Meet Dr. K
I wish everyone could have the pleasure of dealing with a man like Dr. K.
At my last oncology appointment, my labs showed that I had two high markers. One for inflammation, the other for infection. My oncologist immediately referred me to an infectious disease specialist. I was bewildered. I had no fever, no pain outside of my regular rheumatoid arthritis pain. The farther I was away from the date of my last chemo treatment, the better I felt. The nausea was waning. I was still bone tired ALL of the time, but hey...chemo is chemo and such is the life of a cancer patient.
Seeing an infectious disease specialist seemed like jumping the gun and I said so.
Let me be honest. I don't really like my oncologist and I don't think she really likes me. I ask too many educated questions. I do A LOT of research. I have an intensive medical background and I have lived in my body for over 60 years. I have dealt with cancer, not once, not twice, but three times now. I ask for copies of my lab work and I read them carefully.
I have looked into second and even third opinions. She is, so far, the best. But, she and I do not always see eye to eye. I can tell that my questions annoy her.
Hey. I get it. I know how it is. You have only so much time and have to see this many patients. You don't have time to lollygag with one patient.
But, when I disagree with a treatment idea of hers, I say so. And then she tries to explain why she wants me to follow her lead. I usually do because...well....she is trained in oncology and I am not.
But, an INFECTIOUS DISEASE specialist? Seriously? She finally told me in an exasperated voice that those inflammatory markers indicated SOMETHING. And she needed help.
So, I went. Dragging my feet and resentful. But, curious, too. Did I have some sort of zebra? A "zebra" is a word often used with cancer patients. Because our immune systems are often so wrecked, we are subject to odd little diseases and ailments.
I liked Dr. K's office. His nurse was kind and efficient, but not a chatter. Even better.
And then...Dr. K came in. He was dressed in bright turquoise pants and a paisley shirt. Flowered sneakers. His glasses were periwinkle blue and had little sparkles in them.
He looked like he should be going to Woodstock.
He had a huge smile on his face and shook my hand warmly. And then, he plopped into the chair next to me and said, "Let's have a chat."
And we did. He asked me about my cancer. When I told him that I had initially fought breast cancer and thought that I had won only to find out less than two years later that I had leukemia, his eyes drank me in carefully.
"I beat leukemia, too," I said slowly. "And then less than a year later, my breast cancer came back. It has metastasized into my sternum, spine, and liver, so far."
He held up his hand. I stopped. There was a brief silence and then he said, "Has anyone ever told you what an amazing feat you have accomplished so far?"
My throat suddenly closed and I couldn't talk. This NEVER happens to me. I NEVER cry in front of strangers, especially doctors.
He could see that I wasn't able to answer, so he went on.
"I am actually amazed that your labs are this good, considering what your body has been through in the last five years. That arsenic treatment for leukemia is akin to torture. Yet it is the only hope to cure it. Many do not survive it. Yet, you did and so soon after you had underwent chemo and radiation! You are like.....Wonder Woman! I hope you know that."
I stared down at the floor. The silence grew between us, so I looked up. He was smiling gently at me.
"Well, let's have a look-see," he said, and listened to my lungs, checked over my skin, my glands, etc.
Afterwards, he sat back down, next to me.
"I am not going to do any tests. You do not have an infectious disease. You have cancer, rheumatoid arthritis, and an extremely compromised immune system. Yet, your labs show me that you are an incredible fighter. Your white blood cell count is acceptable. Your platelets are normal. Yes, you have elevated inflammatory and infection markers. You have RA. And you just completed a rather horrific chemo round. Can I just tell you something?"
I quietly sighed and nodded. Just yesterday, someone from Mutual of Omaha had called my cell phone and tried to sell me life insurance. When I had told her that I had terminal cancer, she had said, "Can I just tell you something?" I had said okay and she had said, "Read John 11: 1-57. It may comfort you."
I had hung up. I have read the bible backwards and forewards. I know John 11. Lazarus. I find it interesting, not comforting. I was hoping that Dr. K was not going to quote a bible verse.
He wasn't.
He said, "You are an incredibly strong person who has been through hell and stands to tell the tale. I am so glad that I met you and it has been my great privilege to work with you."
He then asked if he could hug me. And we stood for almost a half minute in a gentle hug.
I am not a person who enjoys being hugged. In fact, I HATE it when strangers want to hug me.
But, I held on to him tightly and he gently patted my back like a father.
I kept it together until I got to my car.
And then I put my head on the steering wheel and cried.
