I wrote Part One (Discovery) of this series last December, followed quickly by Part Two (Biopsy). It’s taken me over half a year to write the third part of the series. The biopsy was a traumatic experience for me and the way I write is to bring myself back to the experience itself. Writing about it left me more upset now, years later, than I was then. At the time I was shell-shocked and didn’t have the internal resources to really feel everything. Now I do have those resources. Something of a mixed blessing, to tell the truth.
All that is to say that you may want to read those first two posts before this one.
Almost a month after the biopsy, I received a phone call, telling me I had an appointment with the same professor who had done the biopsy. I wanted to ask if there was anyone else who could see me, but I was still too much in shock to speak up for myself. Oddly, I chose to go alone.
The appointment was in the same place as the initial mammography and ultrasound and the biopsy–the general x-ray department of the clinic. I arrived about fifteen minutes early and checked in with the very busy receptionist. I took a seat as she instructed.
I waited and waited, growing increasingly nervous and agitated. I could hardly speak when after about an hour I went up to the receptionist and asked what was happening. She curtly told me that “they” knew I was here and to take a seat and wait patiently. (Why do some medical and ancillary personnel feel that they have the right to speak to patients as if we were small children?)
After another forty-five minutes or so, I saw a nurse coming out of the hallway where I knew the professor’s office was. I went up to her. “Excuse me.” Her eyes widened. Clearly she was not used to being accosted by patients. “Do you work with Professor Tact?” “I do.” “Could you please tell him that Knot Telling is here and I’ve been waiting for a couple of hours now to hear the results of my biopsy?” Her expression changed to one of pity and she said, “Wait here,” and stepped into the professor’s office.
Now, it must be said that by this time I knew it was a malignancy. You don’t get called to an appointment with the professor to be told nothing is wrong. I sort of knew it was a malignancy from the moment the mammography technician told me to sit in the hallway and wait for an ultrasound. But still…
I am sitting at my computer in my home. This is just a memory. So why do I feel the icy fist clenching my heart and why are my breaths quick and shallow and why are there tears backed up behind my eyes? Hey, here’s a good thing about having metastatic disease: you never again have to be afraid of hearing the words “you have cancer”. But back then I was still irrationally hoping for it to something else, anything else.
The nurse opened the door to the office and waved me in. She left and shut the door. The professor was yelling into the telephone, demanding to know who was at fault for something. The young doctor who had done part of my biopsy was standing behind his chair. I stood just inside the door, not sure if I should wait outside until he was done with his call or what. He looked up and waved me to a chair in front of the desk. I sat down.
“Tell her to come in here,” the professor shouted as he banged down the telephone and picked up my file. He turned a few pages back and forth and then looked up at me as there was a brief knock at the door and a secretary came in. “I’m busy,” he yelled at her. “You just stand there until I finish with this.”
I was beside myself. I didn’t want an audience while I got this news and I didn’t want to be an audience to whatever scolding that lady was going to receive. I was still too cowed to say anything. Professor Tact glanced at me and then back down at the file. “Okay, it’s malignant, but we knew that.”
I felt as though the top of my head was floating away. I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. I heard him yell at the poor secretary to leave and come back when he called there. I saw the top of the desk, I saw the young doctor’s pitying face, I saw the professor’s hands turning pages in my file.
I don’t remember leaving the office or the building. I remember calling my GP and telling him I needed to see him, and he said he had the results on his computer, too. I don’t remember where I went when I left the clinic, if I went home or to my GP or my priest or what.
I do remember knowing that things would never again be the same.