely look at me as you went through your list of basic questions; most of which you would know from my chart had you glanced at it before you sat down.
I get it, though. You are an oncologist. You were busy. You had a lot of patients and you were in the middle of heading up a big clinical trial — maybe not the only one. I was almost a part of that clinical trial, which would have been great because I’m now taking those very drugs and I could have started on them before I ended up with fifty cancer metastases in my brain.
I filled out all the paper work and prepared to wait out the weeks until I would be processed for the study, and you recommended seeing an oncological gynecologist in the meantime to check out some unusual-looking metastases surrounding my ovaries.
When I returned to you, I was happy to report that the onco-gynecologist confirmed that the cancer around my ovaries was consistent with my diagnosis and not a separate type of cancer. He didn’t recommend a biopsy because there wasn’t enough cause to justify the danger involved in the procedure.
See, you never told me that I needed a biopsy to be eligible for the trial. I had endured four more weeks with no treatment for the cancer that was taking over my body because I was counting on that trial. You said I could start the process over, but I didn’t think I could make it another four weeks.
I still came to see you, but you seemed even more checked out knowing I wouldn’t be a part of your trial. I didn’t know that for sure, but that’s what it felt like.
The cancer metastasized to my brain. I had two gamma knife surgeries to zap them away. I still have light scarring where the metal mask was screwed into my head. I started whole brain radiation, which left me with bald spots, hearing loss, and exposed bone in my ear.
After ten weeks of radiation, my MRI turned up fifty brain metastases and I went to see you. I was ready to talk game plan and you looked at me like you didn’t see the point. Like I was already dead. You kind of shrugged your shoulders and said that you guessed we could try some type of chemo. I asked you to repeat the treatment name so that I could take notes and you looked at me and actually said, “Wow, I can’t believe you can even read and write.”
You had given up on me. Not that I ever really felt like you were invested. But when you said that, I realized that you were only giving me a chemo option because I was asking for something. You didn’t think anything was actually going to work. “Well, psshh, I guess we could try…”
In that moment, I remember being both frightened and angry. Patients know when doctors don’t see any hope in their situation. I knew it when the on-call doctor reluctantly handed me my MRI results and told me not to read them. The look on her face was a mix of pity and helplessness. The look on yours was resignation that you wouldn’t be able to help. Like a shrug of the shoulders.
I left your office that day grateful that you weren’t my only oncologist. There were times I felt that consulting with three doctors was a bit indulgent. But I was never so glad I did as when I left your office that day. I had two other doctors who were invested in keeping me alive. And they did.
After a very creative and slightly dangerous six-month bio-chemotherapy treatment, along with the newly available medications that I would have had in your trial, I am now in remission. The fifty metastases in my brain are gone. The tumors in my body are gone. And, look, I can still read and write.
I did learn some valuable lessons from you, though. I learned to trust my instincts. I learned to advocate for myself, and I learned that I could still have hope — even after my doctor gives up.
So, I’m alive. I am alive because of God’s grace. I am alive because of my other amazing oncologists. I am alive because of the people in my life who supported me and never gave up hope. But I am not alive because of you. Where there is breath, there is hope. You should take care to remember that in the future.
