They’re beginning to feel like part of my regular routine, these quarterly visits with my oncologist. We’ve met for a year now, since my surgery last summer that nobody – doctors, tests, and least of all Earl and me – thought was particularly serious but ended with an ovarian cancer diagnosis.
It was caught early enough that I did not need follow up chemo or radiation. I guess that makes me one of the few lucky ones, since ovarian cancer has no symptoms until it’s progressed further along. But I still must check in with my doctor, because nothing is absolute when cancer is involved.
We met him this morning, and he ran down the usual list of questions. Any problems? Any pain? Any change? No, no, and no. Anything else? Not really; just some weight gain.
In his world, I’m probably not a very interesting case. A good outcome, sure. A success story. Absolutely. But just a straightforward surgery with no complications that challenged his skills either in the operating room or since.
So I asked, “What makes an interesting case for you?” He looked confused. “I mean, you see cancer patients all day long; what is it that keeps you going?”
I realize it’s a little strange to engage in philosophical discussion with one’s doctor, especially when he’s got you flat on your back on the examining table. But I wanted to know. As his patient, I’ve come to appreciate not only his medical skills but also his compassionate manner.
He looked me square in the eyes. “What keeps me going is getting to Friday when I don’t have to tell patients bad news. Nobody wants to hear their lives may be shortened.”
His answer caught me off guard. I thought maybe he would mention hoping to find a cure for a particular cancer or saving a patient where the odds were against it. Or telling another patient it wasn’t cancer in the first place. Instead, I got a small glimpse into the most difficult part of an oncologist’s work.
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