Breaking Bad: Bills and Anger

I recently started watching Breaking Bad. I’m not sure I’ll see all the seasons before the show’s final six episodes air in August, but this seems like an easy, attainable goal to set for myself—not quite as pressure-filled as finding a new job, getting freelance work and getting rid of cancer. I actually recently put that last one on my to-do list.

Breaking Bad is meant to fill the void left by completing The Wire and the end of this season of Mad Men—although this last season, for me, was a little more meh men. And, of course, this seems like the perfect time to be watching a show about a man with terminal cancer driven to cooking meth to pay his medical bills and support his family.

I can sometimes relate to Walter White’s uncharacteristic outbursts. While I’m not in the nothing-left-to-lose frame of mind, sometimes something very little sets off anger—or sadness. This small thing happened and I have cancer.

It doesn’t happen very often for me, although I joke that Seinfeld’s Frank Costanza is my spirit animal. However, after having my biopsy surgery in March at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center to confirm my Hodgkin’s lymphoma diagnosis, we had to catch a cab back to Brooklyn. Groggy and newly stitched, I wasn’t in the mood for cab drivers who just don’t like to go to Brooklyn. We were also facing drivers in between shifts. That’s how I ended up hanging on to a cab’s locked door, screaming at a visibly alarmed driver, “I just had surgery and you can’t take me to Brooklyn!”

Once the crazy lady was made to wait on the sidewalk, we got a cab. On our way home, my boyfriend looked at me and noted, “You can’t keep a good woman down.”

And even with insurance, cooking meth for extra cash seems pretty tempting. Obviously, my situation isn’t nearly as dire. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, the snakes from the medical symbol slither from their post and curl up in bed with me. “$$$$” they hiss, one in each ear. “Thi$$$ i$ going to be expen$$$$ive.”

Of course, aside from the whole moral dilemma, there are a few other reasons I’m not following in Walt’s footsteps. I have no idea how I got through high school chemistry. One of my lab partners and I set a paper towel on fire—she decided to start cleaning without turning off the Bunsen burner. Another lab partner almost set a fellow student ablaze, because she was goofing around and setting his apron strings on fire. The fire would quickly go out, but one time, it took an extra second for it to go out, and I have to confess, I just stood there with my mouth open. Looking back, I probably should have stopped my partner from actually playing with fire.

I also recently failed to bake cookies in our new oven. (Well, new to us.) I put the cookies in and then the apartment filled with smoke five minutes later.

So it’s probably best I don’t work with volatile substances.

I don’t think I’m cut out for a life of crime, either. I’ve always been a goodie-goodie. I don’t jaywalk. I get upset when people don’t come to full and complete stops at stop signs. I’ve thought about making a citizen’s arrest when local police have driven through the traffic light at the end of my street. (I’m told that won’t go over well.) But I figure my new unemployment will give me time to finally patrol the streets and keep them safe. I also might become a pet detective and look for all the lost animals in the neighborhood.

Alas, neither will bring in much cash, so I just buy a lotto ticket every now and then. And now that I have Breaking Bad to catch up on, my citizen patrols might have to wait for now.

Halfway!

The fireworks over the Hudson River weren’t specifically for me the other night, but they might as well have been. A festive picture is in order since yesterday was my sixth treatment out of 12, meaning I’ve already hit the halfway mark. If things go according to plan, I have three more months, three more cycles, six more treatments.

I optimistically announce to everyone, “Only three more months to go!” But of course, there’s sometimes a smaller, nagging voice that impatiently sighs, “Three more months?”

At first, when I found out about the Hodgkin’s lymphoma in late February and figured out my treatment schedule, I was a little bummed out that the six months of chemo would steal my summer. It seems trivial, but I thought, “Why couldn’t I have chemo in the winter, when it’s already gloomy?” When I wouldn’t have to be so careful about staying out of the sun because of the Dacarbazine (the “D” in ABVD)?

But, as it turns out, the summer does go by faster, and here I am, halfway done already. There’s never a good time to get cancer anyway. No beach trips and remembering to wear my ridiculous sun hat in the community garden is a small price to pay. And as I learned from my few weeks of having a cold, too much time indoors makes me prone to unflattering self-pity. A friend who noticed this made sure I at least made it out to my stoop one day, so we could chat outside like real Brooklyn ladies.

