Better Than None (5 page)

Whatever conjecture, whatever lies we had told ourselves the last time we
were in Dr. Rosenberg’s office all went down the drain when we set foot in the
waiting room for the second time, and the stark reality hit us both. Waiting
rooms were rarely pleasant places, but the waiting room in an oncologist’s
office really took the cake. Most everyone there was a cancer patient, or that
patient’s relative or caretaker. More people than not were bald, wore scarves
or obvious wigs. Many had ports in their chests or Picc lines in their arms. The
sad reality was that whoever was in this waiting room, odds weren’t in their
favor.

Even though we’d been there before, we were both stunned again when we
stepped off the elevator. Dr. Rosenberg’s practice took up the entire sixth
floor of the medical building, and the sheer size of the waiting room and
amount of people in it was staggering. Row upon row of chairs, and almost all
were taken.

There were so many different ways of looking at what this room
symbolized. After we signed in and found two seats next to each other, I leaned
over and whispered, “It’s not just you, mom. I know it might not make it
better, but you’re not the only one. Look at all these people.” The truth was,
I was grasping at straws trying to find something, anything even remotely
positive to say. I thought that perhaps there was comfort in knowing that she
wasn’t singled out for this disease. Other people got through it and managed,
and hopefully survived. If they were here, dealing with it, then so could she.
So could I.

Then again, there were some patients who I thought,
that poor soul
.
Women and men so frail, so old, it was hard not to wonder what the point was. I
tried not to pity them and assume their last moments on this earth would be
spent going to doctor’s offices and poisoning their bodies in the hopes that
the poison did more than just make them as weak and sick and miserable as they
seemed. As I looked around, I saw so much sadness and resignation. But I also
saw compassion in the smallest of gestures. An elderly wife holding her
husband’s bruised and wrinkled hand as she smiled at him. Caretakers helping
patients who weren’t their own flesh and blood. Caring smiles exchanged between
strangers. The majority of the patients were elderly, but there were a few
people who I thought could be around my age, though without hair, eyelashes and
eyebrows, it was hard to tell. Still, they couldn’t have been much older than
me.

Then, of course, there was the perspective that this was real life,
real shit. None of these people had a choice about this. For so long I had been
wrapped up in my bubble of poor little sex deviant, that sitting in this
waiting room made me just flat out embarrassed to think of how much time I’d
wasted on what now looked so trivial. Of course, that was my reality. And now,
this was.

I gently took my mom’s bony hand in mine and held it, stroking her soft
skin with my thumb. She looked over at me and smiled. There just wasn’t much to
say that we hadn’t already said to each other over the last week while waiting
for this appointment. So much of this disease, this diagnosis, so far, had been
the waiting. Waiting for doctors. Waiting for test results. Waiting to hear
what the next steps would be. I imagined it would continue to be a waiting
game. Waiting for the meds to work, for more test results, further prognosis.
Even in just these beginning stages, it was virtually impossible for us not to
get ahead of ourselves.

When our name was finally called and the nurse took us back beyond the
double doors into the actual office and treatment areas, I was amazed again by
the sheer size. It was like a cancer treatment factory with dozens upon dozens
of patient rooms. We stopped at one of a few height and weight stations where a
nurse took both of those. When she finished, she led us into one of the large
chemo rooms. I have no idea if that’s what they were called, but they were the
rooms with rows and rows of reclining chairs and IV stands. A decorator’s
nightmare. As I looked around, it was obvious that many of the patients were
old pros. Their expressions were nothing like mine and Barb’s. There was no
puzzlement, question or anxiety in their faces. This was old hat to them. I
realized that in the coming weeks and months, it would be for us as well.
There’s usually comfort in familiarity, but in this case, I would have chosen
discomfort if I had the choice. But no one in this room had a choice, or not
any good choices. I recalled all the commercials I had seen or heard about
different types of cancer treatment centers and their various approaches. Now
that we were actually faced with it, there was no time to drive hundreds of
miles to get a second opinion. All of the appointments so far were already so
all consuming that the thought of adding other doctors, other approaches into
the mix was beyond daunting. So we followed the course that was set out for us
as I imagine most people do.

