Stuck...

My fear of doctors was ingrained early. The first pediatrician I remember, Dr. Cook, was a morbidly obese, gruff-voiced gargantuan, with a penchant for chewing on toothpicks and pen caps. My mother adored him. My brothers liked him. I was terrified of him. He set the tone for my interactions with doctors for the rest of my life, which is:

I go when I feel like I’m dying.

And that’s the truth. I can count on one hand the number of antibiotics I’ve taken in my adult life. I can count on the other hand the number of check-ups I’ve had.

I don’t like doctors. Well, OK, that’s not true. Doctors are fine (some of them are downright lovely). What I don’t like is going to doctors. I dread it, in fact. It makes me feel sick. Ha! I’ve always said I’ll die of something that could have been easily prevented, diagnosed, or treated, if I’d just been willing to get a check-up.

Then I got cancer. How you like them apples?

When the cancer was diagnosed, it was because I thought I was dying. Not from cancer, mind you, but from a nasty infection in my gut… brought on by one of those damned antibiotics… taken for a kidney infection… which made me feel like I was dying.

The diagnosis threw me for a loop. It didn’t help that it was blurted out with little to no care or concern by a callous ER doctor, when he really didn’t know for sure what was wrong.

Turned out?  He was right.

After I gave it a little time to sink in, I did what I always do… I looked for the bright side. And there was one. This cancer – a slow-growing lymphoma – isn’t going to kill me. Well, it isn’t likely to kill me. It could, certainly, but it’s not likely to do so. It will never go away or go into remission, true, but it’s not likely to kill me. That’s a good thing! If you’re going to get cancer, this is the sort to get. So, YAY, ME!

Right?

So I went along, as I do, focusing on the bright side, ignoring the other stuff. Pushing it down and away… not dealing with it.

As I do.

Except… except for when I have to go to the cancer center for tests.

Walking through those doors? Just about does me in. Before I go and after I’m there, I can talk about it. I can joke about it. I’m bright and positive and fine. I am just fine.

I'm. Fine.

Except… except for when I have to go to the cancer center for tests.

And then I’m not so fine.

Walking through those doors brings it all to the front. Every little piece of fear and worry and anger and frustration… all right there… right in front of my face and crowding my brain and my heart.

And it all makes me cry.

And feel weak.

And I don’t like to feel weak.

For the past couple of weeks, I haven’t been feeling great. I don’t know if what I’ve been feeling is normal, since I don’t know what normal even is anymore, but it doesn’t feel good. This I know for sure. So I called the cancer center and had my November appointment moved up to this week. I went in for blood work this morning, so the doctor can review it all before Friday afternoon, when I’m scheduled see her. And let me tell you, I dreaded the appointment today, as getting blood from me is damn-near impossible. I have bad veins. I usually wind up getting stuck multiple times before they can get enough blood to test. But I was dreading this visit more than seemed logical. It was just lab work. Right? No big deal, for goodness sake. Right?

So when I walked through the doors of the cancer center at 8:30AM, and the now-familiar dread-weight settled on my psyche, I wasn’t surprised. My usual even-keeled, reasonably cheerful demeanor disappeared. I couldn’t look anyone, staff or other patients, in the eye. There was no smile, not for a single soul.

I was not myself.

I made it through, though. I got stuck three times – once for each vial of necessary blood. And then I trudged back out to my car, to head on into work. Instead of feeling the weight lift, however, as normal, I burst into tears. Everything I’d been holding back came gushing out.

That? Surprised me.

It hit me that this is something I am going to live with for the rest of my life. It hit me – hard – that I will be walking through the doors of the cancer center every few months for the rest of my life.

The. Rest. Of. My. Life.

And it dawned on me that I will never be able to enter into a relationship without having to say, at some point, “Oh, by the way, I have cancer. And I’m going to have it forever. It probably won’t kill me, but it could, and if you want to be with me, you will likely wind up having to spend time in a hospital. Also? Don’t get too attached to my hair, ‘cause it’ll probably go away from time to time.”

And suddenly?

I felt…

Broken.

Defective.

Less than.

And I realized that I’ve been feeling all these things every time I walk through the doors of the cancer center. That’s why the appointments make me cry. I just wasn’t acknowledging them.

As I do.

But now I have. And now I have to figure out what to do with these feelings.

But that? I don’t quite know how to do that.