I should also note that I’m having a pretty good experience overall with my Hodgkin’s lymphoma treatment. Everyone’s different. I don’t want to give people false optimism, but it’s also possible to freak yourself out if you read a lot of negative experiences. For me, the worst parts were before the diagnosis (not knowing what was wrong) and before the treatment (not knowing what to expect). I think it’s a good idea to get views from several different perspectives. I found “Running from Dr, Hodgkin’s Disease” to be extremely informative when figuring out what to expect. There are also lists of blogs, such as the one at beingcancer.net. The StupidCancer.org website, which I discovered through Kairol Rosenthal’s Everything Changes: The Insider’s Guide to Cancer in Your 20s and 30s, is also a helpful resource.

When the nurse in charge of my treatment saw me yesterday, she noted, “You kept your hair!” and asked me if my hair had been really thick beforehand. As I noted before, my years of being a hirsute lady are finally paying off. You know you’re a swarthy woman when your eyebrow threader notes she hasn’t seen you in a long time. I just got my eyebrows threaded for the second time in three months, instead of my usual visit every three weeks.

Even though I’ve lost a lot of hair, it’s not noticeable. It makes me feel better about my lingering eye infection and my acid reflux. Everything that’s ever bothered me healthwise—which really isn’t much—is kicking me while I’m down, it seems, but I just have to be a more patient cancer patient.

I’ve had acid reflux on and off through the years. I suppose celebrating our nation’s independence with a hot dog, a chocolate-covered Key lime pie and cheesy pizza wasn’t the best idea either. The doctor prescribed medication, but I’m waiting to hear about an alternate prescription. At the pharmacy, I discovered that my insurance doesn’t cover Prevacid, and the price tag is a heartburn-inducing $150.

Now is as good a time as any to tell you about my own experience on chemo days. I usually see my doctor first if I’m going to the MSKCC Manhattan infusion center—otherwise, I visit with the doctor the day before and then visit the swanky new Brooklyn infusion center the next day.

Before my very first chemotherapy appointment, I read up about each medication, but I was surprised to find two Tylenol and a Benadryl also waiting for me. Those are to combat flu-like symptoms that sometimes accompany the treatments. Honestly and luckily, the sleepy Benadryl haze is the worst part for me. This is also when I usually take the first of the three-day Emend anti-nausea medication.

One of the side effects is constipation for about three to five days afterward, so I also received Senokot, a vegetable-based laxative, and Docusate, a stool softener, to take in the evenings. I also received Ondansetron for any additional nausea. I keep these in my nightstand and call them my “dolls.”

Apparently, I have tiny veins, so the nurses usually heat up my arm first to find them. Once, I got a nurse who had cool phlebotomy glasses that allowed him some sort of X-ray vision to find my veins, but he was just taking blood and not doing IVs. The best part of the IV administration is the looks my squeamish boyfriend gives me as he sits opposite me. It’s funny and makes me feel tough.

Once a vein is procured, they administer more anti-nausea medication and steroids through the IV. Then the nurse “pushes” the first three medications through the IV. These are the red Doxorubicin, sometimes called the “red devil.” It doesn’t bother me much, other than the red color showing up in my urine right afterwards and a sometimes very slight metallic taste. Disconcerting, but not demonic.

The Bleomycin is the reason the doctors and nurses ask about your breathing and shortness of breath before every treatment, because it can cause lung problems. I’m generally a bit more tired if I try to do cardio the first few days afterward, but I don’t think I have the Bleomycin to blame. Cardio was always my weak spot when working out anyway.

Vinblastine sometimes stings a bit going in, but the nurse always checks to make sure she or he isn’t hurting you, and they can slow down the injection. I usually don’t even notice it.

The Dacarbazine is my least favorite, because it takes the longest, and by the time it kicks in, I’m sleepy from the Benadryl. It sometimes makes my veins ache. It’s a cranky pain that doesn’t let you relax. One nurse, however, told me that some people say it makes their arm feel like it’s falling off. The nurses will slow down the drip to lessen the pain and discomfort and sometimes a heating pad helps. It’s also the medication that makes you a little more sensitive to the sun—along with the Vinblastine—so I’ve come to think of it as a fun-killer.

Then I’m released and it’s over. I usually take a nap as soon as I get home. The exception was last week, when I lost my job and had too many thoughts and worries buzzing around my head to rest. I would lay down, but my eyes would remain open, like an old doll with broken eyes. I’m talking about toy dolls, from the ’70s and ’80s with eyes that fluttered, and not my new “dolls” in my nightstand.

