Let me tell you about some of the people we have met in our travels.
For example, let me tell you about the rudest receptionist in the world.
It is our first time at Princess Margaret Hospital. We are confused, disoriented. We have spent half an hour driving around the area, trying to find the damn place. Never mind that it is an enormous building right on University Avenue, between the Ontario Hydro Building (the curvy, shiny one), and Mount Sinai Hospital, where I have been many times. Never mind that I have the address on a slip of paper; 610 University Avenue. Just, never mind.
We have spiraled endlessly upward in a parking garage that wants $5.00 for every half-hour we stay. We have negotiated elevators and traffic and crowds and more elevators, and finally arrived at our destination: the G.I. Clinic.
The waiting room is packed. Hundreds of people fill almost every chair in the place. It is huge, and it is packed with people! How can this be? If even half these people have cancer (most people are with a companion) the number of people with cancer must be staggering. And this is just the Gastro-Intestinal Unit!
[Interesting aside: my spell checker does not recognize "Gastro-Intestinal". Fair enough, I suppose. It suggests instead I might want to write "Castro-Intestinal". I am bemused.]
But we are here. We make our way through the crowds to the reception area, patiently wait our turn, and approach the glass partition which separates the office staff from the madding crowd. The receptionist is a Chinese woman of perhaps 50. She is busy. Typing or something. We wait. She types. We stand there. She ignores us. We shuffle our feet. She examines her computer. We notice she has a large mole on her upper lip. (This is not really relevant to anything, but we have lots of time to notice such things.) She continues to do . . . what? Anything but acknowledge our existence.
Finally one of us notices a large, Plexiglas box on the counter in front of her. In the top of the box is a slot. Below the box is a sign. "Put your OHIP card in the box," says the sign. It is an "Aha!" moment.
I dig out my Health Card, and dutifully drop it in the box . . .
We've all seen those "fortune-telling" machines in arcades or at fairs. Drop a coin in the slot, and an animated, robotic "fortune-teller" waves her arms about, makes some vague pronouncement, and presents you with your "fortune" on a little card.
And so it is with our receptionist. Her eyes drift away from her computer, rise slowly to meet mine, and she speaks. I am mesmerized by her mole.
"Do you have a blue hospital card?" she says. I do not. I am new here.
"You have to get a blue hospital card. First floor." End of conversation.
We have arrived. Welcome to the machine.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
#5. For Sharon
I cannot go any further with this blog business without dedicating a post to my wife, Sharon. Without her backing me up, I would be in very bad shape in just about every respect. Without Sharon, I would quite literally not have a clue.
You get the idea. I am a hopeless know-nothing. Sharon is my guide, my secretary, my advocate, and something much, much more.
She is with me. She supports me, cares for me, scolds me if I need scolding, nags me if scolding isn't enough. She sympathizes. She empathizes. She understands if I feel bad, she keeps me moving on. Holds my hand, hugs me, shares the burden.
What kind of cancer do I have? What did that CT scan show? What did the pathology report say? Sharon knows. She asked. And asked. And asked, until she got an answer she was satisfied with.
What stage is my cancer at? I have no idea, didn't know there was such a thing. Sharon researched everything she could find on the 'Net. She learned, and pestered doctors and nurses and anybody who knew anything, to give her straight answers.
In fact, our Peterborough doctor complimented her on the quality of her questions. High praise indeed.
As we moved on towards the Toronto phase of our journey, she took on more and more, fielding constant phone calls about appointments, accommodations, transportation options. Returning calls. Arguing with unhelpful helpers, prying missing information out of vague receptionists, finding out for sure. Where should we go, when should we be there, how will we get there, what will we be doing when we get there?
Oh, help.
Sharon has a binder. Her binder contains everything we have collected since this thing started. As you might imagine, it is a very big binder. Flyers, pamphlets, literature, books. Contacts, web addresses, and stuff I can't even hope to remember. Doctors' names, office locations, imaging sites, floor numbers, room numbers, addresses and telephone numbers. Schedules, consult notes, questions-to-be-asked, things to do today, tomorrow, next week.
This is really what having cancer is all about. It all becomes too much. It is overwhelming.
So this post is for Sharon. She is at my side all the way, whatever may come. I don't have to face this alone. Alone must be terrible indeed
She loves me.
And I love her, very much.
You get the idea. I am a hopeless know-nothing. Sharon is my guide, my secretary, my advocate, and something much, much more.
She is with me. She supports me, cares for me, scolds me if I need scolding, nags me if scolding isn't enough. She sympathizes. She empathizes. She understands if I feel bad, she keeps me moving on. Holds my hand, hugs me, shares the burden.