The nurse settled us into our spot, each recliner had a corresponding
IV stand and ‘guest’ chair next to it. They too were pros. I wondered how many
people they treated each day, the place felt like a factory.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Lawson?”

“How do you think?” my mom spat back. I was about to apologize for her,
but she did it herself.

“I’m sorry, it’s just, how do you think I feel? I mean, how am I
supposed to answer that?” Tears welled up in my mom’s eyes and I took her hand
in mine.

“You’re right. And I’m sorry. Tell you what. Next time, I’ll just say
hello and if you’re feeling like sharing with me, you go on and do it. And if
not, we’ll just leave it at that. Sound like a plan?” The nurse was a
sweetheart and this obviously wasn’t her first ornery patient. I was impressed
with her tact. My mom just nodded and smiled, a little embarrassed at her
outburst.

“Ok, I’m going to access your port. Oh, looks like it’s a new one!” The
nurse pulled my mom’s shirt to the side to reveal the port that had been
inserted less than a week ago on the right side of her chest. The skin covered
it, but it still protruded, looking like something out of an alien movie.

“First time?”

We both nodded.

“Ok then. I’ll walk you through it. We access your port and take some
blood.”

Before the poor woman could finish my mom screeched, “More blood?”

The nurse just laughed. “I know, we drain you every damn time. Just
think of us as vampires, only not nearly as sexy.” That finally got a smile out
of Barb.

“All right, so yes, we’ll be taking your blood each time you come in so
that we can monitor all your levels. The chemo can do funny things to you, so
we always want a baseline, not to mention other things we’re looking for. Then,
after the blood, your first drip is the anti-nausea, and that’s about 15
minutes. Then, it looks like Dr. Rosenberg is pulling out all the stops on you.
Lucky lady! You’re getting two of our finest chemos. So after the anti-nausea,
then you’ll get the first medicine, and that drip will take about 20 minutes.
Then when that one’s done, you get the other, which is another 20 minutes or
so.”

As awful as this all was, everyone other than Dr. Rosenberg had been
nothing but nice. I appreciated this nurse’s information and her delivery. She
talked to us like we were adults.

“And that will be the plan each time?” I asked.

She nodded. “Unless Dr. Rosenberg changes anything, yes.”

“And will we be seeing him today?” my mom asked.

“He’ll be making rounds, walking the floor and will stop by to say
hello and answer any questions.”

“Oh good.” My mom seemed pleased we’d be seeing him. I hadn’t even
given it much thought. The last time I’d seen him was at the bar, which I’d
conveniently forgotten to share with Barb.

“So, if we’re all set, just go ahead and lean back and relax.”

Barb had some sarcastic retort on her lips but she held it. Through all
the visits and procedures so far, she was losing patience. We could both recite
the questions that every doctor, every nurse asked. All the talk of systems
being synched was all marketing b.s. because even though all the information
was in her chart, they invariably asked the same questions over and over. It
became an inside joke with us, which was a nice relief amidst the crap.

Once the IV was inserted and we were settled, I looked to the woman
next to us and caught her eye. We exchanged soft smiles and there was something
warm about her. I guessed she was maybe early-to-mid 40s, but again, without
hair, eyebrows or eyelashes, it was so hard to tell. She didn’t have anyone
sitting in her guest chair and my heart went out to her, that she had to go
through this alone. Just then, Dr. Rosenberg came up behind her and her
expression changed as she felt his hand on her shoulder and looked up to him. I
saw him squeeze her shoulder as they just stared at each other, neither saying
a word. The woman’s eyes welled up and Dr. Rosenberg took a deep breath before
he squeezed again and then came over to us. It was an odd exchange to watch
between doctor and patient.

Before he reached us, he did a bit of a double take when he saw me but
regained his composure.

“How are you doing, Barbara?” he asked with what sounded like genuine
concern. Gone was the condescending attitude of the previous appointment.

“I’m nervous, scared, uncomfortable.” I guess my mom just reserved her
snarky comments for the female nurses, but when Mr. Hot-Doctor asked, it was
another story.

