By Susan Esther Barnes
I know I haven’t been writing much lately. Frankly, I’ve been a little pre-occupied with my health, but now that a doctor has said he doesn’t think I have cancer, I suddenly find it easier to focus on other things.
It all started with a minor irritation I mentioned in my most recent post. After a week on antibiotics and anti-inflammatories there was no change. As advised, I visited my doctor (actually a substitute for my regular doctor since she was on vacation or something), and that’s when things got a little dicey.
The doctor wasn’t sure what I had or what to do next. She said I could try a different antibiotic, but since the first one had made no difference at all, she thought I probably didn’t have an infection. Therefore, we decided not to waste our time on that option.
She said there are a couple of diseases that don’t involve bacteria that could be causing the issue, and she mentioned something called “Padget’s Disease.” Then, she said she would leave the room for a moment to consult with someone with more specialized experience.
When she came back, she told me she had spoken with someone, and per their recommendation she had scheduled me for a mammogram that afternoon. In addition, she said I should see a surgeon, and that they would call me later that day to make an appointment.
She said all of this rather calmly, so it wasn’t until the next day, when I looked up “Mammary Padget’s Disease” online, and started to think how odd it was that she wanted me to see a surgeon without even waiting for the mammogram results, that I started to put it all together. What she was saying in her professional let’s-not-scare-the-patient way was, “I think you may have cancer.”
One of the interesting things I noticed during this process, aside from the desire not to scare me, was the willingness of the medical professionals to make stuff up. When I went in the first time, the nurse who took my vital signs asked me what I had come in for. I told her swelling and irritation, but I noticed that she typed in “breast pain.” I never used the word “pain,” and she never asked me if it hurt. I wondered at the time whether there were only a limited number of options from which she could choose, but it looked like she was just typing it in.
A week later, after Padget’s was mentioned and I was in the radiology department waiting for my mammogram, I looked at my paperwork. I saw that the doctor had written that I had been symptomatic for two weeks. Nobody had ever asked me how long I’d had my symptoms, and at that point it had been something more like four weeks. I don’t know how much it matters, but it seems to me they should try to get these things right, which doesn’t seem so hard to do when all they need to do is ask the patient who is sitting right there in front of them.
At any rate, the good news is that the surgeon said my mammogram looks normal, and he couldn’t find any evidence of a tumor, so there was nothing on which to do a biopsy. He gave me some ointment, and said to call my regular doctor if that doesn’t clear things up within a week.
I still don’t know what I have, or whether the ointment will get rid of it, but right now “not cancer” feels like a good place to be.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Changing Plans
By Susan Esther Barnes
While browsing the web on Friday, I made a comment on Minnesota Mamaleh's blog about what I was looking forward to doing on Shabbat.
My father taught me better than this. You never say, “I’m going to do such and such.” You always say, “I hope to,” or “I’m planning to,” or someplace you insert, “God willing.” For me this is not a superstition. It’s an acknowledgment that we can make all the plans we want, but God may have different plans for us, and in the end, it’s God’s plan that comes to fruition.
Last Saturday my husband and I went to see his folks in Oregon, and the previous two Shabbats I was in Israel, so this, I assumed, would be the first Shabbat in about a month on which I would be able to follow my normal routine: Services on Friday night, Torah study on Saturday morning, Saturday morning services, and a nap in the afternoon. After all, I had nothing else planned. What could possibly go wrong?
On the third Friday of the month during the summer, our synagogue holds Friday night services outdoors at a nearby state park. It’s a beautiful place, with plenty of grass to sit on and a gorgeous view of the San Francisco Bay.
So there I was, standing at the parking lot entrance, greeting congregants as they arrived, when a particular couple drove up. We have a mutual friend, Rose, who at 93 was diagnosed with cancer. I was able to visit Rose in the hospital a couple of times before I left on my trip.
She seemed to be doing quite well. In fact, on my last visit she was telling me she’d only been walking from her bed to the restroom, but she didn’t think that was enough exercise, so she was going to try to talk the nurses into taking her on a walk down the hall. The staff was working on plans to discharge her to a convalescent hospital.
Now that I was back, I wanted to visit Rose again, so I asked this couple where she was. They answered my question, but they told me Rose had stopped eating and had been moved to hospice. It’s funny how people are able to convey what they mean without coming out and saying it. What they were telling me was Rose is dying, it may not be long now, and if I wanted to see her I’d better do it soon.
