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.]