March 2022--I've been a bag of mixed emotions.
How can I feel grateful yet a little anxious? Sad yet happy? Excited yet resentful? Selfish yet understanding? Fearful yet calm?
I received a phone call from a woman who has been a huge source of support in my cancer journey. She’s been my “doctor nurse” assisting my oncologist with visits, orders for tests, counseling, follow-ups to concerns, sharing my test results—and overall providing some of the best smiles, laughter, and reassurance I was getting the best care possible.
Her name is Caitlin. She’s been my go-to for the past five or so years. I always could count on her to explain my test results, treatment plans, prognosis—everything—in terms I could understand. And most of all, I always could count on her to be honest, calm and professional.
I remember when I first met Caitlin, she explained to me that although she has her doctorate., I could not call her doctor. (She laughed and said her dad refers to her as his “doctor nurse” daughter.) I understood that. It’s usually just those with doctoral degrees working in an educational environment who preface their name with Dr. If she were working in a college, she’d want you to call her Dr. But working in a healthcare environment, one can only be called Dr. if they have a medical degree. So, to all of us who received care from her, she was Caitlin.
Caitlin called me the other day to give me the latest update on my most recent scan. When I first heard her voice, I didn’t know whether to be relieved that the news wasn’t coming from the doctor herself or to be nervous because Caitlin was usually the one to call me with bad news. She probably drew the short straw since the people in the office knew we had a rapport, and she could deliver the news in a manner that would keep me calm.
Once we finished the initial small talk, Caitlin began to explain the findings. More specifically, the area of most concern. She said this required an in-person visit with both of my oncologists so we could discuss the next steps. I should have been saddened to hear this—the cancer is progressing. But Caitlin’s voice made me feel like I shouldn’t worry. We concluded this part of the discussion with her letting me know she will contact team members so we can get this appointment scheduled.
I thought the conversation was over, but she said she had one more thing to tell me. And that she wanted to be the one to tell me this, so she requested she be the one to call. My heart sank. Her next words struck me like a cannon just exploded right through my chest. She said she is leaving. She’s been offered a new position working with lymphoma patients at a cancer center affiliated with an Ivy League school on the east coast.
I couldn’t say a word right away. So many thoughts running through my head I thought it would explode. And it took a bit to quell that swell. I was sad for me, but I was happy for her. I was grateful for the extraordinary care from her, but I was nervous about what lies ahead for me. So, that made me start feeling selfish. This wasn’t about me. This was about her—and all the wonderful things she’s going to be doing for lymphoma patients. I was a little angry—how could this place steal her away from me? From the other patients she’s been caring for? But after some time to think about it I realized this is an opportunity of a lifetime for her and in return for her new patients.
Just as I had to adjust to a new oncologist when mine retired, I know I will adjust to a new assistant. But there only will be one Caitlin.
As you shuffle through these medical challenges, your nerves—and your imagination—keep you on a wild ride. You go through “scanxiety” (thanks to Buddhi for that new term) each and every time you need new images. You fret before them, during them and after them until the doctor gives you the nod that you’re looking stable—for right now—or that there is a plan to deal with the progression.
You get into a routine and you’re comfortable. Feeling safe. Then there’s a change to that routine or the people you’ve been seeing and there’s a bit of anxiety that sweeps over you. I began seeing a new doctor when mine retired shortly after finishing chemotherapy. My first oncologist was old-school, and I loved that. She had such a warm and caring bedside manner. She even sat with me during chemo just rubbing my arm and talking about whatever I wanted to talk about. I thought I was going to fall apart when she left but I felt blessed I was under her care for the initial diagnosis.
She assigned me to a doctor who had been a following her for quite a few years. This new doctor seemed ok—but she was not like my first oncologist, and I struggled to feel a connection with her. I trusted my first doctor’s belief that this new doctor would be right for me, so I did not request a change. Instead, after a little while I talked to my new doctor about how I was feeling. We had a wonderful talk. She explained to me that it was tough to take over with patients who had been seeing a doctor the world—yes, the world—thought was a legend. So, I put myself in her shoes—newer doctor coming in to treat people who were used to their routine with the soon-to-retire doctor. Their personalities were different, their ages were different, but their methods were the same. After all, this new doctor learned from the best. And once I looked at this from her perspective and she learned more about me as a patient, we connected. And I wouldn’t change doctors for the world.
So, I’m going to have to adjust to a new assistant—a new Caitlin. It’s a little scary. Will this new assistant have a personality like Caitlin? Will he or she keep me smiling and laughing? Will this new person be able to keep me focused and calm? And most of all—will he or she keep me hopeful that just around the corner there may be a cure or maybe even a treatment that works? I sure hope so.
It was all I could think about. But then I told myself it was time to stop thinking about me and instead think about Caitlin and her new opportunities. I’m sure she’s a little nervous yet excited. A little sad yet happy. A little fearful yet calm.
There’s a lot of uncertainty for the future. But there are two things of which I am very certain.
Caitlin is going to do wonderful things in her new position. She has this deep-rooted passion and amazing drive. I have no doubt someday I’ll read about her making great strides in the treatment of lymphoma. And when I do, I’ll look back and think about how grateful I am that I was one of the ones who was fortunate enough to be cared for by her.
The second thing I’m certain of is that I will continue to receive the very best care possible.
Oh, and there is a third thing I’m certain of: I will never forget Caitlin.
I'm just going to have to
take it one day at a time.