Better late than Hairy

Now, don’t get me wrong. There are, overall, good things about my hematologist. This blahg however is about her faults, which I’ve been counting. Wanna count with me?

1. She is late. I’m not talking about her personal life. I don’t know about that. I’m talking about her showing up. Her daily appointments begin at 10am, and she saunters in around 10:30am. If I have a 10am appointment, I now show up at 10: 30 on the off chance I’ll get to open the door for her so she won’t have to break her saunt. I bring a book and sit. I mean, what can I do, not go to the doctor?

2. She is not always up to date on my medical history. When she became my doctor we spent a meaningful two appointments together before she went on a two-week vacation. During this time I was hospitalized for a week. After she returned we reunited, and a few appointments later she looked up from my medical history chart and said “You didn’t tell me you had been hospitalized”. I wonder if her surgery patients opt for local anesthetic so they can say “I did tell you it was my left kidney that hurts, didn’t I?”

3. The woman talks too fast. Damn it, even Indy 500 drivers show more speed restraint. She rattles and prattles and is one of those people (and I don’t know why this is) that when you ask them to slow down they don’t know how. She just looks at me as if to say, “You are interrupting me.” As this is mostly new vocabulary for me I grasp about 80% of our conversation, which is unnerving. Sometimes when asked to explain what she said I feel like I’m doing Who’s on First:
“I don’t even know what I’m talking about!!”

4. And the Winner is!
My beloved doctor did my second biopsy. The results showed I need more treatment. My family and I spent an anxious week wondering if we should leave Argentina early and get treatment in the U.S., putting everything topsy-turvy. Yesterday she mentioned that- oops! - perhaps she did the second biopsy too early, maybe I only have residual leukemia which is slowly dying, in which case I am Leukemia free, as a later biopsy would have clearly shown. (There is BIG difference between being Leukemia free and rushing a family of 5 to another hemisphere so I can continue treatment). Too early? Does that happen a lot? Does it happen in other professions?

Mother “My child ate a Cad bury egg this morning”
Dentist “Well, we’d better pull out that molar. I’d hate to wait too long.”

Customer “But I bought these tires new last Thursday.”
Mechanic “Looks like you got here just in time”

President “I think a pre-emptive strike is called for.”
General “Sir, the ambassador only said he didn’t like the soup.”


Now, I would enjoy being leukemia free. But I’d like to hear about it like this:

We waited like we should have, and you are all clear Mr. Butler. Congratulations on being in remission!

Rather than:
Oops! Maybe you are out of the woods. Could you please leave my office, it’s not 10:·30 yet. (Of which I would pick up something about a mistake happening in the woods around 10:30…or some such 80% combination)

I might devote a blahg to my doctor’s good points. They do exist, and if I can find enough of them to fill up a post-it note I’ll go ahead with the project. I’d hate to wait too long.

To-marrow

Though I’ve never been trampled by zebras nor fallen from a hot air balloon, I know pain, specifically bone marrow biopsy pain. I won’t compare it to giving birth or breaking a bone. Those I haven’t done. I compare it to my previous biopsies and conclude, yes, they are still painful.

During a previous sonogram I was on my back, looking at everything. For the biopsy I’m on my belly and told to look towards the wall, away from everything. Anesthesia is injected into the hipbone and they tell me to breathe deeply and think pleasant thoughts. I hold tightly to the sides of the bed. Anesthesia is not going take away all the pain I will feel. The needle like tube sucks up air as they practice for the real thing.

They insert the tube and I thank God for my kids. Due to them we took Lamaze classes and learned about my “special place”. Actually, it was my wife’s “special place” but three kids is enough and now, lying on the table, I’ll take that second star on the right straight on till morning and discover mine. Pain taken as a whole pie is not easily bearable, so we divide it into portions. Breathing deeply and thinking about something else accomplishes this and leads one to their special place. Theoretically the easiest way to learn about a special place is to ask a woman during labor “Have you found your special place?” “What is it like?” However, during labor my wife told me to “shut up”, putting me in the catch-22 position of knowing nothing about this oasis but making me want to scurry from the room to find it. Sometimes theory is best left on paper.

I’m working with all I’ve got to portion that pie into manageable pieces. I don’t care if those who fall out of hot air balloons do so without anesthesia; at this point what I’m going through is comparable. In the past I’ve connected with my insides. At times my stomach’s gurgled “Here is what you sent me, do with it as you please.” My heart has gasped, “What gave you the idea you’re in shape?” But feeling my bone marrow jostled as the needle works a bit loose is surreal and painful. Marrow should be left alone. A perfect world would have no leukemia and marrow would neither be shaken nor stirred.

My special place is with my son. Earlier that morning our four year old banged his plastic bat on the bed and pillows, enjoying himself until I took it away and left him downcast. Now I picture myself back in the bedroom while he hits the bed with all his strength. He glows with his wide smile, happy eyes and mussed up blond hair. He jumps around the room and nothing stops him until the doctor announces she is finished. I come back to the room as the tube is pulled out and I lie there, my hands shaking a bit. There is a lot to be said for special places.

Hairy Cell Leukemia looms large in our lives; it seems anti-climatic that the miniscule marrow in front of me holds the answer. Sitting, somewhat dizzy and not wanting to walk, I hope for healthy marrow.

It’s small, but boy does it hurt coming out.