Ghosting

No moon is out which makes the night even darker. Your night hasn’t gone as planned. The friend you had plans with never showed. You hope they are okay. They didn’t respond to your text but that sometimes happens with them. You drive home along a lonely country road. There are no messages on the machine when you arrive home. It’s so strange. Shrugging it off, you shower and settle in for what turns out to be a fitful night of unrest. A transparent image of the friend you had plans with flickers in and out of several dreams like a ghost.

You awake with the realization that your friend may just as well be a ghost. They’ve faded from your life.

You’ve been ghosted.

Defiinition: Ghosting – (noun) the practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.

It is frequently applied to the dating world where one person gradually (or more quickly) drifts away. Some people think it’s an easier way to gently break things off. It may only be easier for the person ghosting. The ghosted can be left feeling haunted because they don’t understand what happened or what they did wrong.

Ghosting doesn’t just happen in dating relationships. It happens often in the cancer community.

I feel there are several reasons why ghosting happens when someone has cancer. Here is what I’m thinking:

  1. They get tired of a sick person. Hmmmmm, I’m tired of being sick. Even though I share more with those I trust, people still have no idea how I feel or the amount of work and planning I need to do to function on a day to day basis.
  2. They want to get back to their lives without disruption. Gee, I’d like to get back to my life before it was disrupted. There isn’t much of my past that glimmers in my present. Talk about ghosts. My former self is a ghost to me.
  3. It’s too hard for them. They are uncomfortable. It’s emotionally painful. Hard? Uncomfortable? Painful? It’s hard for me. I have emotional and physical distress as well. I revert to my response from the first reason I gave – people have no idea how hard I work to be here. Running away and not dealing with an issue isn’t an effective way to problem solve. Not that I’m a problem. Someone’s inability to show up with empathy is the problem.
  4. Some actually come right out and say they cannot cope with another person’s cancer or side effects. I remind them of something they don’t want to hear about or see. Honesty can sting like a bee. Bees sting when they feel threatened. I’m not sure how I’ve threatened people. If I can cope, I would hope for a little support. I need support. I remove the stinger and let the area heal. But I never truly forget.
  5. They were false friends rather than true friends from the start. I understand some people are in our lives for a reason and that reason may be short lived. Some are in our lives for a season. Seasons change. Some friendships are for life. I have a few of those. The false friends I can do without. I can’t count on them. I can’t share with them. Part of me feels relieved to know now rather than later.
  6. Friendships do ebb and flow. The ratio of relationships lost to those gained can be disproportionate when you are living with cancer. Interests shift. What I’m able to physically do changes from time to time. Circles become smaller.
  7. People lose interest in you. I’m old news. Glad to still be here, but my continued living with metastatic cancer is old news. I don’t want to have problems. I don’t want to be talked about or pitied. I don’t want to be fussed about. I don’t want to be ghosted either. I still need support and encouragement, connection and friendship, warmth and laughter.
  8. Friends have died. It’s a grim reminder. I understand why these friends have left even though this reason haunts me the most. Some I’ve known better than others. There is still a bond because you’re all in the same club.

The problem is I miss people who have ghosted me. I have been hurt. Ghosting hasn’t been complete in most cases. It’s friendly enough when I’m able to catch up with long lost friends. It’s just not how it used to be. It never will be because I can’t get away from a disease that’s here to stay.

It’s hard but necessary to let go of relationships and people who are unable to fit into my life. Ghosts are haunting reminders of loss. Living with cancer involves layers of loss. There are days where all I feel I do is lose some more. If I can eliminate the specters of former friends, that is less loss for me to experience. Their transparent bodies offer transparency to the status of the relationship. It’s empty and nothing is there. My focus must be on relationships that work and truly exist.

Are there other reasons why ghosting has happened to you?

More Thoughts on Identity

There are plenty of labels and titles used to assign and confuse our sense of identity. Male, female, husband, wife, widow, single, married, father, mother, childless, son, daughter, brother, sister, only child, and friend. Adjectives also serve this purpose. Beautiful, plain, ugly, happy, sad, funny, depressed, selfish, and giving. Jobs and careers do the same. Perceptions of illness and wellness are also part of the picture. I live with words like patient, survivor, thriver, lifer, metavivor, warrior, and numerous others.

