A Teardrop Or Two

Scripps Clinic is located next to Scripps Memorial Hospital La Jolla.The location is beautiful. Surrounded by the rolling hills of California it wasn't a bad place to have to go for an appointment.

I don't really know what I expected the outcome of this appointment to be.

But, when I really think about it, I didn't have expectations.

I had hope and I wanted hope more than anything in the world because what else was there for me? So there I was.

Dr. C. was an oncologist. He seemed to be quite pleasant when I shook hands with him. We went through the normal introduction that one goes through as a new patient, exchanged pleasantries as one does. He seemed young to me and had started his private practice just a few years earlier, in 1981.

Maybe he wasn't so old school and he would know something different from that other doctor whose name I didn't remember.

He reviewed all the information I'd brought him and I answered as many questions as he asked. It was going really well. He examined me and told me to meet him back in his office.

I'm sitting in a chair in front of a very large desk waiting. The office is really big and really nice. It's warm. I'm antsy and yet, comfortable. I'm staring out at those magnificent California rolling hills. Daydreaming again. What if... 

Door opens. Dr. C. comes in. Sits down at his desk.

I look at him. And he starts.

"Well." [no pause]

"Yes you have leukemia. You have Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia." [no pause]

"You have 3-5 years to live." [no pause]

"You don't have a choice." [no pause] 

It's getting cold in the room.

Breathe. 

"You're on the correct medication. Nothing else can help you." [no pause]

"Have you told your husband? He does know, doesn't he?" [no pause]

I'm staring out the window. Oh, those beautiful hills. Please stop.

Dont. Cry. 

Shiver.

"Are you prepared for this?" [no pause]

"Have you told your children? They need to know. You need to prepare them." [no pause] 

Don't cry. Please don't cry. 

Shut. Up.

Please make him stop.

"You have to accept this." [no pause]

I can't do this. 

One tear rolls out of my eye. Slow motion. 

No. He can't win.

Another tear comes. And another. And another.

Silent tears. I say nothing.

He stands up, leans forward and pushes a box of tissues towards me.

So cold now. Shaking.

"It's good that you're crying. You have to accept it. I don't have anything else for you."[no pause]

He goes over to his door. Opens door. [no pause]

"You can leave now."

I think I'm in shock. Must call husband.

I go downstairs to the pay phone and dial our number. 

He answers. I can't speak. No words. Crying uncontrollably. 

What am I going to do?

Emotional pain. His and mine. I can feel it through the phone.

Kids can't see me like this. They wouldn't understand. Oh no. The kids.

We decided that it was best to call my "go to friend". She and her husband lived right down the street. They were both home. I cried all the way. I must have fallen into their arms as they met me in their driveway with the biggest hug ever. Still in shock I shared what had just happened. They listened as good friends do.

Deep breath.

Enough.

"No more of this. We have to come up with a plan."

And so we did.

I'll never forget that doctor's name.

[Note: A few years later I came across an article in our local paper about Dr. C. It was a human interest story about his belief in positive thinking for patients. But then, ironically, he left his practice in 1991. I'm not sure why.]

Decisions. Decisions.

When I was given the diagnosis my husband and I made the decision to inform only those very close to us. It was almost Christmas and I didn’t want to ruin the celebration of the season for anyone.

My parents and brother and sister knew. I had contacted my mother in Canada after the first mention of leukemia. 

I think I was hoping she could make it go away. She was my Mom, after all.

My father-in-law lived close by and had helped look after our kids while we were at the doctor's so he knew everything that was going on. 

And my really good “go to friend” who had watched my kids that first day knew. She actually knew more than anyone because, as I said before, she was a nurse and when I told her my white blood count was "so high...something like over 100,000", she very calmly said, "oh, maybe you just have a really bad infection."

Because that's what really good friends do. But she knew. Before I knew. 

Post Christmas

I'm putting it lightly when I say the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day was kind of like being in a funky fog. I was still the mom my kids needed and loved but I had taken on this new character even I didn't know how to play. No script. No director. I knew we would have to start making phone calls to other family members and friends. My husband has nine siblings and that was a tough one for him. For me I was torn. One part of me felt this great need to tell the world but another part of me felt so badly for having to share such awful news. How was this going to make everyone else feel?

“Happy New Year? Guess what?”

Not so much. Maybe I could sit on it for a while.

Confused.

Disoriented.

My safety net became changing a diaper, playing a game and reading a bedtime story. That's what I loved to do the most.

The more we talked about the diagnosis the more we thought about getting another opinion. We felt like we needed to do something more. It just didn't feel right to accept what we'd been told. We talked about the doctor whose name I can’t remember, the one who gave me the ominous news. [Refer to my December 20 post.] Our conversation at the time had gone something like this:

“So, is there a cure for leukemia?”

“No. You need to take this medication immediately.”

“And then?”

“You need a bone marrow transplant.”

“Have you had any patients who have had a bone marrow transplant?”

“No.”

“Do you have any experience with bone marrow transplants?”

“No.”

"Do you know anyone who has had a bone marrow transplant?"

"No."

Hmm. Okay then.

So, upon remembering and rehashing said conversation we thought just maybe it might be a good idea to get a second opinion.

An appointment was made with an oncologist who came highly recommended to us and I have to say I was feeling optimistic. Yep, so optimistic that we decided that my husband would stay home with the kids and I would go to this appointment by myself. I don't know how we actually came to make that decision but somehow it seemed like it was the okay thing to do. Little did we know. 

Last time we ever made that decision.

My world was about to come crashing down around me. 

I do remember that doctor's name.