The False Allure of Normalcy
How to Keep a Return to Normal From Creating Harm
A fever pitch of anger sends me out of the hermetic radiation chamber on an Indian summer day. I gun the car’s accelerator, even shift into sports mode for extra oomph. Speeding past the mall, I consider retail therapy, but that won’t cool the heat. I need an outlet for my shock at the news that trickles from the radiation therapist, so I let it rip. Why didn’t I know five months ago that the surgeons left alone a suspicious, stealthy lymph node because of its delicate position near the heart? Was it lost in the post-surgical haze, left out, or discovered later as the physicists prepared the radiation mapping? I try to put the pieces together, the tearful concern of the oncological surgeon, being the subject of the monthly tumor board meeting at the hospital, the plastic surgeon’s worry over recurrence, and now this! Why aren’t the doctors more upfront? I have the feeling of being the last one to know, like a woman finding out about her husband’s affair. And now I have to wait a week to ask the doctor.
Fumbling for reasons, I hit a dead end. Am I a compliant people-pleaser, who doesn’t want to be “that patient”—a demanding diva—or a slow learner of doctors’ methods to wait for the patient to ask the right questions? But how can I ask about something I’m not even aware of? Recently, I allowed a gastroenterologist to send me home after two months of severe bloating for two more months of healing on my own. He bluntly remarked that an atom bomb went off in my intestines from chemo and excessive antibiotics, possibly causing permanent damage. Deciding that returning to normal was up to me, I developed elaborate strategies to decrease the symptoms—including probiotics which further messed me up—but, ultimately, I failed. One evening, the realization that I was too compliant hit with force, so I insisted on seeing the GI doctor right away with the mission of getting a solution without being a b****. My newfound assertiveness, however, led nowhere. The road back to normal was off the map. I’m now stuck in a reality many people experience on a daily basis—especially the underserved and marginalized—that our best efforts sometimes turn up little.
In our rush to normalcy, even a new normal, we grab simple solutions based on thin truths, but life—and health—don’t always comply. How do we stop skirting complexities in favor of instant answers? Fast forward six months as the world languishes in the vacuum—and acceleration—of knowledge about the virus. People pounce on binary choices, conspiracy theories, anything to avoid the discomfort of not knowing. In our need for certainty, we blame other well-meaning—and equally lost—people. Why do we refuse to dwell in the land of in between? As popular culture moves from vision-casting and goal setting to mindfulness and living in the moment, it needs to make peace with reason-deficits and human limitations without losing hope. Perhaps it’s time to dust off, polish, and mount the ancient virtues of humility and patience on our mantles. These will season and deepen us as modern humans.
Reasons may come in time, but if not, humility and patience offer rich rewards. They restore poise and peace in our posturing and fractious world. They build appreciation and grateful hearts. Patience is long-suffering, a decision born of humility to be long or large in spirit and delay anger. The week after testing the limits of my car’s torque, I learn it is standard procedure for surgeons to leave behind disease in risky areas for hematology and radiation to kill and zap. The killing is done, but the node still lights up under a scan, so now comes the zapping. The radiation oncologist flags the suspicious node—and 30-40 neighboring ones just in case—with erudite mapping and a Sharpie-X on my chest. He tells me that more radiation treatments are ordered, special agents for an extra surge. Dedicated and kind, he is my clean-up hitter to sweep up the bases, the most crucial hitter in the lineup. His bat may be the biggest shot I have right now, my last chance, to destroy the lurking menace. I tell him my life depends on his work.
Several months later, as I anxiously await news of my first post-treatment scan, the phone rings. It’s the radiation office assistant. My radar attuned, I scan each tone and inflection. The voice is chipper. Good sign. Then comes the message I barely dared to dream of, “no visible signs of cancer,” the seed of life in five short words, a message of a few seconds which changes everything. Time is arrested by awe and appreciation for this doctor’s excellent care and for all the doctors, nurses, and technical support I am privileged to have.
Excellence is a product of passion and passion is birthed by pain. At age 65, the radiation oncologist maintains a noticeable passion for his work because it is a calling, a personal mission. He is the only doctor from my cancer 17 years ago who is not retired. On our first visit in late summer, he spends 30 minutes in his office piecing together my old and new stories before meeting with us for 1 ½ hours. He makes connections others don’t make. Without pedantry, he engages, teaches, and makes me feel taken care of.
Wendy, my friend and fellow cancer survivor, reminds me of the origin of his passion: “He was an engineer. His father developed cancer back when the radiation and treatments were so devastating to patients. As Dr. Miller said, the modern technology was too late for his father. But then his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and the science/technology/medicine had come so far that she survived. It changed his life as he sought to help others as she had been helped. He said he applied his exacting engineering mind to the science of zapping the right bad cells. He saved my life. The only doctor among five to push for radiating the super clavicular nodes. And after one week, my tumor markers were finally down.” Wendy and I share gratitude for a doctor who saved our lives.
We must go through darkness and pain in this life, but hardship leads to passion, passion to hope, and hope to patient endurance. My son, Nate, and his girlfriend, Mady, make me a beautiful screen print with the message, “Flowers grow out of dark moments.” This is one certainty to cling to in uncertain times.