So the first thing he does is check my "wound", the vagina-shaped (well, it IS!) cavern below my navel, on my surgery scar. Great, he says. It looks great. It's pink and healing. It's been hurting a lot lately, at night, when I'm prone, and I guess that's knitting together, healing pain. It's not bad. I've been lucky, so far, with pain. Post-surgery, I've had very little pain anywhere. I must have had a lot when I was in ICU, with a trigger for the morphine, but I don't remember it. Anyway, this wound is doing fine. He packed it with gauze while talking to me.
I had a notebook full of notes with questions to ask him, but I couldn't reach it while he was packing and talking (he has a way of talking and commanding the room, and you are hesitant to interrupt him; the man has always had such presence). It was all awkward. He was playing the role of doctor, and I could tell he was struggling with roles himself, and sadness over my stage IV cancer diagnosis, but he had to hang in there and be the authority, not the friend. And my mother's friend. So we "played" doctor-patient pretty much the entire visit. There wasn't anything "light" to talk about, anyway. I have had trouble falling asleep since last Wednesday when I found out I'm fighting stage IV; that's just all that is on my mind when I lay down to sleep. So I needed a sleeping pill and he wrote a prescription for Xanax 1 mg. Since I've been off Xanax for 10 years, when I went sober in rehab, this should work. We'll see. I really don't need to lie there thinking about dying, or treatment, or woe is me.
Sondra (of all people) called last night and suggested I try M.D. Anderson in Houston, a charity program. Others have mentioned this, as well. Sherman shot this down fast and hard. He said they wouldn't take me. He said they'd only take me for a clinical trial sort of deal and I didn't need to be testing drug companies' medication for them at this stage. He said he'd always had very bad experiences with M.D. Anderson in attempting to get patients placed there. He said to forget it. And then he repeated the word "Medicaid" over and over and over. You need to get Medicaid. You don't make enough so you should qualify, blah blah blah. But they could turn you down, blah blah blah. (I know this; the insurance situation in America really is a disgrace.) But ... Medicaid Medicaid Medicaid. They might even bump up the process since you're stage IV. Very businesslike, trying to keep his emotions in. Me, too. Go through Social Security, get Medicaid, they'll pay for everything. Get disability from SSI, you'll get checks (snap) like that. But maybe not. (Jeez, I'm up, I'm down, emotionally) MEDICAID, Tim! He must have said that word thirty times.
I'd misplaced one of my diabetes drugs between the hospital and home, so he wrote a scrip for that. I told him my appetite had been real good, been enjoying food and was "eating like a horse". He frowned. He said that's not good for your diabetes. What are your sugars like, Tim? I don't know, you knew I was poor and fucked up and never gave me to told me to get a home levels tester. What were they like in the hospital? Not awful, around 130, maybe. Were they giving you insulin in the hospital? Yes. Ahhhhhhhhhh .... trails off. (He's really rattled, trying to be so businesslike. Me, too.)
So I make my move. Hey, K., I'm really having trouble with all this. I mean, I think I'm coping really well, at least outwardly, but I'm sooooooooooo afraid, and so angry, and so depressed. I can put on a brave face but I really need someone to talk to, and you used to counsel me with the agorophobia and panic attacks and it helped. I know I can't PAY you now, but ... We've always had a rapport, ya know? He leaps, too, surprising me. Nods his head, yeah I'd be glad to. I know you must need someone to talk to. (leaves room to check his schedule; comes back) Listen, Tim, Thursdays you can be my last patient, at 1:30; I can talk to you for 45 minutes every Thursday. Great. This man helps; I'd rather talk to him than any shrink I can't afford. So we're going to do counseling. Only this time the bear is real. With panic attacks, I was having panic/fear reactions to a bear that wasn't real, a bear that wasn't in front of me, fight or flight, but there was no reason for the fear. I had to learn to deal with that. This time the bear is real, and it's inside me, swimming in lymphatic fluid, looking to invade my brain or lung or liver or whatever looks good. And the odds are that I'm going to die of this. Real bear. Yeah, I need counseling.
Medicaid Medicaid Medicaid, you hear me? Yeah.
He's going to call Dr. Loukas, the oncologist I saw. He's going to call Dr. Fuller, the surgeon. There's a golf ball-sized benign but ugly tumor on the back, left-side of my fucking head ... it started as a cyst-like thing in 1990 but it's grown to ugly size. I haven't asked but my thinking is it's somehow related to the cancer, because the huge growth has only been in the last year or so. Anway, Fuller says he can take that off in 10 minutes when he installs the catheter under the skin, in my chest, for the chemotherapy treatments I'm still trying to obtain somewhere, by some means. Jesus, I want to cry, I really do. Hang on. OK. Anyway, Sherman's going to call Fuller about that, too.
OK, well, I'll see you on the 11th of September for counselling. What? The 11th? Only day I can do it. Shit, I have a telephone appointment (yeah, telephone) with the Social Security people on the 11th of September at 12:30. Shit. So I won't get counselling from Sherman until the 18th, 16 days from now and I may crack up by that time, but nothing is to be done for it. I have several friends still living, although I wouldn't want to burden any of them with the horrors that are inside me. So, hang in there until the 16th. I can hang if I have to. I'm trying.
My mother still freaks out if I even mention driving, so a friend of the family picks me up and takes me to the library, where I check out 3 cancer books and find that I have a $31.90 fine from 3 years ago (has it really been that long since I've been to the library? Dude, you haven't been ANYWHERE in the past 2 years.) So I pay it. Go home. Report to my poor, worried mother, who has lost every single member of her family except me, in her hover chair, doing more than she should. Turn on Howard Stern. Type this. Fuck it. If only there were a nice, comfy hole to climb in and hide. If only.