As if that weren’t convincing enough, at home I had a voice mail message from another friend, telling me Rose specifically asked for me to come see her, implying that it should be soon.
So instead of going to Torah study on Saturday morning, I called the place where Rose is and asked if I could come see her. “Come on over in about an hour,” they said, “She’s up and showering, and she’ll be having breakfast soon.”
Showering? Breakfast? Does this sound like someone who has stopped eating and is going to die in the next few days? What was I supposed to make of that?
Of course there was nothing for it but to go on over and see for myself. And there she was, talking on the phone, as lucid as ever. But beside her bed was a full tray of food, along with an array of cups and glasses filled with various liquids she clearly wasn’t drinking.
So we talked. I tried to make plenty of space to let her talk about whatever she wanted. She told me about her two children who had died, and how she keeps thinking about what it was like for her and for them when that happened. She talked about her son who is still living, and her hopes for him.
She told me about how, before her husband’s death, as a rabbi’s wife she used to greet people at the synagogue, and how I do that now.
We talked about our first memories of each other. I reminded her that back when I attended my first class at the synagogue because I knew nobody and wanted to meet some friends, she was the first person I met. I tried to let her know how much it meant to me when she was the first person to introduce me to someone as her friend.
I told her I love her, and I will miss her. She told me her children are always with her, and she will always be with me.
I was there for an hour and a half. Mostly we talked. For short periods of time we were silent, and that was okay too. Some moments we smiled and laughed, and at some moments tears graced my cheeks. It wasn’t nearly enough time, but the rabbis tell us not to stay too long when we visit the sick, so I left, and said a prayer for her.
I sat in services this morning, but for the most part I couldn’t say the prayers. I just let the tears come down as they would. I didn’t feel sad exactly; I just felt like crying. A part of me kept paraphrasing the line from the Monty Python movie, scolding, “She’s not dead yet,” implying it was not yet time to cry. But grief takes its own course in its own time; only a fool tries to divert it.
Perhaps I will see Rose again. Perhaps I will speak with her on the phone. Maybe both; maybe neither. It’s hard not knowing, but it’s the way it’s supposed to be. I am grateful Rose has this time to see her friends and family and to say goodbye. I am grateful I had this time with her.
It’s funny how often God’s plans are better than mine.
While browsing the web on Friday, I made a comment on Minnesota Mamaleh's blog about what I was looking forward to doing on Shabbat.
My father taught me better than this. You never say, “I’m going to do such and such.” You always say, “I hope to,” or “I’m planning to,” or someplace you insert, “God willing.” For me this is not a superstition. It’s an acknowledgment that we can make all the plans we want, but God may have different plans for us, and in the end, it’s God’s plan that comes to fruition.
Last Saturday my husband and I went to see his folks in Oregon, and the previous two Shabbats I was in Israel, so this, I assumed, would be the first Shabbat in about a month on which I would be able to follow my normal routine: Services on Friday night, Torah study on Saturday morning, Saturday morning services, and a nap in the afternoon. After all, I had nothing else planned. What could possibly go wrong?
On the third Friday of the month during the summer, our synagogue holds Friday night services outdoors at a nearby state park. It’s a beautiful place, with plenty of grass to sit on and a gorgeous view of the San Francisco Bay.
So there I was, standing at the parking lot entrance, greeting congregants as they arrived, when a particular couple drove up. We have a mutual friend, Rose, who at 93 was diagnosed with cancer. I was able to visit Rose in the hospital a couple of times before I left on my trip.
She seemed to be doing quite well. In fact, on my last visit she was telling me she’d only been walking from her bed to the restroom, but she didn’t think that was enough exercise, so she was going to try to talk the nurses into taking her on a walk down the hall. The staff was working on plans to discharge her to a convalescent hospital.
Now that I was back, I wanted to visit Rose again, so I asked this couple where she was. They answered my question, but they told me Rose had stopped eating and had been moved to hospice. It’s funny how people are able to convey what they mean without coming out and saying it. What they were telling me was Rose is dying, it may not be long now, and if I wanted to see her I’d better do it soon.
