So Much for Drama

This is one of those posts where I offer my friends and family the opportunity to laugh their heads off at me. If this doesn't appeal to you, please make sure your head is fully fastened on before reading further.

Ready? Good.

Today we went to see the surgeon at Dana-Farber, with a view to scheduling surgery. I had written out a whole long list of questions, and we got there in plenty of time for our 11 AM appointment.

The surgeon was an hour late, which gave us many opportunities to overhear the conversations around us -- particularly the folks right behind us who were playing a protracted round of My Chemo's Worse Than Your Chemo, to the non-delight of their involuntary audience.

Shortly after we were settled in the room, the surgeon came running in. "I'm SO SOORRRRRY!" I was taken aback because in all my years of consuming medical services, I've never had a surgeon -- a faculty member at the Harvard Medical School no less -- apologize to me for anything. I mean, where does the doctoral dignity go from there?

This lady apparently doesn't rely on the fear/deference of her patients to make her feel like the Big Woman On Campus. She sat down, and we had a brief conversation about what I wanted to do and what she thought was advisable. Turns out that if I want the surgery at one of the two hospitals she works at in Boston, I will have to wait till mid to late August, but if I want to schlep down to Braintree during rush hour, I could have it done next week.

Oh, I said. It's day surgery.

Oh yes, she averred. Three hours or so of prep, two hours of surgery, an hour of recovery time, and home again. She even uses dissolving sutures, so there's no post-op trip to get the stitches out.

And the little self-indulgent fantasy I had of people tiptoeing respectfully into my (spacious, flower-filled) hospital room, moving past the gently buzzing pumps and glowing computer screens to press my hand and whisper their affection -- that little fantasy sighed and died.

Instead, I get to make sure there's clean sheets on the bed for me to crawl between when I get back home. And the next day, other than a little soreness, I should be as good as ever. I can even take a shower. No heavy lifting and no swimming for two weeks, by which time we should have the pathology report. In other words, the hard part isn't the surgery -- the hard part is the chemo. I might need help with one grocery store run, but that's it.

Heck, I don't even need to get pre-approval from the insurance company. It's day surgery, and I only need approval for hospital stays.

How totally deflating.

(I did speak to the surgeon about wanting copies of everything, which she totally understood. She also immediately printed out copies of my blood tests and chest x-ray, and told us exactly how Bravest would be involved in the process on the day of. And she gave me a hug as we left. No Dignified Doctors, no Hospital Room Drama -- as a soap opera, this whole event is made of fail.)

Oh, I opted for Boston. Even if I left home at 6:30 AM, I couldn't be sure I'd make it to Braintree by 9:00. So it will either be Brigham & Womens or Faulkner Hospital. The latter has been famous for breast work since the days of Susan Love. Either is cool with me.