Modest? Moi?
There I was early Tuesday morning, perched on the examination room bed, legs dangling, feet not touching the floor, wrapped in the blue hospital gown I’d donned after being instructed by the nurse, “everything off from the waist up, and tie at the front.” Duties completed, she wandered off out of the room after that brief exchange, leaving the door wide open and me questioning under my breath “is this some new protocol leaving the door open?” I didn’t even bother to close it and managed to perform the necessary act with a shrug of the shoulders.
Enter the world of the hospital breast clinic and a woman – me – who has spent too many years on one of those beds, wearing one of those gowns, with a variety of doctors and technicians doing what they do, cold hands (always cold hands!) pushing and prodding. My modesty left the building in May 2005. I became oblivious to prying eyes after too many appointments to count where the first line from every nurse was “everything off from the waist up.” I’ve also lost count of the number of times I didn’t even bother doing up the ties on the gown provided. Yesterday was no exception, though a vestige of remembered modesty did have me holding the gown together until the doctor arrived. Afterall the door was still wide open and there were people walking the halls.
Meeting a doctor for the first time I find it hard to just sit there and let them do all the talking. It’s my appointment so full participation is, as far as I’m concerned, my time to shine with all that I know, think I or know, don’t know at all and want to know. At the same time, it is an opportunity for me to assess who this person is, do I feel comfortable in their care and will I have the confidence in their ability to not only “know their stuff” but to see me not simply as a patient but as a person. It’s part of deciding if we are a going to be a good fit.
The young woman who walked into that examination room and greeted me yesterday would at a guess have been a university student when I entered the world of breast cancer 21 years ago. She might have been deciding if medicine was truly the course that was right for her only a few years into her studies.
I arrived at this appointment with an open mind and came prepared with dates, information and questions. I had already completed the intake form – to the best of my ability – some of the questions had me digging into the archives – the exact date of my lumpectomy? June 2005 but the exact date? Not to worry said my new doctor – it will be in the files. True. Everything on that questionnaire would be found in my files but I suppose it gave me something to do while I had been waiting for her arrival.
We chatted while the doctor conducted her physical exam – she asking me questions as well as me asking questions of her and I knew I was in good hands – literally and figuratively.
Upon completion I heard the words I had anticipated and expected to hear – “This is not a recurrence of breast cancer, and it is not a new cancer. It is an infection that has left some lingering fluid.” Two follow up diagnostics will be scheduled to confirm her diagnosis.
As the doctor was writing up her notes before the conclusion of our appointment, I mentioned to her that during the few weeks I’d been waiting for this appointment date, I enrolled in Google University and conducted my own research. When she laughed aloud I knew that this was someone if I should have further contact with that I would be able to trust with my life. She listened to my self-diagnosis of a fat necrosis*, rolled her chair over to where I was still perched on that bed and showed me the findings she had printed out from the ultrasound I’d had in early March that read “inflammation due most likely to fat necrosis.”
My self-satisfied yelp of “I was right!” had me confidently proclaiming, with laughter, “I think I just graduated with my University of Google degree in medicine.” With a wink and a smile, the doctor complimented me on knowing my own body and being proactive with the questions I ask.
That comment was ringing in my head as I almost floated with relief down the hallway to the hospital exit.
I don’t always have the right diagnosis when I search for symptoms. I have no medical qualifications. What I do have is common sense, an awareness of when something doesn’t look the way it should, or something feels new or unusual. I never meet with a doctor that I don’t have questions, and I don’t trust myself to remember all the things I want to know or the things I need to mention. I will write down symptoms and changes. I write down my questions, and I don’t leave an appointment until I have answers, sometimes even asking the doctor to write down specific words I might forget upon leaving the appointment. I might not always like the answers but I’m going to ask the questions.
The interaction at that appointment lasted approximately 10 minutes but in that brief time I was able to assess the doctor’s bedside manner, her thoroughness, her confident ability to assess and diagnose, and her ability to laugh. Most importantly she took the time to listen to me, she looked me in the eye, and she saw me as a person, not just a woman sitting on a bed, holding a blue gown clutched together with one hand.
(*Fat necrosis in this case caused by surgeries to the breast, plus radiation treatment. Damaged tissue that due to trauma had become inflamed and an infection presented.)