In fact, until my Augusta oncologist suggested earlier this month that I go see one, I had never even heard of such a thing. But one of Sheri's friends had.
“Yes. She said a palliative provides
end-of-life care.”
“Well. That's good to... Wait. What?!
End-of-when care?”
“End-of-life. She says people
normally see a palliative doctor when their illness has brought them
close to death and he helps them deal with the pain- physical, mental
and spiritual.”
“Well. That certainly seems like the
type of thing I would use. Good to know it's available. I just didn't
think I needed it now. I thought my oncologist said this new guy
would help me deal with the pain in my stomach?”
“Maybe he does that sort of thing
too. I'm just telling you what my friend says each time she hears me
say you're going to a palliative care specialist.”
Look, I was 98% sure that I was to see
this person to help me deal with my pain, but we all know paying
attention isn't always one of my strengths. You mix in a large dollop
of denial, and there is a chance, small though it may be, that I
missed something. Just remember, my doctors and nursing staff told me
over and over, from day one, that there was no cure for multiple
myeloma, but it was a year before I actually heard them and processed
what that meant.
Anyway, we went to the appointment, and
once again found ourselves walking the corridors of the hospital,
looking for yet another new office (with the help of one of the
wonderful volunteers), past places we'd already looked for answers,
past many people who seemed worse off than I was, to arrive at the
latest location in our search for hope.
As I answered the usual intake
questions, Sheri casually inquired what sort of doctor we were
seeing.
“Palliative care.”
“Right, but what does a palliative
care doctor... do?”
“Oh,” the nice lady doing the
intake said, “End-of-life care, physical, mental, spiritual.”
I wish I could leave a large chunk of
white space here. It would be the only thing that could adequately
convey how we felt when she said that. Eventually...
Me to Sheri: Did you hear the
oncologist say anything about end-of-life?
Sheri to me: No. I thought he said this
was to help you deal with the pain.
The fact that Sheri was somewhat
stunned was disconcerting. She's always the one who has the proper
grasp on what's going on.
Me to the nice lady: I thought my
oncologist sent me here to deal with my pain?
Nice lady: Well, he does that too. I'm
sure that's why you're here.
Whether it was the way she said it, or
the way I heard, her answer fell a little short of providing the
comfort I'm sure she intended.
Then we met the doctor and the whole
end-of-life thing became something we agreed we could make an
appointment for in the future, hopefully the distant future, but for
now he wanted to talk about my stomach pain. And talk we did.
Just so you know that I am capable of
restraint: as part of his questioning, he asked what other
specialists I had seen. I told him, but really, really wanted to add
that I was going to see a voodoo specialist but I heard you had to
bring your own chicken. (Sorry, it never gets old.) But I didn't! I
did point out to him, however, that I was seeing him only after I had
already seen an acupuncturist and a medical intuitive, so...
That was just me being an ass, by the
way. Both those people had helped me a lot, and I'd actually made the
appointment to see him before I saw either one of them. But,
restraint is relative- you can look it up.
As we talked, Sheri and I felt our hope
actually stay with us, rather than fading. While the tests showed
that there was nothing physically wrong with my gall bladder, none of
them really assessed how my gall bladder was working. In other words,
it could be like that car you bought from the local shopper- it
looked great, but didn't work so well. He also prescribed a medicine
that would help deal with excess stuff (bile? Acid? Don't remember)
that could be getting into my stomach.
Or it might be something else entirely.
But at least it gives us hope that we might have found the
long-sought solution, and in the Arnold house, we eat hope with a
spoon.
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”
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