“That all sounds about right. But now that we know what it is, we’re
going to hit it with everything we’ve got.” He paused, knitting his brows. “I’m
a little concerned how jaundiced you are though.” He leaned in and pulled down
the bottom of my mother’s eyelids. “You didn’t look like this when I saw you
the other week.”

I piped up, “It’s progressed since we last saw you.” I tried to remain
as neutral as possible with my language.

“Well why didn’t you come see me sooner?” He asked like we were idiots.

“We’ve had doctor’s appointments every other day for the last month.
And, as you so astutely pointed out last time we were here, I’m not a doctor,
so I don’t know when a little yellow means go to the doctor versus wait the few
days till our next appointment. Perhaps you or one of the other half dozen
specialists we’ve seen could have suggested we watch out for this.”

“Stephanie.” My mom scolded. I was so sick of this jackass.

“We’ll get her bilirubin count in a half hour.” He said flatly.

I wasn’t surprised he didn’t reply to my little rant. “And?”

“And then we’ll know whether or not your mother needs a stent to drain
her bile duct.”

“Because the tumor is pressing on it?” God, it was like pulling teeth
with him.

“Yes.”

“And that’s surgery?”

“Yes, outpatient.”

I nodded and again mentally chastised myself for engaging with him. It
upset my mom and wouldn’t change anything.

“I’ll be back in a little bit when I have her blood results.”

“Thank you, doctor.” My mom said, and I knew that tone. She was trying
to smooth things over. Once he walked away she turned to me.

“Why do you have to be that way with him?”

“Are you kidding me? We’re the patients! Why is he that way with us,
with me?” I was sucking at keeping calm for my mom.

“I’m sorry, let’s not argue. You just relax. I’m going to get some work
done.” I leaned over and kissed her forehead and we were back to smiling softly
at each other. I think we were both realizing there just wasn’t room for
pettiness.

I was so focused on my laptop that when Dr. Rosenberg came back I was
startled.

“I’m sorry Barbara, but it looks like we’re going to need to put a
stent in you. And we need to do it soon. I’m going to have arrangements made
for you to go in tomorrow or at the latest, Friday. It’s outpatient surgery, so
if all goes as planned, you’ll be back home the same day.”

Panic took over my mom’s face. I looked up, but before I could say
anything, Dr. Rosenberg spoke again.

“My assistant will let you know when they can take you. It’s good that
we caught it now, Barbara.” He patted her shoulder, looked at me briefly and
then walked away. I couldn’t tell if he was disgusted or upset or what.

Before chemo ended, his assistant, Carleen, let us know that her
appointment was set for Friday at the hospital. My head was spinning. One more
appointment, one more day off of work, one more thing that could go wrong. Once
again, after I dropped Barb off at her house, I found myself driving, not home,
but to a bar to hopefully forget some of what happened today and what we had to
look forward in the coming days.

****

I chose another hotel bar, this time The Bungalow in Brentwood. I
needed the distraction, but didn’t want a meat market. Hotel bars tended to be
more upscale and less of the type of place I used to frequent. There were
plenty of seats available and I once again tried to focus on anything other
than cancer. By the second martini my body relaxed as I scrolled through my
emails.

“Hey Stephanie.”

I jumped, spilling some of my drink on my hand as I turned to find Dave
laughing a little too loud and hard. Seriously, the universe had to be telling
me never to go to a bar again.

“Whoa, didn’t mean to scare ya. Let me buy you a drink.”

“No worries. I’m good.”

He chuckled and put his hand on my shoulder, “Oh, I remember. I know
how good you are.” He started idly running his index finger up and down my arm.
He was obviously drunk and even though I was a little buzzed, I wasn’t nearly
as far gone as he was. I wondered how I could have had sex with him as the feel
of his finger going up and down my arm started to annoy me. I shifted away.

“Oh, come on, what happened to that girl I met at the bar? Damn you
were hot.” He stepped a little closer so that there couldn’t have been more
than a couple inches between us. “You wanted it so bad, you couldn’t even
wait.” He reached out again and put his hand possessively on the back of my
neck and I stiffened.