Interests and beliefs both differentiate the narrow scope of labels and titles. Here true identity may lie if you are lucky enough to truly “Know Thyself.” Learning and teaching are two of my core beliefs and huge interest areas. I love reading, writing, and thinking. My interests branch out to other areas. I feel good when I exercise. Listening to Bon Jovi makes me feel just as good as John Denver folk songs. I am interested in nature photography and hiking outdoors. I love time with my friends and family. A good chocolate dessert or caramel is savored.

Identity must be a combination of all these things combined, each like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. A puzzle really takes on many aspects of the self. Neither is complete without all the pieces. Woe to the puzzle doer to near the end of a puzzle and realize a piece is missing. You know what that piece is and how it will complete the picture, but it still isn’t the same. It’s almost complete, or as complete as it can be, but it just isn’t the same as irrefutably complete, done, and finished. It is very troubling when a person’s identity is missing a piece or two from the puzzle. It may seem obvious what piece is needed to go into the empty space, but everyone still wants to find it to finish the puzzle and make it whole before moving on to the next puzzle.

Maybe we even have a tough time seeing our true selves. It all gets very muddled. Someone else cannot tell you who you are. Identity, strength, and happiness are all inside jobs. It’s very challenging because so many outside factors influence who we are. Those labels, socioeconomic status, who we know, where we live, and even ancestry all are puzzle pieces.

It’s with friends that none of these other definers really matter. People do not say so and so is my friend because they were really good at self-care, took remarkable pictures, or could fix a flat tire. My friends are my friends because of a shared past and the similar interests and values we still share today and hopefully will share well into our futures. We laugh, we help one another, and we are just there to support one another. These are the qualities that transcend all the names, titles, adjectives, actions, and changes over time. Your true inner qualities always remain.

I can’t fix a flat. I hope that admission hasn’t cost me any friendships.

Back to the question, Who AM I? The AM changes over time. Just as the land changes over time, so do we. The Grand Canyon in its infancy was not a canyon at all but instead the great Colorado River flowing southward through Arizona. It is really an awesome feat in physiology how humans change from infants, to children, then young adults, and then through so many different stages of adulthood. And that’s only on the outside.

Thoughts, words, actions, core beliefs, and values all converge together in the I AM. I AM giving. I AM a reader, writer, and thinker. I AM a storyteller. I AM someone who enjoys the outdoors. I AM someone who enjoys the indoors, too. I AM someone who likes to laugh.

I AM loved.

I AM me.

I wrote an I AM poem back in 2012 and posted it back in May, Ideas definitely revolve around identity. You can read it here.

Living as someone with metastatic breast cancer is only one way I continue to define myself, but I don’t want that to be the first thing that people notice about me. An illness shouldn’t define anyone. Others can’t define you in terms of an illness. Unfortunately, illness seems to be the domino poised to cause others to fall.

Figuring out who I am as I navigate identity amidst medical treatments and side effects seems like a never-ending onion where a new layer is continually being peeled back and makes me cry. What doesn’t change is that I am always whole. What if instead of an onion being peeled, I was a tree that kept adding ring after ring with each passing year that told my story? I see a strong mighty oak firmly rooted in the earth that is solid and has witnessed much. Older but wiser. Unflappable. Still there. Bigger. Changes are inevitable, but I choose to see myself as whole and complete with whatever changes that life brings my identity.

There is a Quaker wisdom to “Let your life speak.” It means to let your highest truths and values guide your choices. Who I am lies in my truths and choices that begin as thoughts and materialize as actions. Love, joy, kindness, and making a difference is who I am, and who I will always be. My life will continue to speak.

Cancer – A Master Thief

The Wizard of Oz is my favorite movie of all time. Dorothy believes the world that is somewhere over the rainbow is such a happy place where all is perfect and well. There are no worries or fears. Troubles melt like lemon drops. The song says so. Everyone’s dreams come true and undoubtedly you are who you see yourself as being. Back on solid ground, life is not the same. Birds fly over the rainbow and we long for the ability to fly. The song says that, too. Dorothy discovers that over the rainbow isn’t all she thought it would be, but she learns a lot while she is there.

