Firing My Doctor

 

 

 

More Voices: Worry

 Firing My Doctor

Marianna Crane

31 May 2018

 

I didn’t decide to “fire” my doctor on the spot.

During my last appointment with her, I’d filled Dr. Green in on the details of my mastectomy. I happily reported that the surgeon had declared me “cured”–the tumor’s margins were clear and my nodes were negative. Because I had large breasts and wanted to avoid wearing a heavy prosthesis, I’d had a reduction on my healthy breast at the same time. A routine biopsy of that tissue had showed dysplasia–abnormal cells. As a nurse, I’d researched this finding and found scant evidence that it would develop into cancer. My surgeon had concurred.

As I sat on the exam table while Dr. Green stood by the sink drying her hands, I told her I’d decided not to worry about it.

Without making eye contact, Dr. Green said, “I’d worry.”

I froze.

Never one to have a quick comeback, I left the office without a word about her offhand remark. It wasn’t the comment itself that concerned me, but her apparent indifference to my feelings. Plus, what good would worrying do?

Having a potentially life-threatening illness had boosted my resolve to surround myself with people who would cheer me, not depress me. Dr. Green was a competent doctor technically but lacked sensitivity–something that I value in a patient-physician relationship. I decided to look for another primary-care provider.

After calling Dr. Green’s office to cancel my next appointment, I requested that my records be sent to my new doctor. The receptionist asked if I would tell Dr. Green why I was leaving. I agreed, and before I could get nervous Dr. Green was on the line.

I relayed the incident at my last appointment; I said that her “I’d worry” statement had left me shaken and disturbed. Whether I was right or wrong, what I wanted from a provider was someone who cared for my physical and mental needs.

Surprisingly, she thanked me. I hung up the phone feeling rattled that I had voiced such a candid assessment. Gradually, however, jubilation replaced anxiety. I realized that I had control over my life and those whom I allowed into it.

I can only hope that my forthrightness with Dr. Green improved her communication skills.

Marianna Crane
Raleigh, North Carolina

WHITE AMARYLLIS

In my last post I wrote about the trauma surrounding my cancer diagnosis. In spite of mostly negative consequences of living as a “cancer survivor” there were a few positive occurrences. For example, meeting special people I would have never encountered under normal circumstances.

A month after my mastectomy I joined a cancer support group hosted by a woman with lymphoma in her large Victorian home with a wrap around porch in Chevy Chase, Maryland, not far from where I had worked at the National Institutes of Health. Three of the seven regular members had had breast cancer. The other four had a variety of other cancers.

At the start of each meeting we held hands in a circle while Gregorian chants played in the background, the music soaring up to the ten-foot ceilings and swirling about the large elegant living room. The leader asked we pray for those present and not present that were still struggling with treatment, suffering with pain or hoping for remission. Then in silence we made our own supplication. Invariably, as I stepped on the polished hardwood floors to take a seat, I felt a peace settle over me.

Besides the seven group members, other women sporadically attended our meetings. Once, a young woman sat along side of me on the flowered sofa. In front of us, on the glass and chrome coffee table, a snow-white amaryllis sprouting from a bulb set in a deep blue planter. Young, thin, with long dark hair, the woman spoke about the aggressive breast cancer that would soon end her life. She had a husband, pre-school children and a hunger to live.

She mesmerized me with her research to find a cure. Depleting resources in the area, she found a practitioner in another state and made plans to drive to see him later that week. As she spoke of her hope to halt the cancer’s progression, she stopped mid-sentence. Noticing my rapt attention, or my agonized expression as I listened to her frantic search for a cure, she reached over and clutched my hand. “Don’t worry, your cancer is not as bad as mine.” I squeezed her hand back, unable to speak for I was so touched by her gesture.

Afterwards, I walked down the porch steps and into the winter chill, feeling a bit of survivor’s guilt that my cancer was not fulminating. Eventually, I dropped out of the group.

Each time I see a white amaryllis, I recall the women in that group and their strength, especially the young mother. Her generous comment and concern for me even as she frantically detailed her quest for a cure still overwhelms me.AmaryllisWhiteNymph

I never did find out what happened to her. I want to believe on the out-of-state trip she found a curative regime and is now enjoying her grandchildren, putting all the trauma of her cancer behind her.