I'm almost to the entrance to the store when I hear someone call out my name. I turn to see a mini van pulled right up to the curb beside me. She smiles as I lean in her window to say hi. She has warmth in her eyes and a bright, bright spirit.
She is the oncologist I was assigned to before the mix up was discovered. We know one another from time spent volunteering together in a community organization plus she was my doctor many years ago when she practised in a different Specialty. I'd been comforted knowing she was going to help me through my cancer journey because she is an incredible listener and advocate for her patients.
She talks about how she felt when my name came across her desk and how glad she is that I don't have to see her now. As I talk about how the experience has impacted me I am unprepared for the emotions that rise up within me, making talking difficult. The grief feels like it's radiating up from my bones and seeping out of my pores. "What's the matter with me?" I think to myself.
Tears well up as I tell her that I am changed because of the experience - for the better. I can't talk for the tears. Later, when I'm mulling our conversation over, so confused by the grief, I realize what I feel like I'm grieving for is the old me. The one I will never get back.
She is the oncologist I was assigned to before the mix up was discovered. We know one another from time spent volunteering together in a community organization plus she was my doctor many years ago when she practised in a different Specialty. I'd been comforted knowing she was going to help me through my cancer journey because she is an incredible listener and advocate for her patients.
She talks about how she felt when my name came across her desk and how glad she is that I don't have to see her now. As I talk about how the experience has impacted me I am unprepared for the emotions that rise up within me, making talking difficult. The grief feels like it's radiating up from my bones and seeping out of my pores. "What's the matter with me?" I think to myself.
Tears well up as I tell her that I am changed because of the experience - for the better. I can't talk for the tears. Later, when I'm mulling our conversation over, so confused by the grief, I realize what I feel like I'm grieving for is the old me. The one I will never get back.
2 comments:
Still thinking of you, Hope. It is my belief that the diagnosis changes everything. Blessings on you as you continue to grapple with your situation...
Hope, I love your honest writing. It's been a long time since I checked here.
All difficult situations change us irrevocably. I understand about grieving who you used to be. It takes time.
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