Doctor Number Two

In the race to dig my grave, unfortunately, doctor #2 agrees with doctor #1.

One of the worst habits that doctors have with me is speaking past me to the person who has accompanied me to appointments. In this case, Charles drove me to Indianapolis to this conference with Doctor 2 and happily sat in on the appointment proper. I did not, I promise, force this upon him.

I'm not sure why looking me in the face or addressing me directly is so difficult for some doctors--true, I can't converse--but I'm a pretty decent typist and I don't spare my rich vocabulary to dumb down for the sake of a keyboard. I have the conversation with that piece of machinery that mimics closely what I would say spontaneously were that possible. No, Doctor, I am not stupid.

It's probably nice to be able to tell someone you don't believe that their lifespan prognosis deserves your full efforts if you don't have to say it to them directly--you can look across the room at someone whose reaction by nature can't be so personal. I kept interjecting, and the doctor kept looking elsewhere--no sir, that metallic machine voice you keep hearing isn't coming from Charles--look over here.

I made every effort to be polite because I don't have a backup plan for surgery, for closing the hole in my neck or making any progress in living better. I still don't--yes, they will remove the dead bone from my mouth, but they'll allow the chin to slid into my trachea and make me even more freakish than I am now. A prosthetic device? They are very expensive! Who knows if I'm worth that much effort considering I'll be dead with 24 months!

Except, jackass, I won't--sorry, I'm just not buying it. Here's how I figure it will go down. I've kept on moaning about the miracle I've never gotten. I'll have to give up speaking again and give up eating again--but what if the miracle I get is that I'll live well past this timeline they propose I'm on? That's a miracle I'll accept--even if my stupid face is sliding off my bones and is located somewhere near my clavicle. What the hell. It's not like I'm running for Miss Universe.

Then, maybe, will Doctor 1 and Doctor 2 apologize for treating me like a barely containable piece of trash? No, likely they won't--but even more likely, they don't recognize that they have done so whatsoever. Doctor 1 won't recognize that pulling his punches in my fight against cancer was wrong and Doctor 2 won't see that speaking past me and down to me were the two stupidest moments of his life.

It's not like I haven't seen this before--even in the self-possessed paradise of San Francisco, where self actualization on the scale I can demonstrate is considered more important than Jesus, I faced similar treatment. This must be on the curricula of ear nose and throat rotations throughout our nation's medical schools. Cancer makes its victims retarded--don't forget to treat them that way.

Proof, shouts the Empiricist, is what is wanted. Unfortunately, that kind of proof, the kind that will work in this case, takes time. Not 25 months, not 30--but longer--48 months, 72 months--something like a typical car loan life span for me to say "I told you so" and for them to retort--"yes, but it's coming up..."  I may never win.

So, fight on I must. And as the best fighters soon learn, Rambo's illusory lessons aside, it takes allies to actually win. I have to identify those people who believe as I do who are in this system and can advocate for me. I'd like to think my new oncologist is one of them--but I'm just going on feeling for that one and can't yet tell. If beneath his Crocodile Dundee facial hair there is a guy who's willing to bet on me, I'll be willing to let him do it. Again, though, time (and observation) will say more than I can say right now.

Otherwise, it's cold here, snowy here, but I ordered 5 new pair of pants in a size that won't automatically slide off my ass. Can I make my optimism more plain? It'll take several washings to get this puppies into comfort mode, so I at least am looking good for the next few months--and I tend to keep clothing for a long time. All of that should bode well.

And I have plans for these pants--Spring gardening, I hope. Charles had no time when I was gone to work on the flower beds I left and they are in sorry, sorry, shape. I can't do a lot at once, but a little each day might revive them. By the end of the summer I want a huge blooming statement to say I haven't wasted a moment of sunshine. Then again, I am an optimist.