The doctor leaned in to study the lesion on my
forehead. I could see his easy demeanor fall away into a frown, his brows now
tightly knitted in concentration. The air was suddenly sucked out of the room.
I was afraid I’d vomit on his pristinely ironed white coat. I recognized the
expression on his face. It was the same one I’ve worked to control before
breaking bad news to my patients. I took a deep breath, bracing for the doctor
to substantiate the diagnosis I had already suspected.
I had watched the pimple transform into a friable, uneven mark. The day after my 35th birthday, I decided that enough was enough. I felt stupid as an oncologist-in-training to stare at it day after day and continue to ignore the obvious. Clearly, it met all the criteria for lesions that should scare you to take action. So, I had ended up at the doctor’s office, determined to put an end to my denial.
Finishing his examination, my doctor launched
into a knowledgeable discussion about my options. Clinical language is
pleasantly distracting when facing huge amorphous entities like c-----. I
swallowed my thought. I still couldn’t mouth the word, even as it started to
encircle me like a boa constrictor. The doctor emphasized that I could go the
more aggressive route, a biopsy, but that would most definitely result in a
permanent scar. I nodded silently, but was outraged that he would even mention
such a trivial cost of the procedure. Why would I care about a blemish when it
could be c-----? I gulped for air.
“I want to be certain of what it is as soon as
possible.” There was a pause. For a moment, I wondered if I had said that out
loud. Then, I was given a consent form. Eyes glossing over the fine print, I
dutifully signed where the “X” was, thankful for the hint. Who can read legal
documents in moments like this? My brain was awash in a messy torrent of
emotions. My doctor had excellent surgical technique. I barely felt the scalpel
against my skin.
Walking outside into the world afterwards, I
immediately cringed in the powerful southern California sun. The rays no longer
felt warm and inviting. In fact, those rays had probably morphed my skin cells
into relentless monsters, growing and perpetuating out of control. I ducked
into the underground parking structure and counted off the seconds of life lost
to waiting for the valet – 378 to be exact.
The first thing I wanted to do when I got home was
walk the dog. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. What I craved more than anything
was an instance of peace amidst the war in my head. My sensitive, furry dog was
as much as I could handle. Watching him frolic nonchalantly in the hills, I
thought about my great grandmother. What would she do? She’d cook a pot of
gingery, sesame chicken with bamboo and medicinal herbs, with a side of
long-life noodles to soak up the broth. Then, she’d insist that I eat it while
it was piping hot, so the soup could free up my obstructed “chi.” What reason
did I have to doubt her tonics? She lived well over 100 years.
I headed home and started cooking. My mind fixated
on folk remedies, even though I have devoted myself to Western medicine. Fear
took hold, and I needed something, anything weighty, like millennia of ancient
Chinese wisdom, to keep me grounded and comforted. I read the National Cancer
Institute’s literature on the cutting-edge treatments for all my potential
diagnoses, but the science felt cold and inadequate. Instead, I was calmed by a
large bowl of sesame noodles and gingery cabbage that I devoured ravenously. I
washed it all down with a pot of green tea for good measure.
I suffered through two weeks of vivid warrior
nightmares. Battle-worn and injured, I tried to beat back insidious cancer
cells. They had the latest stealth technology, but I could only throw sticks. I
spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling at night, resenting pathologists.
Seriously, how long does it take to write a two-line report? Time was too
precious to waste. The cells were dividing and replicating unchecked, while the
health care system creaked along its inefficient ways. There was nothing
rational about the way my mind waded through this time of waiting. I started to
hug people longer. I talked to my family more frequently. I celebrated my
birthday, surrounded by friends.
I was being forced to look at Cancer in a
different, more humbling context. For me, Cancer had stopped being an exciting
area of medical research. It could very well be a physical part of me,
intimately attached and unwelcomed. I wanted to run away to a silent retreat.
But that was the problem exactly. There would be no more running away. When the
pathology report came out, it could confirm that Cancer had invaded my body --
my personal, private sanctuary. It would no longer be at a safe, analyzable distance.
I could not contain it neatly at work. There would be no leaving it behind to
go on vacation. I couldn’t turn off my pager and hand off care responsibilities
to a trusted colleague. Realistically and statistically-speaking, this Cancer
wouldn’t threaten my life. But merely the prospect of having it had shaken my
way of life, and wantonly collapsed the compartments I’d so meticulously set up
to maintain order.
Just minutes before I learned of my diagnosis, I
was working in the shady hospital courtyard, cramming to meet a research
deadline. A Chinese man approached and asked me, in Chinese, to translate his
English prescription. I looked at the prescription and saw that it said, “Mr.
Chen has leukemia and should receive chemotherapy.” In alarm, I thought, does
he know how sick he is or am I going to be breaking bad news in my
grade-school-level Chinese? Mr. Chen looked at me expectantly, with trust and
friendliness. I marveled at this man’s courage, venturing to this hulking
institution to seek treatment, relying on the kindness of strangers. I
translated the best I could. Then, he excitedly pulled a letter out of his bag,
another mystery to him. This one read, “Mr. Chen has finished chemotherapy, and
needs a bone marrow transplant.” He bowed with gratitude and chatted with me
about Taiwan. “I knew you were Taiwanese. I could tell by your accent.” His
eyes twinkled, enlivened by a touch of familiarity in an unknown place.
As Mr. Chen walked confidently towards the
hospital’s entrance, decoded papers in hand, I felt like the universe was
sending me a message. I still had so much left to do here. In connecting with
Mr. Chen, I finally stepped out of my own head and experienced the peace I had
been searching for in two weeks of waiting.
My phone rang. It was my doctor.
“I would usually have you come in to talk, but I
figured you’d want to know without delay.”
I heard a huge gong being struck, too close for
comfort. Round 1 goes to Cancer.