What kind of cancer do I have? What did that CT scan show? What did the pathology report say? Sharon knows. She asked. And asked. And asked, until she got an answer she was satisfied with.
What stage is my cancer at? I have no idea, didn't know there was such a thing. Sharon researched everything she could find on the 'Net. She learned, and pestered doctors and nurses and anybody who knew anything, to give her straight answers.
In fact, our Peterborough doctor complimented her on the quality of her questions. High praise indeed.
As we moved on towards the Toronto phase of our journey, she took on more and more, fielding constant phone calls about appointments, accommodations, transportation options. Returning calls. Arguing with unhelpful helpers, prying missing information out of vague receptionists, finding out for sure. Where should we go, when should we be there, how will we get there, what will we be doing when we get there?
Oh, help.
Sharon has a binder. Her binder contains everything we have collected since this thing started. As you might imagine, it is a very big binder. Flyers, pamphlets, literature, books. Contacts, web addresses, and stuff I can't even hope to remember. Doctors' names, office locations, imaging sites, floor numbers, room numbers, addresses and telephone numbers. Schedules, consult notes, questions-to-be-asked, things to do today, tomorrow, next week.
This is really what having cancer is all about. It all becomes too much. It is overwhelming.
So this post is for Sharon. She is at my side all the way, whatever may come. I don't have to face this alone. Alone must be terrible indeed
She loves me.
And I love her, very much.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
#4. A Chapter List
I tried looking back on the two weeks just passed since New Year's, and it was a blur. Everything was all jumbled up in my mind; what we did, when we did it, how it felt. So with a lot of help from Sharon, I have tried to set out events as a Table of Contents, in an order somewhat approaching reality.
I doubt I will write about everything here, but it does serve to fix things in what's left of my mind. A framework on which to hang my blogs, as it were.
I'll post it for your continued amusement and edification.
Wed., Jan. 2
1. In Which We Learn That the Doctors Will See You Now.
2. Finding Princess Margaret Hospital. Or Not.
3. Parking in the Sky, a Bargain at Only $5.00 per 1/2 Hour.
4.The G.I. Waiting Room. Oh My God, It's Full of People!
5. We Meet the Rudest Receptionist in the World.
6. Dr. MacKay, Lady of the Chemos.
7. The Slowest-Moving Nurse in the World.
8. The Worst Waiting-Room Poster Ever.
9. Radioactive Dr. Ringash.
10. Lunch at Druxy's, $40 for Three, No Cheeseburgers.
Fri., Jan 4
1. Forty-Five Minutes of Clunks and Bangs.
2. A Romantic Lunch With Ontario Hydro. Could Life Get Any Better?
3. "Simulated" MRI and CT Scans. We're Just Practicing!
4. Leave Your Pants at the Door. But you can Keep Your Socks On . . .
5. My First Tattoos Ever. And They're on My Butt!
6. And we go shopping for boots . . .
Thur., Jan. 10
1. In Which We Meet Dr. Mackay's Tiny, Perfect Intern, Dr. Wong.
2. We Visit Sharon's Niece in Her New Apartment,
3. Spend a Night in a Nice Hotel,
4. And Learn How to Spell Pogue Mahone. Will This Be On the Exam?
Fri., Jan. 11
1. Breakfast Should Not Be the Most Stressful Meal of the Day.
2. We Climb Mount Sinai and Meet Dr. Erin Kennedy, Super-Surgeon, at the Top.
3. And the Ever-Radioactive Dr. Ringash.
4. Adventures in the Pharmacy, or, Does Anybody Here Know What's Going On?
5. The PMH Lodge, a Most Despicable Hive of Scum and Villainy.
Mon., Jan.14
1. A Real CT Scan (Not the Fake One).
2. And It All Begins for Real.
I doubt I will write about everything here, but it does serve to fix things in what's left of my mind. A framework on which to hang my blogs, as it were.
I'll post it for your continued amusement and edification.
Wed., Jan. 2
1. In Which We Learn That the Doctors Will See You Now.
2. Finding Princess Margaret Hospital. Or Not.
3. Parking in the Sky, a Bargain at Only $5.00 per 1/2 Hour.
4.The G.I. Waiting Room. Oh My God, It's Full of People!
