Envying Job

Part 2, Meet the Professionals

The 29th of December is a very cold, overcast day, perfectly matching the gloom that has settled inside me as we drive to Kingwood for my PET scan. The nurse that initially meets with me is very kind, but I have not have a scan like that before and am quite apprehensive. I experience some feelings of claustrophobia, likely the result of a tonsillectomy when I was very young that required a breathing mask to be placed over my head. My mother told me that as a youth at Halloween I would pull my mask back on top of my head rather than wearing it over my face, so much was my discomfort at having my face covered. Throughout the scan I remain with closed eyes, mentally singing Christmas songs and saying mantras to comfort myself.

Following this test, I meet my oncologist, Dr. Bu- , an Indian man with a thin, dark, trimmed beard and glasses. His manner is straightforward, perhaps too much. He assures me the disease is treatable (“yes, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t bother”). He chides me for my disclosure that I regularly consume alcohol (abruptly stating “you need to stop that”). At that moment, though, I decide he is right. I don’t believe that I drink enough to cause pathology, but if there is even a remote possibility, I will keep that “poison” out of my system.

Following my meeting with Dr. Bu-., I meet with an oncological radiologist, Dr. N-., a tall, attractive, youthful brunette, who wears long high heeled boots and saunters into the waiting room like she was on a catwalk. When my wife remarks how pretty she is, Dr. N- turns her head slightly and giggles briefly like a schoolgirl. Dr. N- draws some sketches of the neck (“I’m somewhat of an artist”, she says) and indicates the location of the disease as she describes the type of pathology. She gives me some harsh news about how I would feel physically during and after the proposed seven weeks of radiation that I am being prescribed, as well as the name and phone number of another person who has received a similar treatment as I would who I could call and from whom I could receive some support. Before she leaves, she touches me lightly and says “this time next year, it will all be just a distant memory”.

Driving home with Becah my feelings of depression intensify. I had hoped for a PET scan that miraculously showed nothing abnormal, or at least for a brief, painless treatment plan (how about a couple of pills I could just pop?). In the next few days I will wish for a phone call from the imaging center, with someone telling me that it has all been just a horrible mistake.