My Last Oncology Appointment

I have lived in 4 different cities since my cancer diagnosis almost 9 years ago. In each city I have had a different Oncologist and today I met the newest member of my medical chart, Dr. Keech in Chico. These visit's are not so much about the doctor's themselves but about the experience of having to be there in the first place. The first 6 years after my diagnosis I went through a series of annual and sometimes bi-annual blood work, CAT scans, and X rays and the last 3 years they have reduced it down to only blood work and 1 X ray (my latest one being 4 weeks ago).


Every visit to the Oncologist has been a mental and emotional battle but it has become easier in the last few years - I think I was just getting use to going through the motions. Sometimes walking into the Oncology ward would make me think about the grief of loosing members of my family that I would forget I was there for myself. Today I experienced a little bit of that and so much more.


I drove up to the Cancer Center and felt as if I was going into the dentist - not really feeling any emotions at all. Then the double doors slid open, I walked in and starting moving down a long hallway. I don't remember walking, it was more like gliding. Large letters were placed along the hallway wall 'Faces of Hope' and 'Strength' followed by photos of elderly people smiling with either a nurse or family member sharing the Kodak moment. Pictures that looked nothing like what my grandparents looked like when I would sit with them. The hallway had to be at least 50 feet and hanging from the ceiling were dozens of hand-made origami cranes, of all colors. If I looked up and walked at the same time it was not hard to picture them flying. Acoustic music became louder as I walked further down the hallway and I focused in on a man stringing his guitar on a bench at the intersection of my hallway and an adjacent one. He sat so calm and played ever so gently as if he was in his own bedroom, not a public Cancer Center. Soaking up my new surroundings I thought to myself ‘I am sure cancer patients really appreciate this environment’ and ‘I would also appreciate it's soothing outlets if I . . . ’ then I realized. . . it was for me. I am/was one of them. This is something that I realize off and on in my life. I don’t necessarily think it is unhealthy to think this way but just a result of living in post-cancer. The guitarist and I made eye contact and my inner walls starting falling. You see, when I was getting ready this morning I spent a little more time on my hair and make-up and instead of jeans, converse, and a simple v-neck top I wore my sexy jeans, high heals and a lacey deep v-neck top. I was subconsciously preparing myself to feel better on the outside because this is the one place where my emotional and mental body is naked for everyone to see.

I walked into the waiting room of the office with my shoulders still back, standing tall, and acting as if I worked there not as if I needed to be there. In front of me, talking to the receptionist was an elderly lady who wore bright colors, a knitted hat that hardly covered her balding head and her skin translucent leather. She could have been anyone's grandma. When she turned around to leave she gave me a double-take, which is a very common double-take, one I should be use to by now. They mean no harm by it but I know they are thinking 'wow she is young' or 'she doesn't look sick at all'. They are right - either way. What I do have a hard time with, however, is when I get the same looks from the people that work in the office. The receptionist looked at me as if I was there on business even after I stated 'I have a 3pm appointment with Dr. Keech'. Her tone of voice completely changed and was almost nervous to ask me insurance related questions.

When the nurse walked me back to the offices I couldn't help but notice her open-toed leopard-print high heels. She had a thick Eastern accent and was overly voluptuous. She treated me like a porcelain doll, like the one my grandma put on the very top shelf of the hutch, the one that had the pastel colored dress and skin so beautiful it was majestic. She, just like nurses before, was hesitate to ask me questions and had the obvious face of query about my presence in such an office. I have learn to not make that tension any more awkward but help them by answering the questions before they finish asking me, as if I know what I’m doing. She stated 'Dr. Keech will be in shortly' and closed the door behind her. My face shriveled up like a toddler waiting to cry and I broke out in a cold sweat - my wall was entirely gone - pieces of my strong-will couldn't be saved by my charming smile and high heels. I was naked. For a long 30 seconds I threw a 'victim's fit' – I was pissed. I was pissed at the white room that boxed me in, at the white paper on the table, at the medical charts on the wall, at the box of latex gloves on the counter, pissed that I was throwing an emotional fit instead of being a courageous woman who my friends and family view me to be. Then I stood up walked to the middle of the room looked straight into the full length mirror, stared at my tears of pointless fear and realized . . . 'I'm Fine'!

Remember when you were a kid and you either fell or bumped into something and you started crying because you thought you were hurt not because you were actually hurt. It wasn't until an adult made you calm down, stand up, and open your eyes to see you were just fine, there’s not a scratch on you . . . ‘You were fine all along’! I had to be my own adult in my child-like mind. I was perfectly fine - not even a scratch. Maybe a nice visible scar but I was not hurt, I was not damaged, I was not in distress, I was simply ‘just fine’.


After gaining my composure I found a Vogue magazine which was a surprise, seeing that the only magazines in the waiting room were targeted to the elderly. Every once in awhile I would look up and feel my blood pressure rise for no given reason, which meant I was fighting off the inner ‘victim demon’ and had to realize, again, ‘I am Fine’!

Dr. Keech entered my room. He reminded me of my very first Oncologist in Fresno – white man in his 40’s or 50’s, very personable, talks slower and without a thick accent like some other doctors, did not interrupt, and sat down with me to have a conversation instead of a checklist. After a brief ‘how are you’ conversation he got straight to the point “So, walk me through your story from the very beginning”. And so I did. I started telling the story that I always tell. I tell it so well and so repetitively that I can tune-out because I know it in my sleep. He asked a few questions along the way and together we joined back in the present. As a reader this maybe very mundane to you, but for me, it’s where I am emotionally and mentally naked. It’s the time where all the education and experience in my life does not matter. It’s where facts are delivered, notes are read, it is what is it, and other than a few life style choices on my part I don’t have any control on hereditary fate. I go through the appointments and test because it’s what I need to do – it’s a requirement for me to live without doubt and fear.

It was a requirement to go through the motions, until today. After a comprehensive check through all my records and a visual body examination Dr. Keech recommended, and I concurred, that the CAT scans, blood work, and X rays were no longer needed – my annual and sometimes bi-annual Oncologist appointments have come to an end! Two reasons for this: 1. My life style changes have prevented any more questionable areas on my body and the module in my lung has not changed in 8 years. 2. The amount of radiation I have already endured in the last 8-9 years is well enough, especially for a 27 year-old female with sensitive repercussions of radiation linked to beast cancer in young women. After a few more questions for Dr. Keech he walked me to the front of the office and said “It was nice meeting you” and the best sentence of my life “there is no need for a follow-up”. . . “Have a great day!” My day couldn’t get any better.

The guitarist was gone when I opened the door to the hallway which was appropriate. I grinned up at the origami cranes, walked just as high in my high-heels, and walked outside to experience a small jolt of reality when I realized the world was still spinning. For the last 45 minutes I thought for sure the world stopped because it usually does during my visits. I got in my car, looked one last time in my rear-view mirror and grinned, again, “I’m just Fine!”