Oz certainly isn’t Kansas anymore. All isn’t perfect there any more than it is in our realities. Once someone hears the word cancer, Kansas and anywhere else has changed forever. The twister destroys and maims like cancer. It doesn’t care who you are and doesn’t explain why one home is left unscathed and another is completely gone. Oddly enough though, it’s the twister that is the impetus for change and transformation. It took her to the beginning of the yellow brick road. It made it possible for Dorothy to discover her truth and strength.

The tornado is a defining moment where everything changes.

Cancer is a defining moment.

While Dorothy is in Oz, she learns that she was whole and loved in Kansas. I can identify with Dorothy. I think we all can.

Feeling whole is harder when life presents so many lessons in loss.

The grass is always greener. What I have now that I think sucks will look good next to something that sucks even more later.

Traits of loyalty and determination have been attributed to Dorothy. These are two very fine qualities. She was loyal to her friends and they were to her. She was determined to find her way home in a strange land.

Dorothy returns home as we all do.

The movie is filled with aspects of identity spread across all the characters. Dorothy’s friends in Oz believe they lack qualities that all along they have. The Scarecrow has a brain and has both intelligence and common sense. The Tin Man is caring and compassionate. The Cowardly Lion has courage and might. We are smart and resourceful. We love living and those around us. It is okay to be scared, but each of us does not know the depths of our own inner strength. We have all these positive traits.

It would be far too easy to label The Wicked Witch of the West as fear, or evil, or cancer. She sure is scary and selfish. She is green, the color of envy. As a child, I would cower and hide behind a large upholstered chair as I watched her each year when the movie was aired on TV.

The witch terrified me to my bones. Those. Monkeys. Freaked. Me. Out.

Switch to Elphaba in Wicked and I absolutely love her. She rises and conquers. She is just as green, but now it is beautiful and healing. Her greenness defines her. She has serious challenges. In the end things work out for her (just as they do for Dorothy in the 1939 movie). How I think about the witch depends on the version of the story. It’s a perspective thing.

The business of cancer really screws with identity.

I knew exactly who I was before 2012. I was a successful and established teacher working in a district I loved at a school I loved. I was a devoted daughter and good friend who found joy in helping. I was in the process of becoming an adoptive parent. Joy, joy, joy to me.

Cancer turned all that upside down. I retired. My parents are deceased. No one calls me daughter now. Plans to adopt came to a halt. My life has changed dramatically. I can’t get back the way it used to be. The list of those who help me is longer than those I can help.

Cancer steals identity.

 It steals hair and creates an unrecognizable stranger in the mirror. I used to be unrecognizable to others, too. I could stand right next to someone I knew who hadn’t seen me in a while, and they wouldn’t know me. I was a stranger with straight brown short hair that framed my face. It suited me. Looked natural. Worked out well if I didn’t want to see someone, but I usually did. Usually. When I took off my wig, I became another version of myself that was unrecognizable. Little hair remained, mostly grayish, not enough to be accepted as a cute style that I’d have on purpose. The little I had eventually disappeared. The lack of eyelashes and eyebrows compounded the look. Cancer stole outside and inner identities.

Cancer is a master thief.

I felt the real me disappeared into the past. I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. I missed her. She has reemerged and I look more like the me I know and love.

But how long will she stay?

Identity isn’t solely based on the way I look. Cancer has messed with my inner self, too. Cancer may be a master thief, but I am the master of my I AM. That’s where I’ll pick up next time. Until then.

“Over The Rainbow”

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high.
There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby.
Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue.
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops away above the chimney tops,
That’s where you’ll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow;
Why, then, oh why can’t I?

If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can’t I?

I sincerely hope you were humming if not singing. 🎶

Baby Robin Rescue

“There was a baby bird in your tree we took down,” explained the tree man, pointing to the ground at the side of my house. “It’s there in its nest.”

Tucked under the downspout and against the bricks was a nest that held a rather large, fluffy, baby bird.  Its home had vanished into the tree chipper, its mother wouldn’t know where to find it, and night was falling. Thunder grumbled softly and the sky flashed Morse code that a storm was near. Humidity hung in the air, thick and uncomfortably sticky.

“What should I do with it?” I felt I should know but I didn’t.