As if that weren’t convincing enough, at home I had a voice mail message from another friend, telling me Rose specifically asked for me to come see her, implying that it should be soon.
So instead of going to Torah study on Saturday morning, I called the place where Rose is and asked if I could come see her. “Come on over in about an hour,” they said, “She’s up and showering, and she’ll be having breakfast soon.”
Showering? Breakfast? Does this sound like someone who has stopped eating and is going to die in the next few days? What was I supposed to make of that?
Of course there was nothing for it but to go on over and see for myself. And there she was, talking on the phone, as lucid as ever. But beside her bed was a full tray of food, along with an array of cups and glasses filled with various liquids she clearly wasn’t drinking.
So we talked. I tried to make plenty of space to let her talk about whatever she wanted. She told me about her two children who had died, and how she keeps thinking about what it was like for her and for them when that happened. She talked about her son who is still living, and her hopes for him.
She told me about how, before her husband’s death, as a rabbi’s wife she used to greet people at the synagogue, and how I do that now.
We talked about our first memories of each other. I reminded her that back when I attended my first class at the synagogue because I knew nobody and wanted to meet some friends, she was the first person I met. I tried to let her know how much it meant to me when she was the first person to introduce me to someone as her friend.
I told her I love her, and I will miss her. She told me her children are always with her, and she will always be with me.
I was there for an hour and a half. Mostly we talked. For short periods of time we were silent, and that was okay too. Some moments we smiled and laughed, and at some moments tears graced my cheeks. It wasn’t nearly enough time, but the rabbis tell us not to stay too long when we visit the sick, so I left, and said a prayer for her.
I sat in services this morning, but for the most part I couldn’t say the prayers. I just let the tears come down as they would. I didn’t feel sad exactly; I just felt like crying. A part of me kept paraphrasing the line from the Monty Python movie, scolding, “She’s not dead yet,” implying it was not yet time to cry. But grief takes its own course in its own time; only a fool tries to divert it.
Perhaps I will see Rose again. Perhaps I will speak with her on the phone. Maybe both; maybe neither. It’s hard not knowing, but it’s the way it’s supposed to be. I am grateful Rose has this time to see her friends and family and to say goodbye. I am grateful I had this time with her.
It’s funny how often God’s plans are better than mine.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The First Day of Spring
By Susan Esther Barnes
Two weeks ago my friend Mark, who has been grappling with cancer, announced that for the first time in two years he would be able to work five full shifts in a row.
That day my friend Gail’s mother, who had been ill for a number of years, died.
About the same time, my friend Joanne’s brother, after playing cards with some friends, developed a sudden headache, began to throw up, then was rushed to the hospital with a massive stroke, where he died a short time later.
We sat shiva for Gail’s mother and Joanne’s brother on successive evenings.
Last week, Mark went to the hospital for a treatment to burn out a tumor, and emerged saying he didn’t know it was possible to be in so much pain. The doctors are trying to readjust his medication.
My husband caught a cold and snored so much, I spent much of the week sleeping on the couch downstairs.
On the windowsill in the kitchen the orchid is sporting six soft but strong white flowers, while in the pot beside it the first basil sprouts are peeking out from the damp dirt.
This morning, two 13-year-olds were called to the Torah and became b’not mitzvah. They are now considered to be fully responsible members of our community.
And today is the first day of spring.
Two weeks ago my friend Mark, who has been grappling with cancer, announced that for the first time in two years he would be able to work five full shifts in a row.
That day my friend Gail’s mother, who had been ill for a number of years, died.
About the same time, my friend Joanne’s brother, after playing cards with some friends, developed a sudden headache, began to throw up, then was rushed to the hospital with a massive stroke, where he died a short time later.
We sat shiva for Gail’s mother and Joanne’s brother on successive evenings.
Last week, Mark went to the hospital for a treatment to burn out a tumor, and emerged saying he didn’t know it was possible to be in so much pain. The doctors are trying to readjust his medication.
My husband caught a cold and snored so much, I spent much of the week sleeping on the couch downstairs.
On the windowsill in the kitchen the orchid is sporting six soft but strong white flowers, while in the pot beside it the first basil sprouts are peeking out from the damp dirt.
This morning, two 13-year-olds were called to the Torah and became b’not mitzvah. They are now considered to be fully responsible members of our community.
And today is the first day of spring.
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