The evening after chemo, I feel a little tired and a little hollow in the head, but I really think it’s from the Benadryl. It’s the same feeling I get when I watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians or a marathon of The Real Housewives of Orange County. I use this time to read or catch up on celebrity gossip.

Several years ago, I finally weaned myself off of celebrity gossip sites, but it’s really all my brain can process those post-chemo evenings. Last night, I caught up on the goings-on of Amanda Bynes and realized that North can be a girl’s name. (Also, can anyone tell me if Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom are together or not? I really feel as if I have access to two parallel universes and the only difference is in one, they are splitting up, and in the other, they are making plans for a baby. No one notices this slight shift except for me, because, rightly, no one else cares.)

What I’m getting at, I suppose, is that I have had to learn to allow myself to take it easy. After fretting to a friend over email about not being able to get anything done the night after chemo, he wrote, “You just fought off Chernobyl. Take the evening off.”

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

When I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, my hair was the longest it had been in years. I was growing it out to donate to Pantene Beautiful Lengths program, which makes donated hair into wigs for cancer patients. The irony was not lost on me.

Preemptively, I bought a few scarves and a head covering, as well as some do-rags, inspired by Bodie Broadus of The Wire. I also bought an electric razor of possible head-shaving, as well as for my legs. Since I’m more susceptible to infection, and I’m pretty clumsy, I figured making the switch to an electric razor would be better all-around.

A friend told me about cold cap therapy after my first treatment. I followed up with a representative, but apparently, it’s too late after you already start chemo. I was disappointed, but the MSKCC nurse I spoke to sounded skeptical anyway. I don’t know anyone who has tried it, so I’d like to hear if it actually works.

I read up on message boards about hair loss from ABVD chemotherapy and took this away: Everybody’s different. Hair loss, for most people, started after the second or third treatment. Some people experienced drastic loss and others kept a good portion of their hair. One woman preemptively shaved her head, then realized she wasn’t losing much of her hair at all.

Before my first treatment, I found out why you lose your hair during chemotherapy. I honestly hadn’t thought about the reasoning, since I was mostly worried about the results. Because the chemotherapy targets the fast-growing cancer cells, it also ends up destroying some of your other cells—your hair and cells in your digestive tract.

I started chemotherapy at the very end of April, and I started losing my hair in mid May. It’s now noticeably thinner, but I still haven’t taken the plunge and shaved it off. When it does fall out, if I hold up a strand to the light, I can see the chemotherapy effects on the end of the strand, as the hair gets thinner, then thicker, thinner. (This can be seen in the picture above.)

Right now, it’s a short bob, since I donated about 10 inches of hair in April. My oncologist says hair loss often levels off, so there’s a chance I may not need a wig at all.

That’s extremely good news for me, because my health insurance doesn’t cover hair prosthesis, ruling out a pricier real-hair wig. My boyfriend has suggested that I just go to St. Mark’s Place and get a rasta hat with built-in-dreads. I myself am leaning towards one of those yarn Cabbage Patch crocheted wigs I’ve been hearing so much about.

After browsing the American Cancer Society’s selection of wigs, I have to say, I realized that the majority of them would make me look like a Cold War-era spy. I was tempted to get something totally not me—like a spiky gray wig, but then I might as well go the rasta or yarn route. I chose the Beverly Johnson Mischa wig, which is sitting in a box until I figure out if I need it or not.

Losing my hair is something I focused on early because I knew it was a side effect I could deal with. But I also bought headcovers right away because I know that I won’t be one of those elegant bald women who can boldly pull off smooth dome. My head is shaped funny, flat near the top and punctuated with a freakish bump. My mom claims I was born with it. I’m not saying she’s a liar—I inherited my inability to successfully lie from her—but it really looks like someone dropped me. Like my extra rib, it’s a mystery.

I should note that I’ve never been bald, not even as a premature five-and-a-half-pound baby. I was born with a full head of thick brown hair. (And, according to my mom, that bump.)

I’m a swarthy lady. And it’s finally paying off.

I thought about this as I had my eyebrows and upper lip threaded. I used to go to a place on the Lower East Side near my favorite yoga studio, but since I’m on a hiatus from Bikram yoga for the time being, I go to a salon in my neighborhood, where the women’s gossip involves only men named Anthony or Frank. (I once counted referrals to at least four different Anthonys within one conversation.) I haven’t had to go as often for threading, but it’s the first time I’ve ever been grateful to have facial hair to remove.

