We get checked in there by the cheeriest nurse in the world. She goes through all the usual pre-op questions and says, "I looked at the info in your folder. I'll say a prayer for you." I look at C and can see this gesture does not have the intended effect.
C is in today for a CT guided biopsy - using this machine to guide the surgeon to pick a bit of tissue out from an extremely specific spot. C's been through a series of tests to rule out any spread of this disease - all have been negative. But there's this spot that has the doctors suspicious, that no X-ray or other test has ruled out, and so we're here. Bringing in the big guns to find out once and for all. Go right in, grab a sample, test it, get the result.
The doctor comes in for the consent signing, where they tell you what's happening, what can go wrong, and get you to sign saying you know the risks. He also says there's a 30% chance this test won't even be conclusive. 70/30. Good to know. The test we've been waiting for to nail things down might not nail things down at all.
Whatever. C heads off to get this started, and I start my wandering rounds.
This is all so crazy. It's been almost month now since C was diagnosed and we're still trying to get enough info to start treatment. I call Dr. C, his oncologist, to see what this all adds up to and once again get the feeling I'm an irritant. I get a few answers and he has to go. I send an update email to the fam and we are all thinking the same thing - do we dump this doctor? The hospital is great. The staff is great. Everything is great. Except our primary oncologist's communication skills. As of now this is a serious problem that just adds anxiety.
I walk by the gift shop. All the cancer swag. You see all the patients moving around the grounds, in various stages of care. It's like walking through a living timeline of the stages of cancer treatment, and I wonder how C will fit into all this. I know he sees the same thing whenever we're here.
I walk by the valet, and a family is getting out of their car. They have that dazed look, like they've just seen a ghost. I hear them saying, "We need to find the Guest Services desk," which is what you are told to do on your first time at CoH. So I know they probably just had this life-changing diagnosis dropped into their home - they're in a panic. There's actually someone here more clueless than us.
I see this plaque out in front. It talks about the history of the hospital in this location, founded in 1937, how it was started with donations from the International Ladies' Garment Workers Union. They "pioneered in philanthropy and social concerns", and named the hospital after this guy that was a garment worker with the union and later a "prominent Socialist Labor Party leader". This pedigree of this place pleases me. I sit out front and take a call from the Livestrong organization about our insurance issues with Blue Cross, about 'pre-existing conditions'. A long ways from the philanthropy of the ILGWU. They call from upstairs and C's in recovery, so I head back up.
C wasn't too knocked out for the procedure so he's pretty alert. We chat, he helps me with a crossword. He dozes as he listens to Wilco on his iPod. He tells me about the biopsy, how even through the layer of morphine he could sense the drilling, scraping in the bone of his shoulder blade, as the doctor tried to nab a bit of this damn'd spot. But this whole effort may be for nothing. 70/30.
C has been keeping himself a bit at arms length about some elements of this whole cancer thing - not in denial, just kind of selective. Processing. Some of the signs that there is a group of us out here filled with concern push him inside a bit. He reads a card from a well-wisher and sets it down without comment. He's maintaining balance right now, and it's not easy. He says that once he starts chemo he'll be ready for the support that he knows is out there.
We've gotten some dog tags printed up for people that want a way to show support, something to keep as a reminder (drop me a note at featsdontfailmenow at gmail dot com for info). I'm wearing one. I show them to him, and ask for a picture - the tags, his hands, the message, his armband, the clip on his finger tracking his vitals. Everything's alien to life as it was just a month ago.
There's so much for him to take in - too much for anyone to take in. So he's selectively filtering. But we need more information from Dr. C, to be treated as the partners in this that we are. It's all distressing and upsetting and by the time I get home I just get a glass of wine and lay down on the couch. Little Rosie lays on me and kisses my cheek, completely free of all these concerns.
There's a hospital in Grand Rapids called "Mary Free Bed." Such an odd name - I asked a few locals where it came from but they didn't know. Finally googled it: There was a group of local ladies in the late 19th century who wanted to endow one free bed in the local hospital. They came up with the fundraising idea of having everyone named Mary donate toward the free bed; if your name was not Mary, you could donate in honor of someone named Mary. Now it's an 80 bed rehab hospital, one of the few in the country owned by a women's guild.
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