It was clear the baby was a robin. It’s grayish-brown feathers filled the nest entirely, but it still looked too young to fly. Its little beak opened and closed expecting food.

“You can just leave it there for the night,” said the man. I sensed the attitude was to leave it in nature as close to its original home as possible.

I knew instantly I was not leaving this motherless, little baby robin alone on the ground where it was completely helpless and unprotected. It wouldn’t survive the night. Should I take it inside with me? Was there someplace else I could leave it outside? Even though I hadn’t held the chainsaw, I still had destroyed its home. Mama robin wouldn’t find it.

Ilene is my neighbor who also very conveniently is a vet. She was outside trying to get her lawn mowed before it stormed. Lightning flickered more regularly in the sky. I couldn’t wait much longer. It was getting dark and the baby bird still had nowhere to spend the night.

“Ilene! Do you have a second?” I shouted above the motor and motioned in my direction. She stopped the mower. “I have a baby bird here.”

We talked over the options. No, she could not take it. They didn’t work with rescue animals at her clinic. There was a vet clinic off the beltline on Rimrock Road that was open twenty-four hours and took wild animals. That was a possibility. Finally, we decided it was best to put the bird and its nest cradled on top of an abandoned nest in a bush to the side of my house.  It had a better chance there than on the ground. With flashlight in hand, we safely nestled it in.

My next job was to dig up a couple of worms for it and try to feed it. Sweat rolled down my face and back. I couldn’t see where I was digging.  Multiple holes were appearing in my garden and there was not a worm to be seen. Why was it so hard to find a dang worm? This was crazy. I was crazy.

After about ten minutes I abandoned the worm quest. Plan D was now in motion. I would take the bird to the vet clinic.

Flashlight in hand, I retrieved the baby robin, put it in a box, and placed it on the floor on the passenger side of the car. Tired and sweaty, off I went, hoping the thunderstorm wouldn’t hit until I returned home. My mother’s voice spoke quietly in my head, “Don’t go. Stay in for the night. You’ll get wet.” But my mother wasn’t around anymore. It was just shy of a month since she died, but she was still there chattering away at me.

I didn’t mind.

Keep in mind, I also didn’t listen.

I knew my actions were some type of response to feeling alone and a deep need to fix the unfixable.

Baby bird made some sounds. “Tweet, tweet.” What was it saying? I didn’t speak bird but decided to tweet back anyway. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” I said.

The sky let loose torrents of water which made it tough to see the road. It was one of those downpours where you feel like you’re continuously under a waterfall and the windshield wipers can’t keep up. All this felt so insane on several levels. Tweeting back to the little bird was somehow comforting.  We tweeted back and forth for the rest of the trip until I found the clinic.

I covered my little bird with my coat and ran the box into the clinic. I suspiciously eyed an orange cat that was sitting on a bench just inside the door licking its paw. A woman at the front desk smiled and took the bird to the back room. That was it, I was done. I headed back out into the stormy night.

When I got back and buckled up in my car, I realized I hadn’t said good-bye to my bird.

Yep, I heard it.

My bird.

Somehow that little animal had become mine in a time span of less than an hour. Maybe it was mine the moment I saw it on the ground . . . I don’t know.  But I did know I had to dash back through the rain into the clinic so I could say good-bye.

I’ve been this way for a long time. I’ve learned to be okay with it.

“I’m back,” I announced as I dripped in front of the receptionist.

Foolishly I added, “I didn’t get to say good-bye to my bird.”

She stared at me for a long moment before disappearing into the back room and returning with the robin.

“Bye, bye,” I said. “Be a good little bird.”

I felt I needed to add a few tweets in there to make sure it understood.  I already felt foolish, so there was no point stopping. “Tweet, tweet . . . tweet, tweet.”

I think it understood.

Somehow, I think my mother did, too.

Revisiting Grief

I ran into a friend of a friend a little over a week ago that I haven’t seen in a long time at a local restaurant. One of the things Laurel and I have in common is that we have both lost people we’ve loved due to cancer (my mother and her husband). She was with a group of about six or seven others. There was nothing remarkable about anyone’s appearance. Everyone looked normal. I stopped by her table for a quick hello as I left the restaurant and learned she was eating with her grief group from hospice. Her husband died around three years ago and although they do not meet formally as a group anymore, she explained they still get together every so often to check in on how everyone is doing.

