Yesterday, I had an appointment with an oncologist. An oncologist. Regis and I joked that we were going to see an oinkologist...a specialist for people who really like bacon.
I don't think I had thought through, in my head, where I was going and why so this was a day of reckoning.
We walked in and there are posters for cancer support groups, brochures about wigs and scarves, and chemo chairs. What the hell. I thought it odd that the nurse asked about my appetite. I ran into Bonnie, a woman I used to work with...who has cancer...and no hair. Baldness could be my future.
The oncologist asked if I would be interested in being part of a clinical trial. It's a Level 3 trial where they decide based on patient outcomes, if this protocol should be the standard of care. He made it sound like a very exclusive club so I asked about the criteria to qualify. He said this and that, this and that but in my mind, you qualify by wearing ass kickin' boots to appointments, by photoshopping crowns onto your pictures, and by using fuck three times or more in a single paragraph.
I'm trying to find a balance between attention to all the details that this seems to require and a healthy sense of life goes on in spite of all this shit. I don't want breast cancer to be all I talk about or think about and I don't want pink to be the only color I wear!
Enough about that.
Regis and I are making a plan for the day. Make yours a good one!