I'm getting blood drawn today at a different office of Dr. Z's practice. This is actually the location where I first met him 6 years ago, but he no longer practices here. It's also where my mom saw her oncologist 11 or 12 years ago.
There's a smell in this place that brings up a dilemma. It's not the familiar doctor's office aroma, that Lysol and stale air combo you so often get when you walk through the doors for an early morning appointment. No, it's the dingy, yellow-brown lifelong smoker coughing odor that wafts here and makes me wonder: with so many people I know who got cancer through no fault of their own, how should I feel about those who knowingly engaged in risky behavior and are now suffering the predictable consequences?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying anyone deserves this. Check that, if you abuse children, you deserve to get lung cancer. But if you're that guy who thought smoking looked cool when you were 17, smoked though college and beyond, and next thing you know, you're a 65 year old with stage 3 lung cancer, do you deserve the same sympathy or empathy as the 38 year old yoga practicing, vegetarian mom of 3 who has rectal cancer and is racked with guilt because she might not see her youngest graduate from elementary school in 4 years?
See, cancer isn't always funny. But moments like this morning are few and far between for me. And for that, I am very thankful.
There's a smell in this place that brings up a dilemma. It's not the familiar doctor's office aroma, that Lysol and stale air combo you so often get when you walk through the doors for an early morning appointment. No, it's the dingy, yellow-brown lifelong smoker coughing odor that wafts here and makes me wonder: with so many people I know who got cancer through no fault of their own, how should I feel about those who knowingly engaged in risky behavior and are now suffering the predictable consequences?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying anyone deserves this. Check that, if you abuse children, you deserve to get lung cancer. But if you're that guy who thought smoking looked cool when you were 17, smoked though college and beyond, and next thing you know, you're a 65 year old with stage 3 lung cancer, do you deserve the same sympathy or empathy as the 38 year old yoga practicing, vegetarian mom of 3 who has rectal cancer and is racked with guilt because she might not see her youngest graduate from elementary school in 4 years?
See, cancer isn't always funny. But moments like this morning are few and far between for me. And for that, I am very thankful.
The smell... I relate to that! Truly chemo covered ALL of the senses for me. The sounds of chemo (the little "I'm almost out of poisonous toxins being dumped into my veins" ding-ding-dong buzzer that goes off as your bag empties) still make me cringe. For the first two years after chemo, I wore my IPOD in the lobby waiting room so I didn't have to hear the "chemo buzzer" things going off in the back rooms. Blah! It was also a visual thing for me: one of my first chemo meds was Adriamycin, or "the Red Devil" as they call it... wicked stuff. I watched that red devil drip into me week after week and felt so crazy sick afterward. I was at a friend's house one day (when I was still in treatment) and happen to notice a hummingbird feeder on her porch with that red sugar water. I am so embarrased to tell you when I saw it I almost fainted, and upon waking promptly ralphed on her porch. Nice, eh?
ReplyDeleteBetsy, we love when people share their ralphing stories! You rock!
ReplyDeleteI watched my Mum fight breast cancer for 7 years, taking every chemo drug (experimental and other)suffering an ugly death as the tumors choked off her airway and her body crumbled. Our family fell apart after her death. After 50 years of marriage my Dad was heartbroken and never the same. Now "That guy.." in the blog, is my 77 yr old Dad. In Sept he presented with Stage 4 lung cancer with a 6 mos prognosis. I'm home for Thanksgiving and in the last five days have seen him decline before my eyes. When its someone you love, it doesn't matter that they (as I say to myself only!) did this to themselves, its extremely painful to watch them suffer knowing you cannot help. It is selfishly painful to know that your life is going to change yet again and the family unit you knew is over and you are out there without a tether. I am doing everything I can to make my Dad comfortable, he knows what's going on and he's angrier than ever, but there is nothing else I can do or say. On Friday my brother's dermo told him he has developed a rare form of skin cancer that only 1500 people in the world get in a year; a side affect of the medication he was taking for psoriasis. Merry Christmas.....
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