Outing Myself

My department is going through a period of expansion, so every couple of weeks I have a new colleague. I am long past the point in my recovery/survival where I need to talk about cancer all of the time, thankfully.  So I go through introductory meetings, pretending like I am just a normal aging career woman without a husband or children to tend to, talking about the work that I am more and more burnt out on with each passing day, pretending like it’s really great and I love it.

There’s lots of pretending going on, overall.

A couple of weeks ago, one of my new colleagues said she was going to San Diego to be with her mom who was being treated for cancer where I was treated.  I thought I did very well, grinding my teeth, clenching my jaw and nodding and wishing her mom the best while chanting in my head, “Don’t say anything don’t say anything don’t say anything don’t say anything.”  But even hearing about That Place had a trigger effect. Cancer and the anesthesia incident were all I thought about the rest of the day.

Then it came up again today, when someone asked how her mom was doing. She said they are unhappy with the care she received, that first they said there was nothing they could do and then they miraculously had a chemotherapy to try. She mentioned a resident was running the show.

Cue the teeth grinding, but for slightly different reasons this time. My colleagues dispersed and I put on my best social worker hat, asking her if she had obtained a second opinion. She said they hadn’t and I said going across town might be an option  (memories of Dr. Second Opinion), especially since it sounded like there were reservations about the care her mom is getting at That Place.  Then I outed myself. I said that I was treated for a different kind of cancer at the same place and it was not a good experience. My story tumbled out in globs and drips like a Pollock painting. I managed to fit in there the time I pursued a second opinion and how much peace of mind it gave me, after so many years of questions and inconclusive test results.  I wished I had done it sooner. She thought this all sounded like a really good idea and she’d see if her mom was interested.

I’m happy to out myself if it has the potential to help someone else. Our healthcare system is so complex that informal crowdsourcing is the best way to learn about our options. I have few worries about being treated differently as a consequence. Perhaps if I worked in an environment that was more competitive or cutthroat, I wouldn’t say anything.

“You were so young,” she said to me, more than a few times. If I allow myself to think about that for too long, it makes me incredibly sad. There is an endless well of grief in that realization. The timing of it too, where I had started to come at life with openness and zest, only to have it all dashed and then to turn into isolation and intense guardedness during these years of inconclusive tests, is especially cruel.  I feel an overwhelming sense of loss.

Now that I don’t think about it as much anymore, when I do it is all utterly shocking to me. I don’t know what to do with that feeling; I thought I would be immune to it after thinking about virtually nothing but cancer and medical trauma for years. Doing so didn’t cause any of the horror to wear off and I thought it would, that perhaps thinking about it all of the time would mold it into a normal feature of my life.

Trauma just doesn’t work that way.

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