5. We Meet the Rudest Receptionist in the World.
6. Dr. MacKay, Lady of the Chemos.
7. The Slowest-Moving Nurse in the World.
8. The Worst Waiting-Room Poster Ever.
9. Radioactive Dr. Ringash.
10. Lunch at Druxy's, $40 for Three, No Cheeseburgers.
Fri., Jan 4
1. Forty-Five Minutes of Clunks and Bangs.
2. A Romantic Lunch With Ontario Hydro. Could Life Get Any Better?
3. "Simulated" MRI and CT Scans. We're Just Practicing!
4. Leave Your Pants at the Door. But you can Keep Your Socks On . . .
5. My First Tattoos Ever. And They're on My Butt!
6. And we go shopping for boots . . .
Thur., Jan. 10
1. In Which We Meet Dr. Mackay's Tiny, Perfect Intern, Dr. Wong.
2. We Visit Sharon's Niece in Her New Apartment,
3. Spend a Night in a Nice Hotel,
4. And Learn How to Spell Pogue Mahone. Will This Be On the Exam?
Fri., Jan. 11
1. Breakfast Should Not Be the Most Stressful Meal of the Day.
2. We Climb Mount Sinai and Meet Dr. Erin Kennedy, Super-Surgeon, at the Top.
3. And the Ever-Radioactive Dr. Ringash.
4. Adventures in the Pharmacy, or, Does Anybody Here Know What's Going On?
5. The PMH Lodge, a Most Despicable Hive of Scum and Villainy.
Mon., Jan.14
1. A Real CT Scan (Not the Fake One).
2. And It All Begins for Real.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
#3. OK, Now What?
Well, now that we all agree it is cancer (". . . well, probably . . ."), let's get on with it!
You'll need chemotherapy, and radiation therapy, aromatherapy (Hey, why not?) and surgery, and more chemotherapy, and a puppy, maybe.
Whoa!
As my friend John says, "Hold 'er, Newt." What we really need is a second opinion.
The reaction was interesting. The words said, "Of course. You have every right to seek other medical input. I respect your decision." The words seemed to say, "Sir, you have impugned my honour, my professional abilities, my family members both alive and dead, and I am hurt, so hurt."
Well, whatever. Please refer us to Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. Let us decide where I want to be treated. Thank you.
And so it was that we came to be sitting here, on a cold, sunny day in Toronto, the first week of a five-week tour: pills and radiation machines, doctors and nurses, imagers and their imaging machines, pharmacists and techies and receptionists and volunteers and the seething tide of humanity that appear to have signed up for the same tour.
We go on.
You'll need chemotherapy, and radiation therapy, aromatherapy (Hey, why not?) and surgery, and more chemotherapy, and a puppy, maybe.
Whoa!
As my friend John says, "Hold 'er, Newt." What we really need is a second opinion.
The reaction was interesting. The words said, "Of course. You have every right to seek other medical input. I respect your decision." The words seemed to say, "Sir, you have impugned my honour, my professional abilities, my family members both alive and dead, and I am hurt, so hurt."
Well, whatever. Please refer us to Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. Let us decide where I want to be treated. Thank you.
And so it was that we came to be sitting here, on a cold, sunny day in Toronto, the first week of a five-week tour: pills and radiation machines, doctors and nurses, imagers and their imaging machines, pharmacists and techies and receptionists and volunteers and the seething tide of humanity that appear to have signed up for the same tour.
We go on.
Monday, January 14, 2013
#2. Finding Out
Hello Anyone,
How do you find out you have cancer? Rather slowly, as it turns out.
Blood in the toilet. That can't be good . . .
I first saw a doctor on November 9, a Friday. He told me it was probably nothing serious, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to see someone. Uh, OK.
So on the following Wednesday, I saw someone. (You know, with the weekend and all.) He said it probably wasn't anything serious, but I'd better have a colonoscopy, just in case. Next week, OK?. Um, sure, whatever.
(Does the word "colonoscopy" produce a momentary chill? It does for me. Never mind, we do what we must.)
So I had a colonoscopy.
Let me tell you about my colonoscopy (Now there's a sentence I hope I never hear from anyone.)
Actually, the procedure itself is a non-event, as they knock you out. So the account remains suitable for the dinner-table.
The preparations, on the other hand . . . I will simply list some words: purgative, laxative, and cleanse. Also fast, and Jello. Assemble these words into any sentence that amuses you.
"Oh, and by the way, we'd like to get a CAT scan while you're out. It's probably nothing serious, but, well, better safe than sorry. Haw Haw." (OK, I made up the last part. Doctors NEVER guffaw.)
The result of all this hilarity was that they couldn't really tell if it was cancer. They thought it was cancer, but maybe an ultrasound would give a clearer picture, so to speak.