I’d been unsure as to whether to bother to get my hair cut again since it’s falling out, but I finally got it trimmed yesterday. When my hair stylist told me she was going to Ohio for the Fourth of July, I was a little jealous, since I can’t travel. I love New York City, but I miss the lazy summer barbecue days of the Midwest. Four months ago, however, I was considering buying a festive American flag headcover for the Fourth, when I had no idea what was in store.

And I still really have no idea what ABVD and cancer have in store for me. Even on dark days, when my eye infection still won’t go away, or when I wonder if it’s finally time to shave my head, I know that if everything goes according to plan, I’ll be better by October. And does anyone know what the future holds? For right now, I hope it’s a good CT scan, eyes that aren’t itchy and some more time with my new chic ‘do. Oh, and a threading appointment to tame my-still rebellious brows.

Square Pegs

I’ve been doing really well with the chemotherapy, as far as side effects go—knock on wood—only to be felled by the common cold. And the virus also brought on an eye infection, so I’ve had to wear my glasses. Not only are they a few prescriptions behind, but wearing my glasses in public is like putting on a mantle of all my middle school insecurities. In my glasses, I’m Superman reduced to Clark Kent.

When I woke up with a sore throat last Sunday, however, freaking out was my first order of business. The one thing I’m supposed to do is stay well, because of my suppressed immune system. I’ve temporarily given up Bikram yoga to avoid being in a hot room of other people’s bodily fluids. (I’ve never gotten a cold from being in a Bikram room, but I don’t want to risk it now that I’m more vulnerable to viruses.) I skip workouts with shared equipment and have been trying to do yoga at home. (By trying, I mean thinking about it, but not actually unrolling my mat very often.)

Avoiding germs is easier said than done in a city of 8 million people. If you have a suppressed immune system, every cough on a crowded train or bus is magnified. I’ve never been much of a germophobe, so until now, I’ve never been aware of how often people cough and sneeze directly on and at you. In one case, I even switched train cars, but that was only after the coughing man produced a razor from his pocket and started shaving and his coughing turned to maniacal laughter.

After doing some internet searches, however, I found message boards where other people who had gotten sick between treatments five and six discussed their experiences. They got antibiotics and were fine, to my relief. I went in to see my oncologist, and she prescribed a Z-pack and eye drops for my infection. Since I was the germy person in the waiting room, and the other cancer patients also have compromised immune systems, I had to wear a mask. Downside: I couldn’t breathe without fogging up my glasses. Upside: I can start a Clinic cover band.

It wasn’t my week. The magazine I worked for had folded a few days before I got sick, leaving me unemployed. I spent my last chemotherapy session emailing my freelance writers and frantically sending in invoices and typing with one hand, because the other had an IV in it.

Wearing my glasses was the final indignity that took me to a dark place. Not having to work was both good and bad. I had time to rest, but I also had time to wallow in self-pity. So I spent a few days feeling sorry for myself, an unemployed writer with cancer who had to wear her glasses.

It might seem strange that that is what I focused on—well, as much focusing as my astigmatism will allow—with everything going on. When I got contacts at age 14, things started turning around for me. I started dating. I went from being a nerdy outcast to a rebellious, somewhat cooler outcast.

“You’re being quiet,” a friend observed on Saturday night.

“It’s because of my glasses,” I replied. “I just don’t feel like myself.”

Another friend turned to me on Thursday and said, “Wearing your glasses really bothers you.”

I suppose I’ll have to deal with all my adolescent insecurities. I was overweight until about 7th grade, and I had a dream this week in which my boyfriend told me I was getting chubby. Even I was surprised by that side effect of being bespectacled.

I took a cardio kickboxing class and my glasses kept slipping down my nose, bringing back traumatizing gym class memories. But only to a point. I’m in much better shape at 35 than I was at 10, even with the cancer and working out less. And no one tried to throw a dodge ball in my face. The fitness center I attend now is much more supportive than grade school gym.

In college, when I got an eye infection, I’d walk around campus without my glasses, unable to see. I would get calls from people I accidentally ignored, asking why I didn’t wave back.

I was like Sarah Jessica Parker’s character in Square Pegs, certain that my glasses are ruining my life.

