Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness…… Unknown
Dr. Sam. There are no words. Have you ever met someone that his or her very presence eased your fears? That is Dr. Sam. He is my oncologist. He walked into the exam room and said, “Hi, I’m Sam.” We asked if he wasn’t the doctor and wanted to be addressed as so. His answer, “I’ve been Sam a lot longer that I have been Doctor….
Then he took my hand. He did not shake it. He held it. Firm, but soft, I felt all anxiety begin to drift away. I had no logical reason to feel this way, even though I had read all about his impressive credentials. That wasn’t it. There is a aura about Dr. Sam I cannot explain. He made me believe I could beat this. And as my daughter, said, he wasn’t hard on the eyes either.
We got down to business and he explained the game plan. He told us why he would do the surgery this way instead of that. He spoke to all of us, me, Tai and daughter Terri on a FaceTime call. He answered all our questions and explained things we didn’t know enough to ask. And he made me smile. He wanted to do laproscopic, but not robotic. I asked why. I thought I was so smart for reading up on the latest surgical technology. “Because,” he said, “You’re little. Robotic surgery would make bigger incisions and you don’t need those on your tiny body.” Me, little or tiny? Nobody had called me that in fifty years. Two points for Dr. Sam.
“You’re going to be okay,” said Dr. Sam. And I believed him. He concluded the meeting and stood to leave. Then he reached over and hugged me, warm, sincere, like a life raft. Hubby and I left, hand-in-hand. In the car, Tai looked over at me and asked why I was crying. They were tears of relief. The weight was lifted off my shoulder.
And no more
Surgery was set for August 20. Sam would do the operation. And I was sure I would be fine.
I was going to put the surgery on a separete post, but time is catching up to me. I’d like to have you caught up before my first chemo treatment.
As they say, “The surgery was a success …. but (don’t you hate those buts?)
I thought I was relatively calm going into the surgery. From what my daughter and hubby said, I was far from it. Apparently, the medication to make me drowsy before the actual anethesia loosened my tongue. I am told I cried and cried, hung on to them, and gave them instructions on what to do after I died. I remember none of that. (Just as well)
Dr. Sam made his rounds the next day and explained that things were slightly more complicated that he anticipated. He found some parts that were “mushy” (his words, not mine) and we would have to wait for the pathology report, but now he expected that I would need some chemo and radiation. What? I thought it was going to be easy-peasy – take out the stage 1 cancer and I’d be cured.
As Lee Corso from College Game day would say, “Not so fast.”
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