Peterborough's almost brand new hospital doesn't have an ultrasound machine. Of course not. No problem, Oshawa's does. Swell, so off we go to Oshawa's Lakeridge Healthy Cancer Centre Hospital Place. It's now December 12.
Another week, and we return to get the results. We enter the office, sit down, and wait for the news.
Yes. It IS cancer . . . probably . . .
Oh for crying out loud, can't doctors ever just say something is what it is?
Very well, I'll say it. It IS cancer. Period.
How do you find out you have cancer? Rather slowly, as it turns out.
Blood in the toilet. That can't be good . . .
I first saw a doctor on November 9, a Friday. He told me it was probably nothing serious, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to see someone. Uh, OK.
So on the following Wednesday, I saw someone. (You know, with the weekend and all.) He said it probably wasn't anything serious, but I'd better have a colonoscopy, just in case. Next week, OK?. Um, sure, whatever.
(Does the word "colonoscopy" produce a momentary chill? It does for me. Never mind, we do what we must.)
So I had a colonoscopy.
Let me tell you about my colonoscopy (Now there's a sentence I hope I never hear from anyone.)
Actually, the procedure itself is a non-event, as they knock you out. So the account remains suitable for the dinner-table.
The preparations, on the other hand . . . I will simply list some words: purgative, laxative, and cleanse. Also fast, and Jello. Assemble these words into any sentence that amuses you.
"Oh, and by the way, we'd like to get a CAT scan while you're out. It's probably nothing serious, but, well, better safe than sorry. Haw Haw." (OK, I made up the last part. Doctors NEVER guffaw.)
The result of all this hilarity was that they couldn't really tell if it was cancer. They thought it was cancer, but maybe an ultrasound would give a clearer picture, so to speak.
Peterborough's almost brand new hospital doesn't have an ultrasound machine. Of course not. No problem, Oshawa's does. Swell, so off we go to Oshawa's Lakeridge Healthy Cancer Centre Hospital Place. It's now December 12.
Another week, and we return to get the results. We enter the office, sit down, and wait for the news.
Yes. It IS cancer . . . probably . . .
Oh for crying out loud, can't doctors ever just say something is what it is?
Very well, I'll say it. It IS cancer. Period.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
#1. Intro
Hello Anyone,
Thought I should lay out what's happening with me, in case you didn't already know.
Yes, it appears I have cancer. Colo-rectal, as they say. We have caught it early (a good thing, of course) but I will be undergoing "treatments", and surgery will be required (ugh).
After much running about, consultations, imaging, second opinions, interminable waiting, and driving, driving, driving, we have decided to go to Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto for the treatments.
This will involve 5 weeks (!) of chemo/radiation, 5 days a week. So we will be living in Toronto during the week, and spending our weekends at home (whoopee). This will shrink the tumour and ready it for surgery.
The surgery will occur after about two months' rest, which means sometime in April or May. Having talked with the surgeon, it does not sound very nice. Beyond that, probably more chemo.
Well, we shall see. I'm not really thinking much beyond that. One day at a time is about all I am capable of.
I will keep you posted.
So, Cheers! (No, really!) Although our life has been totally disrupted, and we must live in Toronto 4 days out of 7 for the next 5 weeks, there are no symptoms, no pain, no indications at all. I'm still just me. Slightly more disgruntled than usual, but just me.
Details of the experience, tastefully edited as to be suitable for dinner conversation, will be forthcoming.
Pat
Thought I should lay out what's happening with me, in case you didn't already know.
Yes, it appears I have cancer. Colo-rectal, as they say. We have caught it early (a good thing, of course) but I will be undergoing "treatments", and surgery will be required (ugh).
After much running about, consultations, imaging, second opinions, interminable waiting, and driving, driving, driving, we have decided to go to Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto for the treatments.
This will involve 5 weeks (!) of chemo/radiation, 5 days a week. So we will be living in Toronto during the week, and spending our weekends at home (whoopee). This will shrink the tumour and ready it for surgery.
The surgery will occur after about two months' rest, which means sometime in April or May. Having talked with the surgeon, it does not sound very nice. Beyond that, probably more chemo.
Well, we shall see. I'm not really thinking much beyond that. One day at a time is about all I am capable of.
I will keep you posted.
So, Cheers! (No, really!) Although our life has been totally disrupted, and we must live in Toronto 4 days out of 7 for the next 5 weeks, there are no symptoms, no pain, no indications at all. I'm still just me. Slightly more disgruntled than usual, but just me.
Details of the experience, tastefully edited as to be suitable for dinner conversation, will be forthcoming.
Pat
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