I think I’ve been complaining so much about my glasses because it’s a “normal” pre-cancer concern for me. It was oddly comforting to have a mundane concern among my newer, scarier health issues.

I really need to get a new prescription. But after my week of wearing glasses, I realized that my insecurities are silly, and I need to outgrow them. I feel I see a little more clearly already.

“You Have Cancer”

It wasn’t really a pain in the neck that led to my Hodgkin’s lymphoma diagnosis—not at first, although I do have a thin, almost unnoticeable scar from a surgical biopsy at the base of my neck. But “a pain in the left side of my chest near my top ribs” isn’t a very good blog title, so here we are. We know how the story ends—or how it is until this point—but here’s how it started.

On Friday, December 14, I noticed a weird bump in the left middle part of my chest when I got home from working out. I remember the date because not long after I noticed it, the Connecticut school shooting happened, making my bump seem insignificant. I’d felt a twinge in my chest for a few weeks prior, but I’d been working out a lot and taking part in a fitness challenge. I’d also carried a giant, heavy box about eight blocks from my post office box to my home office and the twinge intensified.

I did some internet searching, and after self-diagnosing myself with a torn muscle, made an appointment with a sports medicine doctor who had seen me earlier for hip bursitis. That Monday, the doctor told me I had dislocated my first and second ribs—a very rare injury, but after telling him about the box and soreness, he figured I had a hypermobility issue. An X-ray confirmed my dislocated ribs, and the doctor decided to try to manipulate the rib back over a series of appointments, coupled with physical therapy.

I should also note that I have a family history of freak ribs—my dad claimed to have extra ribs in his upper chest that bothered him when he ran and my grandma’s lower ribs would shift sometimes when she did yardwork before eventually popping back into place on their own. I myself have an extra lower rib on my left side—a spare rib, if you will.

An aside: If there’s an assembly line somewhere that puts people together, the person working on the left side that day was probably let go soon after the fall of 1977. My left ear is different from my right one, as if I have ears from two different people. I really wouldn’t be surprised if everyone born within seconds of my birth all have mismatched ears and if someone was missing a rib on the left. I digress, but the point is, I wasn’t all that surprised to have bum ribs on the left.

Right before New Year’s Eve, I noticed a reddish spot where the twinge of pain had started. My doctor was concerned and said we should keep an eye on it. Meanwhile, I went to weekly physical therapy sessions and the doctor tried to manipulate the ribs back into place. I had to stop fitness boot camp and most forms of yoga, to avoid putting pressure on my ribs and upper chest, so I stuck to Bikram yoga and a cardio kickboxing class.

My left side was sore, and even when I tried to stay mobile by working out and doing my physical therapy exercises, I still felt stiff and in pain. One day, the physical therapist noticed a big bump in my neck. Meanwhile, my weird chest rash expanded. By late January, every time my ribs seemed to be making progress, at my next appointment, I seemed to be back at square one.

By this time, I was having burning pains in my chest and moving my left arm was becoming increasingly difficult. I was really starting to worry but tried to stay upbeat. My friends and I made lighthearted jokes about the possibility of an evil twin trying to claw its way out, because that’s what it looked like. The rash now looked angry, with a few blood vessels red and highlighted, and the bump seemed to be growing.

This is the point in the story that’s like the scene of the teenagers making out in a remote spot or the weekend campers going out into the woods to look for the source of mysterious noises while the scaredy-cat stays behind at the cabin to become the first victim. How could I not know it was Hodgkin’s lymphoma?

The dislocated ribs theory really made sense. And even after internet searches, cancer still didn’t seem like a possibility. I didn’t have any of the other symptoms—the weight loss or night sweats, though the latter happened later, after my diagnosis.

The last reason is that my concerns were dismissed by several other doctors. I asked my dermatologist about the rash, and he said it was probably just bruising from the rib injury. In late January, after a month of no progress, the sports medicine doctor was increasingly worried and said this honestly was out of his realm of specialty and urged me to see my primary care physician for bloodwork. I finally met the doctor I’d been listing as my primary care physician for years; I’d always seen the other doctor in his office. This doctor was arrogant and condescending and dismissed my rash as a nickel allergy and wouldn’t listen to any of my concerns. When he examined me, he pressed really hard on my ribs, an area that had become increasingly painful. (Another red flag, I know, I know.)