“So, how are you doing?” I asked her.

“I’m vertical,” she told me.

She looked great. I know. Even though I heard it in my head, it was my first reaction. Looking great has nothing to do with how a person is feeling. I even used the word “normal” above to describe her.

It’s cringe-worthy.

I was thankful I hadn’t said it out loud. I know so well that someone can look like they have it all together on the outside when the inside is a hot mess. This is true whether the inside is slammed with treatment side effects, pain from sickness, anxiety, depression, or grief. The inside often is in some state of constant churning. It may be such a present feeling that it is normal for you. Normal always fluctuates for me and has an overpowering element of uncertainty of the future. Normal has to be rooted in the NOW. I’m good at holding it together on the outside. Most of the time.

Grief is messy.

Being vertical shouldn’t be so hard. But it can be.

There is something comforting about being with others who have similar experiences. Support groups are great for this if it fits your comfort level. I went to one after my mom died. It was more of a workshop setting. It gave me a better understanding of my feelings and explained a few things that I wouldn’t otherwise have attributed to grief. Individual counseling is another option to support someone through grief.

Running into Laurel made me pause to revisit what I’ve learned about grief over the years. I reminded myself of many points worth remembering.

Grief Reminders

  • Grief is physically and emotionally exhausting. A grieving person needs more restorative sleep.
  • Grief is hard. It’s tougher to make decisions and trust others, including trusting your own abilities while grieving.
  • Many question truths in their personal belief systems such as religious beliefs, the meaning of life, and ideas of fairness.
  • There is a sense of having no control over anything.
  • Grief is distracting. Functioning in day-to-day activities or at work can be affected. There is a tendency to forget things.
  • Some people may bump into things, drop stuff, or be prone to accidents. They do not attribute these events to grief and wonder what in the world is wrong with them.
  • Some people find it easier to be at work and like having a focus away from grief, while others find it difficult to be in their work environment. Some who find an escape from grief at work find that it overwhelms them again as soon as they get home where the memories live.
  • Dates such as birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and other important events will be bittersweet. The anniversary of a death will be dreaded and the day after will feel better again because there is a whole year before it happens again.
  • Grief is real and ongoing. A person doesn’t just get over it. The goal isn’t to get over a loss but to find a way to get through it.
  • People grieve losses other than death. Loss of jobs, a move, divorce, a friendship or relationship, failed plans, and changes in health are all sources of grief.
  • It doesn’t mean someone is over their grief if they are having a good day. They may just be getting through the day vertically.
  • Grief spurts come out of nowhere. They may not last long but can be intense.
  • There is no timeline. There are as many ways to grieve as there are people. What works for one person may not work for another.
  • Grief can teach us about life.

I find a lot of strength in affirmations. I’ve read and collected many, blended them together, and written my own when I have a specific need. I have close to one hundred in my affirmation file and I’m always coming up with more. Here is my group of affirmations on grief. Perhaps one or two will jump out as applicable to a situation in your life.

Affirmations That Acknowledge Grief

I allow myself to fully feel my feelings, both happy and sad.

I can still feel love in the world without my loved one.

I seek the help I need and accept help when it’s offered.

I hold on to love and will let go of the grief when I’m ready.

I am surrounded by seen and unseen love and support.

I am kind to myself while I grieve and heal.

I honor my lost loved one by living my own life in positive and beautiful ways.

I move away from memories that bring me pain and focus on memories that bring me happiness and peace.

Grieving is a part of life and I am doing okay.

There are many feelings involved with grief and loss and it’s okay to feel all of them.

I still feel my lost loved one’s presence and it comforts me.

I grieve loss in healthy ways that are right for me.

There is no timeline for when grieving is done.

Grieving ebbs and flows differently for everyone.

I recognize difficult moments and know they will pass.

I choose to grieve my loss and move forward at my own pace.

It is okay to feel happy again.

Moving on with my life does not mean I have forgotten someone I loved.

I am grateful for the time I shared with my loved one.

This experience has allowed me to discover new truths about myself.

I am done being sad for today and I move on to other emotions.

My life has changed and I will meet these changes day by day.

There are many people I can talk to who will listen to how I’m feeling.

I feel supported during this difficult time.

