What To Expect When You're Not Expecting

I got mad a few weeks ago. Yep, I finally got angry about something. Really angry.

It's about time, you're probably saying. Go for it, Sue! Shake your fist at the heavens and have yourself a good old fashioned snit.

Well, no.

It really didn't have anything to do with cosmic injustices or channeling visceral fear into fury, or even--except in a somewhat roundabout way--cancer.

It was the pregnancy test.

Let me back up.

I met my new radiology doctor about three weeks ago.

Like my hematologist, this doctor is female, young, pretty and very, very nice. The only significant difference is that my hematologist is blonde and my radiologist is brunette.

(In retrospect, this might be a small part of my problem. I could, admittedly, be harboring a repressed resentment for young pretty females who are very, very nice and could probably buy my house and its contents [children optional] with their pocket change. Even overlooking my military chic 'do, there's no escaping my all-surpassing plainness, limited potential and Wal-Mart couture.)

Anyway.

Dr. Brunette called me on a Friday afternoon. "Is this Susan?"

Y'know, when I was an inpatient, I filled out a form that specifically asked about preferred nicknames and I emphatically printed out "Sue." I have no idea why they gave me that form, because everyone there persists in calling me Susan anyway. What a waste of ink.

"Yes?" I answered cautiously. Telemarketer types like to call me Susan too, so if I'm not on one of the Caller ID phones, I am fully prepared not to be me. Seriously, even my parents have been trained by now.

"Hi Susan. This is Dr. Brunette. I understand you're all set to begin radiation on - *pause/papers shuffling* - Monday?"

"Yes, that's right. 11:15."

"Great! Now, one little thing I forgot to mention before is that it's hospital policy to require a pregnancy check before we can administer your first treatment."

I laughed. "There's not a chance I'm pregnant. Believe me, no chance."

"Oh, I know," she answered sympathetically. (She knows? How does she know?! Am I that obviously ugly and awful?) "The problem is, it's hospital policy unless you're in complete menopause or you've had a hysterectomy."

"But- but I haven't even been on a date in five or six years!"

"I know," she repeated with feeling. (What the heck? Are there hidden cameras in my house?! Who is this woman?) "If you'll just come in a few minutes early, it's only a urine test." Because that's supposed to make me feel better about it? I'm used to holding my arm out for a stick. Urine tests demand performance, blood tests require passivity.

" . . . !"

"Okay?" she asked my loaded silence.

I'm not in the habit of arguing with my doctors. Besides, although she didn't say it, there's an element of potential blackmail here. Pee in the cup like a good girl or we won't increase your chance of heart problems, secondary cancers, thyroid issues, tracheal swelling or skin damage by shooting radiation into your chest on a daily basis for several weeks. So there.

. . . !!!

In any case, I acquiesced. I went early, peed into the cup and spent quite an awkward length of time lying on the treatment table in a state of, shall we say, drafty dishabille, while the technicians traded banter about the weather and drew pictures on me in a rather personal location with indelible marker as we waited for the phone call from the lab to give them the go-ahead to blast away.

I will, of course, undoubtedly be billed for a test that merely proved what I already knew.

Oh yes, I know my anger is unjustified and out of proportion. Undoubtedly there are some idiotic broads out there who would be stupid enough to deny a possible bun in the oven. Maybe in the hopes of having an offspring who would a) merit a hefty lawsuit, b) be disabled enough to guarantee monthly checks from Uncle Sam in perpetuity or c) have really cool mutant powers with which to either save the world or to be sold to a carnival for a hefty sum.

Cynical? Moi?

I even admit that they almost certainly ran a preggo check on me in the hospital before they started chemotherapy. I just don't remember that because I was, well, not completely with the program back then. Heck, they could have shoved a turkey baster sized needle into my chest and I wouldn't have complained...

...Oh, heeeeeeeey...

But that's a story for another day.

In the meantime, I would like to inform you all that I am officially... NOT pregnant.

Sorry Pastor, I guess we'll have to cancel that trip to Rome. No Immaculate conception here!

The Art of the Exhale

When I was in the hospital, they initially put me in a ward for the thoracic surgery candidate-type patients. The nurses were awesome, very competent and friendly. I think they enjoyed a patient who, while definitely the worse for wear, wasn't one of the pain-med fuzzy, post-surgical majority. The day after I was diagnosed, (it was understood that I'd be moving from the Thoracic section to Oncology, but they were still sorting out rooms) one of my regular nurses came in and sat with me for a while. She wasn't used to things like this, she said. She hadn't expected that I might have cancer and or that surgery wasn't in the cards. She handed me a box of tissues, but really, she needed them more than I did. Hey, a nurse who can cry over you is a wonderful person indeed, but it's a little unsettling, y'know?

Once I moved to Oncology, I had another visitor. This time, it was the hospital chaplain. Without hesitation, she also handed me the ubiquitous box of tissues, then waited for me to... oh, I don't know. Vent? Bawl? Rage at the universe? Who knows? I didn't bother. I think she was a little disappointed.

