A Second Opinion with Socrates

There has been a lot of running around.  I’m tired but I'm happy to do it, anticipating the days ahead when I won't be able to run around at all.  Lots of doctors and therapists to see.  Second opinions to find.   Is this the storm before the storm?  Or the storm before the calm before the storm and the cicadas?  I asked my doctor to move my chemo up to coincide with the cicadas so I would have a really good excuse to stay inside.  I have no problem admitting that I hate bugs more than anything in the whole wide world.  Even more than Gwyneth.  I can kill a gnat (sorry Rachel), but anything larger than that I will throw a pan over it and wait for Michael to come home.  So all my chickens are coming home to roost this year and I have to face all my fears head on - bugs, needles, and a bald head.

Michael and I sat down with another oncologist over at Memorial Sloan Kettering on Tuesday.  This doctor came highly recommended to us and we pulled some strings and a friend made a call to get us in to see her.  She spent a lot of time with us and I stared at her while she examined me wondering if she was Socrates reincarnated.  She asked me questions about my health and my history and my family’s health history and after 127 questions and a long pause she looked at me and said “Well, what are you doing here?  You don’t belong here?”  It was all I could do not to cry in front of Socrates.

But I didn’t cry.  I pushed through the burning sting in my eyes and listened to her reassurances that we are on the correct path with chemo and radiation, especially given that the cancer cells made their way out of the ducts and into the vascular region of the breast, the most worrying part of the pathology report to her.  She picked up the phone and called my other oncologist, Dr. Ruth, and they cancer-chatted in a cancer-collegial way as they are old friends.  When she hung up, she took my hand and told me I was in very good hands with Dr. Ruth and all will be well.  I was very happy to have had the chance to sit down with her.  I was also very happy to have had the chance to sit in the Memorial Sloan Kettering waiting room because until I did, I had no idea that having cancer was analogous to getting on a cruise ship.  What a perfect analogy for my friends without cancer.  The average age of your fellow passengers is 70, there is quite a bit of nausea, and you stand a good chance of dying.  If you’ve been on a cruise, now you know exactly what cancer is like.

Oh!  And speaking of hanging out with septuagenarians, I am not fully able to lift my left arm since the surgery.  I have what's called "cording" under my arm and in my armpit which was explained to me as my veins tightening around each other but I don't want to pretend to know much more than that as I'm not sure I heard my physical therapist correctly in the first place because as soon as doctors start talking about body parts my inner monologue becomes the song "La la la la la la la la la."

Anyway, I figured it would be nice to have my left arm back and it would be even nicer to be able to shave my armpit so I've been going to physical therapy a couple of times a week.  My physical therapist happens to be my shorter twin from Long Island.  We are both young moms, brunette and thin, we wear identical glasses and we both hate Sheryl Sandberg for telling us to lean in.  Also, on my first visit we are wearing the exact same outfit: black sweatpants and a white tank top - WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?!?!?  She stretches me out and teaches me exercises to do at home three times a day.  She warns me that I may hear a "pop" when the veins come loose.  (Uh.  Gross.  Can I do my exercises with ear plugs?)  She wants to relax my upper torso before she gets to work on my left armpit so she lays (Mom, is that the correct use of lie/lay?) me down and works my neck area and massages my lead pipes, the areas once known as my shoulders.  She chats me up in a nice soothing way.

Being identical, it is easy to chat with her and soon I find myself over-sharing yet I am grateful for the distraction from the pain.  She pulls my left arm against its will and I breathe like I'm having the contractions I never had because I had two C-sections.  I figure it’s time to start asking her questions so she can talk about herself and I can concentrate on my pain.  I ask her to tell me about her two kids and she tells me about her 2 ½ year-old and what a handful she is and I relax a little because I remember that my children are no longer that age.  Then she pulls my arm up over my head, where it doesn’t want to go, and she works her fingers around my cording.  Right as I'm about to tell her how much I wish Sheryl Sandberg would get breast cancer, I hear my therapist's knuckles crack.  I think nothing of it for half a second but then my mind grasps the low probability of knuckles cracking on an armpit and I say:

Me: "Was that you or me?!"
She: (grinning) "That was you."
Me: "AAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!"  (Awkward silence.  Then, sheepishly)  "Gross."
She: “Are you going to be able to handle chemo?”
Me:  “I don’t think so.  But does this mean I can shave tonight?”