My first appt with Dr RE was today at 3. Went in apprehensive and uncertain of what to expect. Came out overwhelmed and feeling a little panicky. Sitting in that office, trying to capture all the huge words on paper before they evaporate so I can look them up when I get home. Trying to listen and process while scribbling as fast as my fingers can go. Trying not to ask any stupid questions and fit this new info into the reading that I’ve already done. And all the time, feeling an irrational sense of impending doom.
It wasn’t until I walked to the car in silence and we drove away that I realized that a lot of my anxiety is Mama-related. The doom, the feeling of panic and uncertainty, the scanning for a glimmer of hope in all those 50-cent words… It brought it all back. The endless, steady stream of oncologists, specialists, radiologists; trying to sift through everything and find the holes in their theory when compared to previous theories. Noting the vocabulary, the prognosis, the diagnosis, and the nonverbal expressions, gestures – is he hopeful and optimistic? or is he telling us to have Hospice bring a hospital bed in? – that indicate whether this particular doctor will make it to a second visit.
I know, rationally, that this is NOT THE SAME. Even if I’m completely unable to have children, it’s NOT a death sentence. It’s NOT cancer. It’s NOT the same. And there is NO good reason for the panicky, short-of-breath, buzzing-in-the-ears feeling of detachment that I get every time I walk into a doctor’s office for anything other than a regular check-up.
Yesterday, I started sobbing in the grocery store. For no reason except that things just generally aren’t the way I want them to be. And our cart was making a thump, thump, thumping sound and it was annoying the living shit out of me. So we went back to the front of the store to trade it out. And then our second one thumped too. And so did the third one. I would have gone back for a fourth, but Bobby the Long-Suffering looked particularly miserable at all this cart-trading… ya’ll feel sorry for Bobby, don’t you? Admit it, DON’T YOU!?! :)