I am learning how life works for me with these new circumstances.

After I’ve given all this unsolicited advice, I think it’s also important to avoid offering easy answers or clichéd expressions to someone who is grieving. As an example, I often hear people say God needed another angel when someone has died. It’s meant to be comforting. I don’t believe this. Heaven has enough angels. Keeping people around longer on Earth that spread goodness seems like a better idea to me. We need those people to stick around. Someone who is grieving needs to feel listened to and feel comfortable enough to cry and express their feelings with the support of their friends. Telling someone how they should be feeling or dismissing their feelings with some tired or cute remark invalidates grief.

I have grieved my parents and other family members, friends, neighbors, and people I have never personally met who have died from cancer. I don’t think I’ll ever be done grieving some deaths, and that’s okay. It’s there. I can still be happy. I’ve grieved a child and an unfulfilled dream when cancer put a screeching halt on plans to become an adoptive parent. I’ve grieved relationships that have changed. I’ve grieved my teaching career when it became clear it was in my best interest to retire. I’ve grieved my past because I can’t reclaim my life and health to what it was before cancer. I’ve grieved my present because of disappointment and anger and changes that still don’t fit my plans. I continue to grieve my future because of fears. Although it isn’t what this post is about, I also have hope for my future and I will not let go of my hope.

There are many parts of myself that I grieve. I choose to keep many of those thoughts private for now. It’s my work to do, difficult to share, and very hard for me to put into words.

Grief is universal but everyone does it differently. There is no one right way to do it, but it needs to happen in its own time and in its own way. I don’t want to forget my loved ones who have died. I do want to quiet memories that haunt me. I do want to remember all the happy times I’ve shared with people who’ve died.

Laurel is incorporating grief into her life as she keeps living and moving forward. Looking fine on the outside doesn’t tell the whole story. It seldom does. I hope I can meet people with compassion and empathy to offer whatever support is needed.

Three affirmations from my list jump out at me as I write today:

I honor my lost loved one by living my own life in positive and beautiful ways.

Moving on with my life does not mean I have forgotten someone I loved.

My life has changed and I will meet these changes day by day.

 

What are your thoughts on grief?

When Your Oncologist Leaves

Two weeks ago my oncologist told me some devastating news – he was leaving. It’s honestly one of the hardest things I’ve heard at an office visit over the years, and trust me, there have been some tough conversations.

He is leaving the UW health system.

He is moving to Florida.

He said he had to go.

What does that even mean?

I know I have been unhappy with some of the management decisions that have trickled down and affected my care. There have been changes I don’t think serve patients’ best interests. There have been facility needs that have gone unmet or approached with band-aids rather than true solutions. There very well could be demands put upon him that I know nothing about and he feels he can’t work in an environment that doesn’t match his philosophy anymore. I don’t know anything for sure other than he is leaving.

He is a GOOD DOCTOR. The best.

I understand he has to do what he needs to do. I can’t be mad at him for doing what is best for him. However, if he’s leaving because of some bureaucratic crap coming down from people who have lost their connection to treating, caring, and curing people with cancer, then I am outraged. My gut tells me to be outraged.

Whatever the reason, I am losing my oncologist.

I feel such sadness and an immense sense of loss. I have that feeling of a small child who suddenly discovers she has lost sight of her parent in a grocery store and stands frozen and scared as she begins to cry. I feel broken like a mirror that has shattered into many shards of sharp glass. The image looking back at me is now jagged and distorted. I feel like a kicker who missed placing the final kick through the uprights by inches in a championship game. Everything feels wrong. I am all out of sorts.

My oncologist has been a constant in my life for more than seven years. I’ve seen him every three weeks for the last three years. I’ve known him for about fifteen years because he was also my mother’s oncologist. I have held him to a very high standard. I’ve depended on him to be there for me. This is someone whom I’ve trusted, respected, and knew was one hundred percent on my side. He is a good blend of medical expertise and hope that every oncology patient needs. He understands I have many questions, I worry, and I’ve always wanted (and will continue to want) aggressively appropriate treatment options. I will choose option A with challenging side effects over option B with lesser effects if A can potentially do better work than B. Every. Single. Time.

He’s gone to bat for me on more than one occasion.

