On Monday, I experienced a break-up. You know, with two divorces tucked firmly under my belt, and too many non-marital relationships to actually count (I'm including high school and college, ya'll), you would think I would be better at this. But surprisingly, I am not...
I knew our meeting would be hard. A good friend whose child is a cancer survivor told me how she cried when her child was released from oncology care. Cry? Me? It's not my go to. But, I remained open to that, because well...why not?
I had a hard time sleeping the night before. And I woke up with a distinct eye tick and an increasingly upset stomach. I wisely skipped breakfast. Returning to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance for my follow-ups were always scary and stressful. And this visit was no different.
He was late for our meeting. He was ALWAYS late though. So, nothing new there.
He breezed in with a warm: "Hello beautiful." And this time, I was irritated. I thought: "Beautiful? Does he mean that or does he say that to all of us?" And then I immediately felt ashamed. He's a wonderful human being who faces some ridiculously hard stuff day in and day out. And yet for me, he was able to be so upbeat and positive.
"Well, it's been five years. How are you feeling?" he asked.
We talked about the past five years. We covered the remaining, nagging side effects of treatment. I told him of some follow-up I'd like. And then we got to the conversation about our "future."
"You do know, given the treatments we put you through, you are at increased risk for secondary cancer?" He followed up with: "But, you know the risk is still really low. Whereas the risk is like .03% for the general population, yours is more like .06%"
I laughed to myself about that...You see, reader...I wasn't falling for that old chestnut. Because, when you get a cancer diagnosis- risk is meaningless, as your diagnosis is 100%. It's not like I only had .03% of cancer, right? And it's not like I had .03% of treatment.
"...and since you're at five years, you can decide how to manage your care. You're in remission."
I was told that I could continue seeing him as my oncologist on an annual basis. OR, I could have my GP manage my tests on an annual basis. And if I needed him, I could always call him.
And in true flashback mode, I remembered at one time when I was the sickest patient on his roster. I was always rushed in, cutting the line of less sick patients. And I remembered being scared out of my mind.
And I landed on the decision to break up.
You see, I know there are others who need his care, his kindness, his expertise way more than I do. There are others who need to go first. So, with that, I gave up my place in line.
My peace of mind is firmly intact. I suppose I could spend what ever remaining days I have on this earth in constant fear that this disease will return. It might. It might not. Cancer has taught me that death is way closer than any of us wish to think about. And, I'm cool with that.
But for now, it's over.
He looked up at me and said: "Well, it looks like we're breaking up. And now, I'm gonna hug you." And he did. Three times (!) I thanked him- and it felt so inadequate. "Thanks, man...You...um...saved my life..." So dumb...And as my friend correctly predicted, I cried.
So, to you, the beautiful, brilliant man, Dr, Andrei Shustov, I bid you a fond farewell.
Honestly, it's not you. It's me.
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