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On a good day, talking on the phone makes me anxious. Making appointments—no. I hate it so much.
Tomorrow, I have three appointments. The first is a bone scan in the morning at the Oshawa hospital, scheduled by my doctor. The second is an abdomen and head CT scan also in the morning at a hospital in Toronto, scheduled by the head and neck oncologist at Princess Margaret. The third is a full-body CT scan in the evening at the Oshawa hospital, scheduled by my doctor.
Then next week, I have a breast biopsy in the Oshawa clinic at the same time as the head and neck oncologist appointment at Princess Margaret.
Everything feels like a disaster.
I try to call the oral surgeon, who tells me to call the oncologist’s office. I call the oncologist’s office and try to explain, but the receptionist is abrupt.
“I need a full body CT scan,” I say. “I have one scheduled for the night. Can’t I just do a full body one with you guys?”
“We have you scheduled for an abdomen and neck one,” she says. “Are you sure it’s not a PET scan?”
“Look,” I say, “I’m not a doctor, but I was told it’s a CT scan. That’s what my doctor said. I need a full body one because I have breast cancer. That’s what the tumor in my mouth is.”
She tsks. “Let me talk to the oncologist.”
I call my doctor’s office. They don’t answer. This is routine; I’ve called before and left a message, and no one has gotten back to me for three days. I can’t handle that today, though.
I’m having a panic attack again, just when they started to subside. Why am I scheduled for everything on the same day? When will I see someone? When can I fucking start treatments?
Kevin leaves to go to their office in person and talk to someone about this shit. While he’s gone, the oral surgeon’s office calls me. I don’t hear half of what she says. I text him, I don’t know what a nervous breakdown looks like, but I think we’re about to find out.
Sheila, the nurse, calls me immediately. “We’re going to get this worked out,” she says.
I didn’t actually feel like I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. The Ativan is helping, even though the bodybuilding butterflies are looking at me askance. But apparently threatening that I was losing it helped. I feel a little guilty… but then I don’t.
If I thought I was acting like a diva after having twins, I’m a fucking rockstar diva now. There’s no screwing around with this shit.
“We’ll figure out the appointments,” she says. “Call the bone scan and reschedule it to Friday, and we’ll get your CT scan changed to be a full body one in Toronto.”
Good. I can do that. I mean, I don’t like to do that, but I call the hospital and reschedule the bone scan.
The doctor’s office calls me back. It’s all sorted out.
Full body CT scan tomorrow.
Bone scan on Friday.
Biopsy on Wednesday the 8th.
Meeting with the oncologist on the 15th.
That’s a fucking long way off. Cancer, you’d better retreat for a while, you bastard motherfucker.
I can be patient. I can wait.
After all, I have God. And my Ativan.
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