He knew how badly I wanted to keep teaching and helped me keep doing what I loved doing for years. He also told me when he thought it was becoming too tough and unrealistic.

He suggested supplements that have helped me feel healthy and strong.

He encouraged more testing that opened doors to current protocols. Protocols that have been good for me.

My oncologist understood me. He viewed me as a person and not just as a patient. I have grown very attached to him. I will miss him.

Where do I go from here?

I am fortunate for a few reasons. The UW Carbone Cancer Center where I receive care is one of the top cancer centers in the country and the only comprehensive cancer center in Wisconsin. I know I will continue to receive quality care. I am also lucky that if my oncologist is leaving, he is leaving at a time when I am doing really well. I can only imagine how much harder this would be for me to handle if I were struggling physically. Lastly, my oncologist has taught me well. I’ve learned a lot from him about my health. He has really shaped my thinking since we embarked on our doctor-patient relationship. I daresay I may have rubbed off on him, too. At least I hope I have.

I am not always an easy-going patient. I’ve edited consent forms before signing them. Someone there once compared metastatic breast cancer to a cow that had been let out of a barn. It’s Wisconsin. I added on to that analogy and told him, “Just because the cow’s been let out of the barn, it doesn’t mean it can crap all over the pasture.” I’ve questioned, I’ve pushed back, I’ve disagreed, and I’ve complained. Mind you, I’ve also agreed, supported, amazed, and sparkled because that’s the kind of gem I am. And I am a gem. I like to think my spirit has never been diminished there because of my health status.

Oncologists come and go. I understand this is true, perhaps I have been fortunate that it took this long to happen to me. People move on in the professional world all the time. Yet an oncologist is very different. In my eyes, an accountant, dentist, plumber, chef, lawyer, teacher, or other professionals all have very different relationships with the people they serve. The relationship with a doctor is different, more intense, and more personal. I feel lost, abandoned, and alone. This person just isn’t going to be around and that makes it similar to a death in some aspects. A good friend of mine has had two oncologists leave her, and a third tell her she couldn’t see her again because she has passed enough benchmarks in time and is there is no evidence of disease.

The process has started to find a new oncologist so I have one in place when he leaves in a couple months. If you know me, you won’t be surprised that I’ve compiled a list of requirements my next oncologist must have.

My oncologist needs to be:

  • Accessible
  • Hopeful
  • Positive
  • Empathetic
  • Personable yet professional
  • Up to date on current research and new treatments
  • A lot like my current oncologist 🙂

My oncologist must:

  • Have a breast cancer specialty
  • Keep a very close eye on me
  • Advocate for me
  • Remember I am a person and not just a patient
  • Accept and even enjoy my personality (I’m anxious, I’m smart, I research a lot on my own, I advocate for myself, I can be intense and insistent, I’m thorough, I’m hopeful, I’m fun, I cry, I’m sensitive, and I’m tough).

Sure, I have high standards and I am not going to settle for someone who doesn’t meet them. A good fit is essential for my best care.

I am confident I will find the right fit.

Unfortunately, I feel the time has come for me to move away from the smaller clinic setting I love so dearly and transfer to the center at the giant hospital. I need to put more weight behind a preferred oncologist than my preferred location. Truthfully, I’ve heard whispers that the smaller clinic may not stay open. I wouldn’t be surprised if it closed. It would be consistent with the kind of nonsense decisions that have been made regarding that smaller setting. Then, once again, I’d have to make a move with either a new doctor, a new location, or both. More importantly, I don’t know if I can continue to go to my current clinic once my oncologist leaves. Maybe I need a fresh start. It could be the best choice I can make.

It would be tough for me to leave and make this change. I’ve also grown very attached to my nurses, NP, and even the schedulers and people at reception. Everyone is so friendly and it’s one of the reasons I prefer the smaller setting. I get attached far too easily. Still, I must put myself first and make the decision that serves me the best.

I will be fine. I have time to accept this change, make a plan, and transition positively whatever I decide. As for my oncologist, I will thank him, say goodbye, and be forever grateful that I have been in his care for so many years. He’ll always be my oncologist. I’ll just have two now.

Consider responding:

  • What helps you when you need to make a difficult transition?
  • What qualities or characteristics do you look for in your doctor?