The first time I walked into an oncology office, I was petrified. I’d had a sigmoidectomy (12″ of colon removed) a few weeks ago and had learned I had colon cancer, Stage I, T2, which means the tumor had invaded the muscle wall inside the colon but had not exited the outside colon wall. The lab tested the lymph nodes — all clear.
So I walked with my husband into the oncology waiting room. But I was in my own muddled world, wishing I were somewhere else. I thought, What am I doing here among all these sick people? I’ve got the “all clear” — no more cancer. I should not be in this waiting room.
Ah the grip of fear. Instead of feeling a compassionate connection with the other patients (and yes, I was a patient, whether I wanted to admit it or not), I sought distance and separation. I sat down, crossed my legs, and buried myself in the book I had brought. My husband, sensing my discomfort, patted my leg, providing comforting connection when I could not.
When I was called into the exam room, my normally low blood pressure was sky-high — a physical reminder that I was nowhere near the peace I try to live on a daily basis.
The oncologist entered, and after some discussion, we set up a schedule of bloodwork and PET/CT scans for the coming year to monitor my condition.
I was very glad to leave.
My husband drove us home. Being a contemplative person, I began to slow my breathing, sitting with my pain, trying to get insight into my uncharacteristic feelings of separation and isolation.
I usually have no trouble connecting with people quickly, caringly, and lovingly. At the time of my diagnosis, I was a hospice chaplain. I spent many hours sitting with patients and their families — during the day and sometimes through the long hours of the night — helping them sort out their fears and the lives they had lived, partly so they could find resolution and peace, partly so they could leave this world without being troubled by unfinished business. If they wanted to explore their lives, their emotions, their faith — I was there for them.
I was part of a team of caretakers. I did not want to be taken care of. I did not want to be a patient.
In the oncology office, terror and pride had paralyzed me, contributing to my lack of connection with the others there, who were in their own pain. Once I recognized my fear, I knew I would respond with more openness and grace next time.
And there would not just be one next time, but many more visits to the oncologist. Because unknown to anyone, colon cancer cells had left the tumor before the surgery, and they were drifting in my body, doing the devastating work they were programmed to do.