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Big C Revelations; when in doubt yank your starter

January 14, 2012

I’m going to Stanford Hospital. And one problem I’m finding is their scheduling. I missed a key exam because no one from radiology or my oncologist or the hospital told me an appointment was made. Another time, because my oncologist didn’t homework, I was brought in to have a catheter replaced that didn’t need to be replaced, mainly because the oncologist never talked to the doctor about my kidney functions. These people never factor in the stress or strain of just going into a place called the Stanford Cancer Center.

“You’re blood pressure is high,” said a nurse.

“What’s it, around 150 something?”


“That’s about right, if you want to see it low take it when I’m leaving here and going to a Burmese restaurant.”

And what revelations? I found by having these sacks on the side of my legs attached to catheters in my kidneys and having to dump my own urine through a valve in a packet that fills up every couple hours, had a way of filtering out my own thoughts and feelings. It had purifying affect on the next step, going in for baptism of chemo fire . Doing this every day has a way of separating your spirit from your body–and so other strengths float into me. My first one. I decided to can my oncologist and get another one. I thought she sees me as a file, a case, and then puts the template of her experience on it–after what, maybe reading it for a couple hours and seeing a couple videos. What is this open-mike night? I’m not auditioning for her, she’s auditioning for me. Hell, that sounds like an assignment for a film class! My take is, if they don’t feel the passion, dump them. Your life is not Cliff Notes and your body isn’t a synopsis. They have said the same phrases to you that they have said to others. They are settled in a callous groove of their profession. And I think it’s important sometimes to pick up that file they look into and bitch slap them across the face and say, “Hey, I’m right here in front of you! I’m not a test dummy for needles! Get it!” And after one completely unnecessary procedure, I expressed my anger at the oncologist’s failure to the nurse wheeling my gurney back to pre-op. She replied by lowering he voice and saying to me, “Look I’m a health profession and for six months I kept on going to my doctor–not one here–and he kept saying nothing was wrong with me. I went to another doctor and he found I had cancer and I immediately went in for treatment. So a get second opinion.” I nodded and replied, “I hear you.”

My Dad was in the hospital and we made the mistake of trusting a doctor who made a mistake and said he could correct it, and things only got worse. I thought never again. When I was lying down on a gurney, I imagined my Dad walking behind me, his hands in his pockets, jingling his car keys, and saying, “Frtizie, dump her.” And so a new take charge spirit was born in me.

So from now on, I’m not ordering off the menu. I do know what I want. A Fred To Go!

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