My original surgery date was May 3, but I cancelled that in a state of uncertainy and occasional bouts of panic. We're talking about cutting out most of my left lung, so it's not a casual decision, not like whether to have salad or fries with that sandwich.
I still don't know whether it's the right decision but, on May 12, I agreed to sign up again, and this time I'm determined to go through with it. After all, if I died becaue I didn't have it, I'd feel pretty silly, now wouldn't I? Dr. Ingrey sent the request to my surgeon, Dr. Evans, and the first word on the page was URGENT!
Ever since, the sound of the telephone leaves me cold. Is it my summons to a Vancouver General Hospital operating room? Is it the beginning of a lot of pain and downright inconvenience for the rest of the summer, at least? Total strangers, even telemarketers must wonder why I seem so happy to hear from them. My phone rings about a dozen times a day, so it's lots of little rollercoaster rides.
This morning I decided it best to follow up on the referral. Just in case. You never know, sometimes these things get misplaced. Plus, there was the fury of Dr. Evans' secretary when I cancelled last month. I didn't really expect that she was mad at me enough to lose the referral, thinking it best that I die as quickly as possible but, still, every day without a phone call made me wonder.
"Dr. Evans' office."
"Hi, this is Myrtle Winchester. I'd like to follow up on a surgery request from Dr. Ingrey in Pender Harbour a couple of weeks ago."
"You want your surgery date." No, this was not a question.
"Um, yes!"
"June twenty-second. Admit on the twenty-first between one-thirty and three-thirty."
After a pregnant pause long enough to make it clear that she had nothing more to say to me, I asked, as politely as I could manage, "When was the surgery scheduled?"
"A few weeks ago."
"Why wasn't I notified?"
"Because I was on holidays."
"When did you get back?"
This wasn't a pregnant pause but an angry one. Then...
"I got back Tuesday morning."
"Okay..."
"Good. Bye." Click.
Right. Not making any new friends today, are we Myrtle? Oh well, June 21, so I have a bit of breathing room. No pun intended, but it works. June 21, the first day of summer, the Summer Solstice. I'm sure this will be one to remember.
Did I mention that I unquit smoking?
The day I un-cancelled the surgery, I decided that a few weeks of cigarettes wouldn't make a big difference in my lifespan, and a few weeks of smoking again would certainly improve the quality. I like smoking and, although I quit nearly four months ago, it wasn't going well. Not going well at all.
There were times when I almost could have chewed off my arm for a cigarette. You know how they say it's so much easier after three days, three weeks, three months? They lie. The gum took the edge off but I couldn't quit the gum. I guess methadone addicts feel like this when they trade heroin for a more socially acceptable but equally addictive drug.
The first drag of that first cigarette tasted... well, strange, but not unpleasantly so. You know how they say it will taste so bad you'll feel like puking? They lie. By the end of that first smoke, I was enjoying the flavour as much as a fat slice of Billy's strawberry cheesecake. Home made with real whipped cream and fresh strawberries.
You know how they say the first one puts you right back to smoking as much or more than you ever did? They lie. Well, maybe not an outright lie, but an exaggeration for sure. The first couple of weeks I was smoking no more than half a dozen a day, and not really wanting more. A cigarette killed the craving like the gum never did, so after a smoke I forgot about smoking for hours. The gum didn't work quite like that.
And, yes, you're right. I'm rationalizing. I'm an addict and a spineless one at that. I'm also the reason lung cancer doesn't fare so well in the cancer family of national fundraising events, even though it's the cancer which kills more people than any other. Fundraising is all about marketing, so it's not hard to figure out why lung cancer isn't so popular a cause.
First and foremost, it's the cancer associated with smokers. Dirty, nasty, evil smokers. They deserve to get sick and die, they are 100% responsible for their cancer and they deserve what they get. Of course this is wrong, many non-smokers die of lung cancer, but who cares when you're deciding which disease to give your money to.
Next, lung cancer rarely occurs in children. Children are the best prop in any fundraising campaign. Where do you think the term "poster child" came from? Almost everyone loves babies and puppies, so huge dollars go to children's cancer research. And the SPCA.
