RTFC!

I had my annual mammogram and breast sonogram today, at the same place where I recently had a follow-up PET/CT scan.

Again, I had to fill out form after form about my medical history. (How is it that I can pay bills, buy gifts, or rent DVDs by spending about 60 seconds on a website but no one can provide me with medical care unless I write the same information in longhand over and over again?)

So when I was called in for the mammogram, I assumed that the young technician had actually reviewed the form in front of her.

You know, scanned it.

Glanced at it.

That assumption didn't last long.

"Have you ever had a mammogram before?" she asked (I was going to say "brightly," which accurately describes her tone and expression but grossly misrepresents her intelligence).

"Yes," I said wearily. "I've had several." (By my count, this was number seven.)

She looked at me expectantly, her eyebrows raised enthusiastically. I could not fathom her reaction.

"Are you excited?!?!?" she chirped, as if this were sophomore English and I'd just told her I'd been invited to the senior prom.

I stared at her, paused, and finally spoke.

"I've had breast cancer twice," I said, as matter-of-factly as I could.

Her eyebrows fell and took the rest of her face with them.

I don't know what happened with the patients who came after me, but I like to think that she read their charts at least.

* * * * *

I wish I could say that this was an isolated incident, but it wasn't.

Before one of the two surgeries I had right after my re-diagnosis, the anesthesiologist came over to prep me. I had filled out lots of forms then, too, including the one that listed my drug allergies. My most serious allergy is to Reglan, an anti-emetic drug that is often used with anesthesia.

Reglan does keep me from puking, but it also keeps me from moving, sleeping, speaking, or tolerating almost any kind of stimulus. In other words, it renders me catatonic. For days. When it was given to me in 2001, I lost seven pounds over a weekend during which I left my bed only to pee. I could not lift the telephone receiver, could not bear to have the lights or the TV on, could not do anything but endure the minutes that passed in slow motion.

The anesthesiologist asked if I had any questions.

"You're not going to give me Reglan, are you?" I said, half-joking.

He pulled a vial of it out of his jacket pocket. He had been about to inject me with it.

* * * * *

Then, earlier this year, I met with the doctor who took over for MOSWO (my oh-so-wonderful oncologist) when he left practice.

I've seen my chart, which is more than an inch thick. And I know how thorough MOSWO is. I'm sure he left some kind of summary of my case—the Cliffs Notes® version of my breast-cancer saga.

I figured the new doctor would at least read the summary and skim the chart before seeing me. I knew MOSWO had consulted with her when he designed my treatment plan the year before, so I imagined that she'd just need to refresh her recollection about my case.

Turns out she had no recollection at all.

We were at least 10 minutes into the visit when something I said brought her up short. She had been in the midst of asking me about the medications I was taking, and I named one that gave her pause. She asked why I wasn't taking a different drug instead.

I told her that I had been on the other drug for about four years but that MOSWO had taken me off of it after the second diagnosis.

"Wait a minute," she said, looking momentarily baffled. "You mean this is your second breast cancer?"

If that wasn't bad enough, the exact same thing happened the next time I saw her.

I didn't go back a third time.