A few weeks later, after I was cozily ensconced back in my home sweet home, the phone rang. It was a nurse who worked for my insurance company, assuring me that "We're in this together." (Presumably as long as the premiums continue to arrive in a timely manner.) We went over my treatments, my meds, how I was feeling, what side effects I had or could expect, etc. etc. etc. And then she asked how I was handling my depression.

"If it happens, I'll let you know," I assured her.

"It's only natural," she soothed, apparently still reading from a script that I'd unwittingly deviated from. "Has your doctor prescribed anything for it?"

"Uh, not unless you count the Lorazepam." (Lorazepam, by the way, is an anti-nausea medication, but it works mostly by knocking you unconscious for four hours. Thus, it is also considered an anti-anxiety medication.) "If I need anything though," I added, "I'll definitely ask."

There was a long silence at the other end of the line, then she clarified. "You're not depressed?"

"Cartwheels in the streets? No," I said. "Depressed? Also no. It is what it is."

Which has, in a way, been my catch-phrase through the entire mess. It is what it is.

Now to be completely honest, I did give depression a try about ten years ago. Post-divorce, I was so depressed that I was practically catatonic with it. I never even went to a doctor or counselor, because, you know, no one cared about me anyway. *Snurfle.* All it did was give me raging indigestion. So yeah, I'm not going to sink into a blue funk over cancer, but shouldn't I, at the very least, have been scared out of my tiny little mind?

Over the weeks and months, even a few of my closest friends have given me the doubtful eyebrow twitch and expressed a belief that I am not emoting as honestly as I ought. I haven't bawled, or shed more than the occasional private tear, or raged at the unfairness of the universe. Instead, I've cracked jokes and played video games. My friends don't think it's... well, healthy.

In fact, it got to the point where I was starting to wonder about that myself. It's not that I don't care. It's not that I'm not concerned. And though I am serene in the knowledge that my Redeemer lives and that there is undoubtedly a niche for me in Heaven, that doesn't mean that I haven't earned the right to at least a moderate hissy-fit or two here on Earth.

This is what I've come up with.

I've spent the majority of my years working, in some capacity, with horses. (Oh come on, you knew I'd bring horses into this, right?) From summer camp, to riding lessons, to stable management school, to actually managing a stable, to giving riding lessons to kiddies, to training and mucking and grooming and even owning a succession of four-legged carrot-crunchers myself, I have dealt with horses on and off for thirty-three years.

Horses are reactive creatures. What's more, they're prey animals. Lions and tigers and bears, (oh my!) think that our equine friends taste mighty fine . Naturally therefore, horses are always instinctively on the lookout for the next bug-eyed horse eating monster. (Especially the tricky ones shaped like trees, rocks or plastic grocery bags.) At the first hint of danger, most horses will gather themselves, leap into the air, bolt for the horizon at Warp factor 9, and ask questions later.

Horses, to be succinct, are paranoid freaks.



So, what's the worst thing a human can do around a horse?

Show fear.

When you're trotting along on a brisk October morning and a flock of birds erupts from some nearby trees and your horse's head shoots up in the air, ears at rigid attention, and he plants his feet, bunches his muscles and snorts a triple exclamation pointed countdown for launch, what does the smart rider do?

Exhale.

Sigh.

Relax.

And then, just maybe, if you're lucky, ol' Thunderguts will pause a moment and think things over. Hmm. Rider isn't scared. Rider is... bored? This is boring? Why would– oh. Oh! Those are birdies! Oh. Ha. Yeah. Oops. This is embarrassing. Uhm, we can trot again, right? Yeah, okay. Sorry.

On the other hand, if the birds explode from the trees and you snatch up the reins and start shouting, "Whoa! Whoa!" I can guarantee that your hayburner will be making tracks for the next county. Maybe you'll still be on board when you get there. Maybe not. The fact is, your tension and quick movements and shouting only reinforces the scariness of the situation. My rider is freaking out and she's a carnivore who eats cows in a bun!!!! Eeeeek! Those birds must be piranhas with wings!!! We're all gonna dieeeeeee!!!! Time to jet!!!!!!!!

It's not foolproof and it's not fail-safe, but the relaxed approach beats out the panicked one 999 times out of 1,000.

So, you practice. You practice the exhale. When the excrement hits the oscillation in the tiny little mind of your loyal steed, you learn not to take the time to evaluate what the "danger" actually is. By then it's too late. No, at the first sign of tension, you perfect the practice of sighing meaningfully. You learn how to relax your muscles and sink down into the saddle and become just a little heavier under the weight of your utter boredom in the face of the unexpected. You learn to center yourself.

And eventually, when he finds himself (or herself) not being eaten by those vicious plastic bags and menacing rocks, your horse starts to pick up the same habit. He draws his confidence from the rider on his back, or the hands on the reins, or the schmuck at the other end of the lead rope.