Finally, there's breast cancer, which is the most common type of cancer but far from the deadliest. But, more people support breast cancer research than any other. Hmmm. Could it be the breast thing? Breasts are motherhood, breasts are sexy, breasts provide nourishment and fill out clothing nicely. And men love breasts. Breasts can make an otherwise rational man throw away his money, and we've all seen it happen. I'm not saying it isn't a good cause, but we can see why it's so successful.
But, lung cancer, well it's just not got a good hook. I also feel badly for the rectal cancer fundraising teams, because they've got their marketing work cut out for them too.
Some years ago, when I ran a store in downtown Madeira Park, I was accosted by fundraisers on an almost daily basis. The Cancer Society, Stroke Foundation, SPCA, Volunteer Firemen, Girl Guides, Music Society, Coast Guard Auxiliary, Seniors Housing Association, Legion, Lions, Rotary, community clubs, various environmental groups, school classes wanting to go on field trips and on and on and on. I simply couldn't give money to everyone, so I had to identify criteria for who got my donations.
Say you have $100 to give away. Who deserves it most? Where will it do the most good? Is it better to give 100 groups a dollar each or give it all to one? Is it more important to support people trying to cure a fatal disease or those providing shelter for unwanted pets? Underprivelidged children going to summer camp or volunteer firefighters saving lives? A new piano for free music lessons or affordable housing for seniors on a fixed income?
Well, of course they're all deserving and all the causes are good ones. So you can't decide, you can't give more to one and less to another and you can't afford to support them all. Ultimately it gets down to the person in your face with their hand out for a handout. If it's someone you know, it's a lot harder to refuse. And that's how irresponsible we are in deciding whether to help find a cure for a fatal disease or help buy a gleaming new baby grand.
undead like me
"Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
Mark Twain.
I used to publish the local paper. In fact, I started the Harbour Spiel and ran it for 15 years before selling it to my friend Brian Lee in 2006.
The publisher is also the editor, reporter, photographer, ad designer, layout artist, bookkeeper, salesperson, janitor and bill collector. You can see how the line blurs between the person and the paper.
Brian and I agree that the Spiel is a big part of Pender Harbour, and for a long while now he's wanted to do a story on its early history. Last month we got together in my living room for The Interview, conducted with the tape recorder rolling while we ate pizza and drank wine. It was fun, as a visit with Brian always is.
He titled the story, "The Myrtle Years," and made it the main feature of this month's issue. I have to admit I'm pleased with the story. Like the photographer who never has their picture taken, I've never had anything written about me before. Well, there was that item in the Police Report a few years ago, but we don't need to bring that up.
Brian concluded the article with a mercifully unsentimental mention that I have cancer an am documenting the experience in (this) blog.
Today I met a woman I'd not seen in some months, and the first thing she said was how great I looked. I thanked her.
"But you look so good, you look so healthy!"
I thanked her again.
"I thought you were dead," she said, somewhat accusingly.
That would most surely explain why I looked healthy to her. Few corpses have any colour in their face (okay, I was wearing makeup), never mind drinking coffee and bopping around Madeira Park in the sunshine. We all know The Vampire Diaries is fiction.
"I read the article about you in the Harbour Spiel," she said.
I expected her to say that's how she knew I had cancer, and maybe someone had mistakenly thought they heard, and repeated, that I'd died. You know how small-town gossip goes, like the Chinese whisper game.
But, no, she wasn't going to let herself off that easily.
"I thought it was your obituary. It said 'The Myrtle Years'."
Right. Well, the whole exchange really was quite comical, and I know how it is with writing. No matter how hard you try to second-guess how someone might misinterpret something, there will always be one reader who will entirely miss the point or come to a seriously incorrect conclusion. No big deal, and it's a funny story to tell at the pub.
Which I did, later this evening, sitting with a few people I know. Everyone laughed. Everyone except for one woman (I'd known her for years) who looked me straight in the eye, directly across the table, unsmiling.
"I read the title and put it down. I couldn't read the rest. I thought you were dead."
Her chilly tone made it clear that I had quite some nerve to be sitting there in front of her, breathing and talking, eating nachos and drinking wine and, well... being alive, after my obituary was published in the Harbour Spiel.
