Second Opinions

I'm beginning to realize that Cancer is a better narrator than I am. He's more exciting, he tells jokes, he's self confident, charismatic, and says pretty much whatever he likes. I, on the other hand, am supposed to dutifully tell the story of my disease and communicate the degree to which it's devastated our lives.  I knew I was in for a tough battle with Cancer, but I never imagined we were going to be judged against each other on likability.  Blogging is strange. Anyway...


I  really liked the doctors I met with initially, and understood their basic plan: first they would attack the tumor with chemotherapy and try to shrink it down some or at least stop it's growth. Next, they would surgically remove the tumor, and then finally zap me with radiation and more chemotherapy. Also, depending on what they find, the surgery would most likely be done laparoscopically -- meaning it would be minimally invasive in that they only cut a few small holes in you, put a camera inside you, and use specialized instruments designed to do the surgery. When you're done, the healing is much less traumatic in that you only have a few holes on your exterior and not giant cuts across your body.

I was ready to go. I wanted this tumor out of me as soon as possible. Let's do it! "Hold on," said everyone I know. "You need to get a second opinion." As impatient as I was, I knew they were right. We're talking about possibly removing my esophagus and attaching my stomach to my head. Plus, this is New York. It's not like it's hard to find a doctor.

So I met with another doctor who said many of the same things I'd previously heard, but the only opinions that meant anything to anyone were those of the doctors at Sloan Kettering Memorial Hospital, one the best cancer centers in the world. At first, it was going to take months to get an appointment, but some friends of mine knew some people there, and I had an appointment in three weeks. All I needed to do was to send my scans and medical information ahead of time.

When we got there, the place reminded my of a giant cancer department store. Each floor labeled in the elevator by department. Also, the place was packed. All I could think about was how many people in this crowded elevator had cancer.

When they finally called my name, we were again told to wait while the doctors reviewed my file.  We were supposed to meet with a top oncologist and a surgeon. When they called us in, there were also a number of other doctors, interns, and several others that were introduced to us so quickly, I couldn't catch who any of them were.

The first person to talk was the surgeon, who stood up, threw up his hands and said, "I do not see why I am here. It is far too early in the process for a surgeon to be called in." He went on to say a few more things about proper staging and other medical stuff, then turned and walked out of the room. One of the people there tried to explain his actions, but I was so thrown off that I couldn't listen. As it turns out, I did have a number of questions for the surgeon after the blue pen/yellow legal pad experience. Oh, well. The surgeon still wound up billing $425 for his time.

The oncologist, an obviously very smart man, didn't run out of the room, and instead explained a scenario very similar to what the first doctor said. They both believed chemotherapy was the right course of action; however, the first doctor wanted to start it right away, while the Sloan doctors wanted to do a fairly serious surgical procedure on me to determine the status of those spots on my lung. So I asked: If they are cancerous, what do you do then? Chemotherapy. And if they're not? Chemotherapy. So the choice was Chemotherapy now, or a little slicing and dicing, several weeks to months of healing, and then Chemotherapy.  I'm glad I liked the first doctor -- let's call him Dr. G.