He learns to exhale too.So maybe, just maybe, my lack of reaction isn't really a lack of reaction at all, but just a long established habit. Maybe all those years with the horses taught me an invaluable coping skill that I never realized I had until my friends started bugging me about how much I wasn't... well, bugged.

Maybe in a small way, I've learned the art of the exhale.

The Do's And The Don't's. Part I

Once again, I'm belated with my updates. My best friend, Janet, calls periodically and snarks at me about it. This is as it should be.

Truth is, I had a nice lengthy post written and waiting to go. I was actually wandering around the 'net looking for a nice public domain picture to slap onto it before posting, when a little voice in the back of my mind said, "Wait. It's not ripe yet." When the inner-editor speaks, I usually listen, so we'll take that one back to the drawing board for a while.

In the meantime, I thought I'd list a few do's and don'ts of hospital etiquette that I discovered along the way. These ought to be common sense no-brainers, but you'd be amazed...

For the Patient:

DON'T order eggs for breakfast. I don't care what hospital you're in. The eggs will not be warm when you get them. For that matter, I'm not entirely certain they'll be eggs.

DO sleep when the opportunity arises. Sleeping through the night is not going to happen, because of those inevitable "vitals checks" and visits from the vampires, so if you can, nap like you've never napped before.

DO ask questions. In fact, badger someone into giving you a notepad and pen so you can jot down your concerns as they pop into your head. The things I didn't remember to ask during morning rounds could fill up a blog entry all by themselves.

If you happen to be on oxygen, DO be careful while shampooing in the shower. Trust me, that air pressure will shoot the water right up your nose and power-wash your sinuses!!!

DON'T forget that there are other patients around you. When you see a stampede running down the corridors with the crash cart, that's probably not the time to buzz the nurses' station to ask for more ice in your water pitcher. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but there really are times when it's not "all about you."

DO question the unexpected. If you're being given a pill that doesn't look like any of yesterday's pills, ask about it. If you hear or see something weird, push the call button. In all seriousness, during my first night in Oncology, I heard a crashing noise and assumed someone dropped a chair. Fifteen minutes later a nurse discovered that the man in the next room had fallen down while trying to get to the bathroom. I felt about two inches tall.

DO be honest. It's a hospital. The stiff upper lip schtick isn't going to impress anyone. Be up front about how you're feeling. If you're in pain, say so. If you're hungry, thirsty, constipated or the other extreme, nauseated, depressed, uncomfortable or dealing with insomnia, don't keep it to yourself. Sometimes there's nothing the nurses can do but sympathize, but quite often there are things that can be done to alleviate the problem.

DON'T get too attached to a specific television show. If you do, I guarantee that all future tests and procedures will be scheduled during that time.

For the Visitor:

DON'T overstay your welcome. Seriously, it's not that we patient-types don't love and adore you, but between the tests and the drugs and the vampires visiting in the middle of the night and, oh yeah, being sick, we get tired pretty easily. Don't let our politeness fool you. If we look like we're totally zonked out, give us a hug or a kiss or a pat on the head and be sure to check out the cafeteria on your way out. Just avoid the eggs.

DON'T rub our noses in it. Really, there's a time and a place to bemoan our situation and the impact that this is going to have on our lives forever after and all that stuff. This is not that time.

DON'T engage the nurses in conversation about our condition/prognosis while you're hanging out in our hospital room! Also, don't tell them amusing little anecdotes about our childhood/love-life/whatever. If we wanted them to know these things, we'd probably have mentioned them ourselves. Honestly, the person who has to measure my urine output is not going to be interested in my first hospital visit back when I was in the second grade.

DO send cards. E-cards, when hospitals allow them, are awesome good fun. One day I got over forty of them!

Unless you're instructed otherwise, DON'T shy away from small physical acts of affection. A held hand or a pat on the shoulder is often worth a thousand words and a handful of Vicodin. We feel weirded out enough by the tubes and needles and ugly gowns already. Don't make us feel more self-conscious, okay?

DO listen, if we want to talk. Otherwise, don't pressure us about our "feelings." Sometimes it's just nice to yak about a particularly stupid customer at work or what the dog did to the carpet or something else totally not cancer related.

Unless you've had the exact same illness, DON'T presume to tell us that you know exactly how we feel. Also please, please, please DON'T regale us with horror stories about your Uncle Fred who had cancer back in '72.

DO research our illness, by all means, but DO keep your findings to yourself unless we ask you to share. By the same token, don't assume you know it all. You'd be amazed at how many people I know who've said, "Well thank goodness it's NON-hodgkins!" (Newsflash: Hodgkins was historically considered more curable than non-hodgkins, thus the need for differentiation.)

I might add more later, but I'm going to ask my loyal readers to chip in. What advice do YOU have?