I won't be telling the funny story, any more, of how someone assumed the early history of the Harbour Spiel was my obituary. At least not to anyone who reads the Harbour Spiel.
If you're wondering about that article, you can download the .pdf file to read the May edition of the Harbour Spiel. "The Myrtle Years" starts on Page 14. And, no, I'm not dead.
should I stay or should I go
Should I stay or should I go? The Clash, from their 1982 album, Combat Rock. I saw them at the Commodore Ballroom in Vancouver around that time, and they're still one of my favourite bands. Lately the song fits this current number in my dance with cancer. My lung, singing, "Should I stay or should I go?"
Opinions from a handful of unrelated medical professionals including two surgeons and an oncologist agreed that a lobectomy would be radical, given all the unanswered questions about my cancer. They leaned towards testing to confirm whether or not the other cancer is lymphoma and a PET Scan in a few months to see what was happening in my lung.
So, I cancelled my surgery, which was supposed to happen last Monday. The real reason, truth be told, is that I was terrified about being cut open and having most of my lung hacked out. Scared of the pain that I would suffer in the months-long recovery. Scared that I might be left dragging around an oxygen tank. Scared of not being able to look after myself, physically and financially. Scared of loss of dignity and loss of independence. But mostly, scared of the pain.
I've had enough, and I have always believed that quality is much more important than quantity, especially in life. There's no guarantee that surgery will cure me, and I think I'd feel pretty silly if I had the lobectomy and a few months down the road, the cancer's back. So, I cancelled the surgery.
My surgeon, Dr. Evans, like most other surgeons, has a receptionist/secretary, office worker type of person, and she took the call. I met her once, at my first and only visit to Dr. Evans' Vancouver highrise office. She was sitting behind a big, dark oak desk in the office with "Dr. Evans, Thoracic Surgeon" on the door in a tastefully understated nameplate.
It's always tease, tease, tease
You're happy when I'm on my knees
One day is fine, next day is black
So if you want me off your back
Well come on and let me know
Should I stay or should I go?
With so many unknowns about an upper left lung lobectomy and my cancer in general, I went looking for answers beyond the offices of my oncologist and surgeon.
Opinions from a handful of unrelated medical professionals including two surgeons and an oncologist agreed that a lobectomy would be radical, given all the unanswered questions about my cancer. They leaned towards testing to confirm whether or not the other cancer is lymphoma and a PET Scan in a few months to see what was happening in my lung.
So, I cancelled my surgery, which was supposed to happen last Monday. The real reason, truth be told, is that I was terrified about being cut open and having most of my lung hacked out. Scared of the pain that I would suffer in the months-long recovery. Scared that I might be left dragging around an oxygen tank. Scared of not being able to look after myself, physically and financially. Scared of loss of dignity and loss of independence. But mostly, scared of the pain.
I've had enough, and I have always believed that quality is much more important than quantity, especially in life. There's no guarantee that surgery will cure me, and I think I'd feel pretty silly if I had the lobectomy and a few months down the road, the cancer's back. So, I cancelled the surgery.
Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble
An’ if I stay it will be double
So come on and let me know!
My surgeon, Dr. Evans, like most other surgeons, has a receptionist/secretary, office worker type of person, and she took the call. I met her once, at my first and only visit to Dr. Evans' Vancouver highrise office. She was sitting behind a big, dark oak desk in the office with "Dr. Evans, Thoracic Surgeon" on the door in a tastefully understated nameplate.
I had no reason to assume she wasn't Dr. Evans, especially when I said, "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Evans," and she didn't correct me. When she sent me to an examination room and a man entered, I assumed he was an assistant. I was surprised when he introduced himself as Dr. Evans. Husband and wife team? Nope. Anyway, that never did sit well with me, and I'm still not sure what her name is.
It was her I spoke with when I called to cancel my surgery.
"You want to cancel the surgery?" Given her how-dare-you tone of voice, she might have been asking if I was going to travel to Haiti to have the evil spirits voodooed out of me by a witch doctor.
"Yes, I want to cancel." Just in case she didn't hear me correctly the first time.
