THE NARRATIVE ARC
A Reuben Sandwich and Red Knit Beanies Help Me Navigate a Day
I didn’t want to go to the hospital but had no choice
When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2021, I lost my shit!
It was just past 9 p.m. when my doctor’s email pinged my inbox. It was deliberately low-key. I could tell she was playing it cool.
“I’d like you to see a specialist. Your recent labs show an abnormal result.”
My eyes jumped over the words, the little daggers stabbing me. Specialist. Abnormal result. I dug deeper into the attachments and found the lab results my doctor referred to came from a pathologist. It was right there in print.
We know what pathologists do. In my situation, they diagnosed cancer.
That dark night in winter, I self-diagnosed within ten minutes. I sat in my living room with a serious face and a worried mind, my laptop and fingers doing some quick work.
I knew without a question of doubt. I knew. And I was right.
And I wanted that damn cancer out of my body fast. Yet, as my cancer brothers and sisters know, ‘fast’ isn’t a word that applies to cancer surgeries and treatments.
You don’t get to go to an oncologist until you get a referral from a specialist, who you see only after your lab results indicate a problem. Then come tests, scans, surgeries, biopsies, confirmations, and schedules. Gatekeepers each step of the way.
It’s a full calendar of places and people you don’t want to visit, but you have to. Kind of like the holidays before you figure out you can just say no.
The issue became this: how could I learn to live with this diagnosis longterm? How could I find the magic and joy I usually experienced in my life?
I’m normally a happy person. I needed to learn to find equilibrium. But first, the trials.
The trials
In 2021, I had major surgeries and several radiation treatments. Along with these, I had a “dirty doctor” who wreaked havoc on my emotional status. He conducted his first exam on me without gloves, and said, “Let me open the curtains here.” He was talking about my labia, by the way.
It was horrible. I stopped him, asking “Shouldn’t you glove up?” He argued a bit. Then he put gloves on.
I was in fight or flight mode during recovery from major surgery while also dealing with escaping him. I did, too. I vowed he wasn’t going to examine me again. He would never touch my skin, never make lewd remarks to me.
Ever.
And I kept that promise to myself. I was weak, miserable, depressed, and in pain. Despite the fractured pieces floating in my consciousness and the constant discomfort, I researched, worked, and moved myself to a university hospital with an excellent program. No one could have done it for me. I did it for myself, a gift I appreciate.
My strength of will carried the day. It had to; my body was unable.
Time can wear you down
Here we are, two and a half years later. I continue to go back to the hospital for these check ups. For another three years, I’ll go for check ups, and at five years cancer-free, I will be pronounced cured.
Until then, I am not cured. My nurse says, “You don’t have cancer anymore!” and I ask her, “Then why am I in here every few months?”
It’s like a weird purgatory. I’m not cancer-free, but I don’t have cancer. I have it, but I don’t have it. This kind of double-speak is confusing. It’s the life of a cancer survivor: you have to live a joyful life knowing that you are living with a disease that can take you out fast.
Yes, yes, people: I know. I could get hit by a bus walking down the street.
The reality is that unless and until you live with a serious disease, you don’t know this type of anxiety. The type of monumental silent angst I felt when I first read “The Wasteland.”
I will show you fear in a handful of dust — TS Eliot, The Wasteland
The reality of cancer is that it’s always lurking, so you have to learn how to live with it. Along with all the people reminding you of how their sister cured her cancer eating raw kale only every day for a month. Not kidding.
If I have to go to these damn (mofo!) appointments, how can I build in some joy?
My aim is to make my time sitting in the icy cold morgue of the cancer clinic less dreadful and more interesting. I can’t say I’ve been completely successful yet, but I’m making strides.
While I cried off and on yesterday at my appointment, I was able to do it privately. That’s a definite win, especially in a hospital. Others are going through their own hell. I don’t need to share my stress. Not there.
Lately, I’ve given thought to why I’ve missed two previous appointments. The problem I’m conquering is this: I ignore my calendars and notes. I don’t want to go to the oncology clinic. It’s not a happy place, for the most part. Naming the problem is my first step in conquering it.
But 2024 is going to be different
I’ll attend all scheduled appointments in 2024, as they’re crucial in monitoring my health and staying alive.
Today the nurse said I’m better than a lot of people.
“They quit coming,” she said, “They just get sick of dealing with it.”
How I get that!
So here’s my plan. I’m working at building in some fun
Today I took in about seventy knit hats my aunt made when she knew I was dealing with cancer and going through radiation. She was a joyful, giving, sprite of a woman — in her nineties. Her blue eyes and tiny figure reminded me of my mother. Unlike Mom, who couldn’t deal with losing my brother and practically willed herself to die young, Aunt Peggy was lively until her last few weeks.
She knit colorful, creative caps — and brought me scores of her knitted artsy hats to take to the radiation center.
It was fun — yes, fun — to take those hats in. I was helping others, as my aunt had subtly encouraged.
The radiation patients in the waiting room walked over to peer into the bag I carried. They thought a baby was in it! The receptionist helped carry the hats to their wicker basket. She insisted she could do it alone, then kept dropping them. Scores of colorful hats falling to the ground!
Next, when I go up to my appointments, I’m getting lunch at a sweet cafe nearby
Because I went to my appointment two hours early, I took myself out to lunch. I rode the ‘pod’ down the hill to my appointment building. I’d been to the cafe next to my clinic, and they run a grill. I had a Reuben sandwich and later chatted with a friend about how to make them really well! Going out to lunch and people-watching in downtown Portland is a solid win, and chatting about cooking? Yes.
My appointment was stressful, as always, but I like my doctor and we make inappropriate jokes together. It’s quite entertaining. They’re subtle, dark humor comments, interjected as brief asides. We don’t laugh, just smile and shake our heads at each other. The appointment went quickly, and the results look good. A win!
When I was riding the pod — which runs on wires high above the city of Portland — back up to the main hospital, I met a woman and chatted with her. A handsome young man accompanied her.
All the way up to the hospital, we talked.
“This is my grandson,” she beamed, “And he’s taking care of me today. I had a liver transplant three weeks ago, and my family is taking turns staying with me!”
Her green eyes sparkled, and I told her how great she looked
“Well, you should have seen me when they called me on Thanksgiving and said they were ready to give me a new liver!” She showed me her hand, making it shake. I agreed that I would have been scared too.
Her cheer and courage made me smile, and I remarked on how sweet it was she had a grandson helping her out. He smiled and looked proud, clearly a boy who loved his grandmother deeply.
In chatting with her and empathizing, I stopped thinking about myself. Clearly a positive thing.
Today, I donated my precious aunt’s hats. I feasted on a Reuben sandwich and watched people on the wintery city streets, walking to their jobs or appointments. Most importantly, I met a lovely woman who inspired me to smile — a woman whose brush with mortality was close.
When it’s time to go to my next appointment, I’ll remember the joy of this day. It will carry me through, and I am grateful to realize that. 2024 is my year to live joyfully always and build more happiness into my appointments — which I vow to look forward to!
Thank you for reading. Sending all my friends a hug from Oregon! Thank you to Judy Walker and Christine Schoenwald for their thoughtful edits, as well as my entire editorial team for their constant and kind friendship.