After reading the stories of others, it still seems that time and time again, if you’re young, cancer just isn’t considered as a possible diagnosis—even a young person’s cancer like Hodgkin’s lymphoma. There still seems to be a false belief that you can be too young or too healthy for cancer, even though we’ve seen perfectly healthy public figures like Lance Armstrong deal with cancer.

By this time, the sports medicine doctor sent me for a CT scan to see what else could be going on, and it showed that my lymph nodes were inflamed. In fact, my swollen lymph nodes were what pushed out my ribs. Around this time, my bloodwork came back, and I had an elevated white blood cell count—mostly neutrophils—and a high platelet count. I received an apologetic call from my primary care physician, who is now my former primary care physician. I told him that I already had an appointment with a head and neck specialist, a highly respected doctor recommended by the sports medicine guy.

Over the course of three appointments, I probably spent about five hours in this new doctor’s depressing underground waiting room, while some patients simply nodded off into sleep because of the wait. I received two notices on my insurance explanation of benefits that he charged me for surgery for otolaryngoscopies he did not perform. After calling his office repeatedly to question this, I have never received a bill for my portion, though my insurance company paid for some of the imaginary procedures.

Shadiness aside, he did send me for a needle biopsy, where you lie still and they poke you with a thin needle. This doctor was one of those doctors who talk about the patient like you’re not there. The needle biopsy itself was fine, the second worst part was lying still. The worst part was the doctor casually mentioning to his colleagues that it looked like Hodgkin’s lymphoma while I lay there unable to move with a needle in my neck. A few tears rolled down my face sideways, but I stayed completely still. When I asked the doctor directly what could be wrong, he said he couldn’t tell me.

After the day the results were supposed to be ready came and went, I called and was dismissed again—they would call me when the results were ready. After another day, I called again and they discovered they misfiled my results. By the time it was sent to the doctor, his office was closed for the weekend and he wouldn’t be back until Tuesday. I had the results sent to the sports medicine doctor, who would be in on Monday at least.

I had mixed feelings about the extended wait. Part of me wanted to know, another part was almost grateful for the period of not knowing, in case it was bad news. I frantically worked on a freelance writing assignment and work that weekend to make sure that it was finished before Monday.

I had just completed editing a piece on Golden Globes fashion when I got a call from the doctor’s office. He wanted to see me right away, and even though he was booked with appointments, I could come in whenever I had time. Doctors usually don’t make you come in for a visit to tell you good news. Still, I hoped maybe he was going to tell me what you always kind of hope to hear, something along the lines of, “You were very right to come in and are not a hypochondriac, and luckily, we have this magic pill with no side effects that can cure you right away.”

My boyfriend went with me and sat in the waiting room as the doctor told me that the biopsy showed I had Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Afterwards, I walked into the waiting room, collected my boyfriend and stepped into a crowded elevator where I couldn’t say a word. Finally, when we reached the street, I told him. Though it always seems impossible to have any privacy in Manhattan when you need it, there’s at least that faux-privacy of a crowded sidewalk, where everyone’s too busy and hurried and self-absorbed to notice your own personal traumas.

We sat stunned on the train home. I couldn’t think of anything more depressing than going home and doing internet searches of my newfound disease, so I went to a bar instead. After what seemed to be an emotional sucker punch, it felt right to have a happy hour beer and eat a bowl of free bar snacks. The diagnosis hung in the air and made things weird and I wanted things to be normal again. For the most part, thankfully, it has been.

I saw the head and neck doctor the next day, after a three-hour wait. He asked me if the antibiotics he prescribed had helped. I said that they don’t cure cancer, to my knowledge. I didn’t take his recommendation for an oncologist because I wanted to stop the chain of doctors I didn’t like. He kind of discouraged me from going to Memorial Sloan-Kettering, where he’s also (inexplicably) highly regarded, so we made an appointment there.

I don’t want to sound bitter about any of this experience. Even though I was unhappy with the way some things were handled, I did get a correct diagnosis. And I’m grateful that at least one doctor took me seriously and took action when everyone else—myself included—assumed that this bump was no big deal. Right now, I’m in my third cycle of chemotherapy, between treatments five and six.

The uncertainty of not knowing has passed. The confusion of odd pains has at least cleared. Once the initial shock of hearing one of the most dreaded phrases—“you have cancer”—fades, you pull yourself together and get down to the business of getting better.