Her response shocked me. She laughed, but it wasn't a happy, warm sound. It was that forced and phony, deliberately exaggerated laugh you hear when someone is doing their best to convey that you are an idiot whose opinion is so patently stupid that you're not even worth talking to. The kind of disrespectful response that, had I been in the office rather than on the other end of the telephone, might have earned her an enthusiastic backhander.
Instead, in the calmest tone I could muster, I said, "I'm glad you can see the humour in the situation."
"Well!" she sputtered, "It's a lot of work to set these things up," and heaved out a theatrically loud sigh of exasperation before hanging up. Perhaps she's overworked, underpaid, unappreciated, or maybe she suffers from PMS From Hell and I got her on a bad day. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. No one, especially in her field, could be that lacking in compassion without a good reason.
Anyway, I cancelled my surgery. I'd rather have a couple of good years than a decade of agony.
This indecision’s bugging me
If you don’t want me, set me free
Exactly who I’m supposed to be
Don’t you know which clothes even fit me?
Come on and let me know
Should I cool it or should I blow?
Dr. Evans called me that same day. He was understanding, patient and disappointed. He believes that I am taking a great risk by hanging on to that lung tissue that may be harbouring microscopic cancer cells eagerly waiting to run rampant and metastacize in my brain and liver.
The surgery could cure me, not having it could kill me. On the other hand, February's wedge resection surgery could have cured me and the lobectomy could kill me. I'm seeing that lobectomy as the equivalent of treating gangerine in the end of a toe by amputating the whole freakin' leg.
The surgery could cure me, not having it could kill me. On the other hand, February's wedge resection surgery could have cured me and the lobectomy could kill me. I'm seeing that lobectomy as the equivalent of treating gangerine in the end of a toe by amputating the whole freakin' leg.
On Wednesday, I got a call from Leanne, my general practioner`s receptionist. I like Leanne. She`s professional and efficient, but always friendly. Dr. Ingrey wanted to see me, and we set up an appointment for Friday. Oops, busted.
When you walk into a doctor`s office, they always ask how you are, and people automatically respond, "Fine thanks," or the equivalent. It`s become a meaningless question with a meaningless answer, but the doctor really does want to know how you are, unlike the acquaintance at the grocery store. Presumably you're there with a problem that he may be able to help, but if you tell him you're fine, he hasn't got much to go on.
Just imagine, if people at the grocery store answered honestly:
"How are you?"
"I have cancer."
"Well that's nice, good to see you, you have a great day."
That's almost as bad as the people who ask the question and get the "I'm fine," but that's not good enough for them on a sunny day in front of the Post Office. "No," they say, grabbing your arm and looking soulfully into your eyes, "How are you."
These are never close friends who know how you are and care, but casual acquaintances who for some unknown reason, in front of the Post Office on a sunny afternoon, want you to bare your soul to them. I applaud them for an attempt at reaching out, but that's really not the best way to do it. Maybe an invitation for a drink or a coffee somewhere with chairs would be more appropriate.
So, when Dr. Ingrey asked me how I was, I said I felt like I'd been summoned to the principal's office for getting caught smoking in the washroom.
Dr. Ingrey's pretty much on the bottom of the food chain in the pack of surgeons, oncologists and pathologists I've been dealing with; he's just a lowly general practioner. But, he somehow dialed in to my concerns and offered individual assurances that they would be taken care of as well as possible. Really good drugs, home care, more drugs and a few other perks are available to make life of a recovering lobectomy patient tolerable.
The appointment ended with a letter sent to Dr. Evans, headlined URGENT, requesting a rescheduling of my lobectomy.
Once Dr. Evans is back from his holiday, I'll be hearing from his secretary. It will be interesting to see if her mood improves any when she gives me a new surgery date. I'm sure it will; it certainly couldn't be any worse than the last time I had the pleasure of a conversation with her.
Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble
An’ if I stay it will be double
So come on and let me know!
After the new appointment is set, I think I'll wait a couple of days and call her back to say, "I want to cancel the surgery." Then, when she says, "You want to cancel the surgery?" in a hysterically incredulous, how-dare-you voice, I can say, "Nah, just kidding this time."
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