Connecting
Today I finally, finally got to see the rheumatologist, a lovely man who was as kind as could be. At the end of my two hours there, after the exam and the bloodwork and the urine sample and the X-ray of my hands, he sat with me in his office to go over everything. That's when he told me that his own daughter had had breast cancer in her early thirties, but that she's fine now, almost 15 years later. She gave birth to his grandson eight years ago.
I love hearing stories like that.
I got the impression that he would have been lovely and kind no matter what, but I think he was extra-sweet because of his daughter. That happens to me a lot. I'll meet someone, and he or she will be particularly solicitous. Or just completely unfazed by my baldness (or post-baldness). Then I'll find out that there's a sibling or parent or child or friend or spouse or some other cancer veteran in the person's life, and I know the source of the tender spot.
Perhaps you've been extra-sweet to a stranger sometime recently. Or perhaps you will be, sometime soon. It's really nice when it happens to me.
I also get stopped on the street, on the subway, in stores and restaurants—pretty much anywhere—by fellow cancer veterans. They spot me right away and strike up a conversation, then confess their own history. They want to know how I'm doing, and they want to reassure me that I'll get through it, that I'll have long hair again and resume my normal life. Now, of course, I nod and smile, because I know all of that is true. Because I've been where they are now—years removed from surgery and chemo and eyelash stubble and trusty baseball caps—and I know that I'll be there again.
Sometimes I tell them that this is my second go-round, that I know that there is an end in sight. Sometimes I just stick with the nod and the smile, because telling them my story means raising the specter of a cancer sequel in their minds, and that's not what they bargained for when they patiently kept looking my way, waiting to catch my eye so that they could make a small overture of friendship and solidarity.
I love hearing stories like that.
I got the impression that he would have been lovely and kind no matter what, but I think he was extra-sweet because of his daughter. That happens to me a lot. I'll meet someone, and he or she will be particularly solicitous. Or just completely unfazed by my baldness (or post-baldness). Then I'll find out that there's a sibling or parent or child or friend or spouse or some other cancer veteran in the person's life, and I know the source of the tender spot.
Perhaps you've been extra-sweet to a stranger sometime recently. Or perhaps you will be, sometime soon. It's really nice when it happens to me.
I also get stopped on the street, on the subway, in stores and restaurants—pretty much anywhere—by fellow cancer veterans. They spot me right away and strike up a conversation, then confess their own history. They want to know how I'm doing, and they want to reassure me that I'll get through it, that I'll have long hair again and resume my normal life. Now, of course, I nod and smile, because I know all of that is true. Because I've been where they are now—years removed from surgery and chemo and eyelash stubble and trusty baseball caps—and I know that I'll be there again.
Sometimes I tell them that this is my second go-round, that I know that there is an end in sight. Sometimes I just stick with the nod and the smile, because telling them my story means raising the specter of a cancer sequel in their minds, and that's not what they bargained for when they patiently kept looking my way, waiting to catch my eye so that they could make a small overture of friendship and solidarity.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 7:20 PM
1 Comments:
Now that you've been so fortunate as to find another OSW doctor, did he have any words of wisdom about why you're having all the joint pain, and whether something can be done to alleviate it?
Sounds like things are looking up a tad. Wonderful!
love,
Torre
Post a Comment
<< Home