At my last oncology appointment, my labs showed that I had two high markers. One for inflammation, the other for infection. My oncologist immediately referred me to an infectious disease specialist. I was bewildered. I had no fever, no pain outside of my regular rheumatoid arthritis pain. The farther I was away from the date of my last chemo treatment, the better I felt. The nausea was waning. I was still bone tired ALL of the time, but hey...chemo is chemo and such is the life of a cancer patient.
Seeing an infectious disease specialist seemed like jumping the gun and I said so.
Let me be honest. I don't really like my oncologist and I don't think she really likes me. I ask too many educated questions. I do A LOT of research. I have an intensive medical background and I have lived in my body for over 60 years. I have dealt with cancer, not once, not twice, but three times now. I ask for copies of my lab work and I read them carefully.
I have looked into second and even third opinions. She is, so far, the best. But, she and I do not always see eye to eye. I can tell that my questions annoy her.
Hey. I get it. I know how it is. You have only so much time and have to see this many patients. You don't have time to lollygag with one patient.
But, when I disagree with a treatment idea of hers, I say so. And then she tries to explain why she wants me to follow her lead. I usually do because...well....she is trained in oncology and I am not.
But, an INFECTIOUS DISEASE specialist? Seriously? She finally told me in an exasperated voice that those inflammatory markers indicated SOMETHING. And she needed help.
So, I went. Dragging my feet and resentful. But, curious, too. Did I have some sort of zebra? A "zebra" is a word often used with cancer patients. Because our immune systems are often so wrecked, we are subject to odd little diseases and ailments.
I liked Dr. K's office. His nurse was kind and efficient, but not a chatter. Even better.
And then...Dr. K came in. He was dressed in bright turquoise pants and a paisley shirt. Flowered sneakers. His glasses were periwinkle blue and had little sparkles in them.
He looked like he should be going to Woodstock.
He had a huge smile on his face and shook my hand warmly. And then, he plopped into the chair next to me and said, "Let's have a chat."
And we did. He asked me about my cancer. When I told him that I had initially fought breast cancer and thought that I had won only to find out less than two years later that I had leukemia, his eyes drank me in carefully.
"I beat leukemia, too," I said slowly. "And then less than a year later, my breast cancer came back. It has metastasized into my sternum, spine, and liver, so far."
He held up his hand. I stopped. There was a brief silence and then he said, "Has anyone ever told you what an amazing feat you have accomplished so far?"
My throat suddenly closed and I couldn't talk. This NEVER happens to me. I NEVER cry in front of strangers, especially doctors.
He could see that I wasn't able to answer, so he went on.
"I am actually amazed that your labs are this good, considering what your body has been through in the last five years. That arsenic treatment for leukemia is akin to torture. Yet it is the only hope to cure it. Many do not survive it. Yet, you did and so soon after you had underwent chemo and radiation! You are like.....Wonder Woman! I hope you know that."
I stared down at the floor. The silence grew between us, so I looked up. He was smiling gently at me.
"Well, let's have a look-see," he said, and listened to my lungs, checked over my skin, my glands, etc.
Afterwards, he sat back down, next to me.
"I am not going to do any tests. You do not have an infectious disease. You have cancer, rheumatoid arthritis, and an extremely compromised immune system. Yet, your labs show me that you are an incredible fighter. Your white blood cell count is acceptable. Your platelets are normal. Yes, you have elevated inflammatory and infection markers. You have RA. And you just completed a rather horrific chemo round. Can I just tell you something?"
I quietly sighed and nodded. Just yesterday, someone from Mutual of Omaha had called my cell phone and tried to sell me life insurance. When I had told her that I had terminal cancer, she had said, "Can I just tell you something?" I had said okay and she had said, "Read John 11: 1-57. It may comfort you."
I had hung up. I have read the bible backwards and forewards. I know John 11. Lazarus. I find it interesting, not comforting. I was hoping that Dr. K was not going to quote a bible verse.
He wasn't.
He said, "You are an incredibly strong person who has been through hell and stands to tell the tale. I am so glad that I met you and it has been my great privilege to work with you."
He then asked if he could hug me. And we stood for almost a half minute in a gentle hug.
I am not a person who enjoys being hugged. In fact, I HATE it when strangers want to hug me.
But, I held on to him tightly and he gently patted my back like a father.
I kept it together until I got to my car.
And then I put my head on the steering wheel and cried.
We neeed more like Dr. K.
ReplyDeleteI’ve had some doozies.