But I’ve become frustrated by his uninterest in anything I might be doing to support my own health, or any research or suggestions I’ve come across for credible supportive or adjuvant treatments, all of which are swiftly dismissed.
#BRAVE WORDS PROFESSIONAL#
I have no reason to doubt my oncologist’s professional expertise and deep knowledge of his chosen field.
How kindness can make a difference in cancer care Even if this was his sincerely held professional view, would it have killed him to say something vaguely positive like, “It’s great that you are being so proactive about supporting your health”? Or a kind-hearted white lie, even if he didn’t actually believe it: “You’re doing great. His response seems designed to ensure I never again have the impertinence to ask such a question, or to attribute any therapeutic powers to my own lifestyle interventions. “Some of my patients are doing better than you, some worse. “About average,” he eventually declares, coolly. He briefly ponders this unscripted moment, as if I’ve just told a joke he doesn’t quite get. I pose, opening the way for him to offer some soothing words of encouragement. “I follow a strict diet, exercise and meditate daily, do everything I can to support my health. I’m talking about my feelings and expecting him to respond, a betrayal of our unspoken doctor–patient contract up to this point. I work really hard at this,” I begin tentatively.
#BRAVE WORDS FULL#
He has a waiting room full of patients and is already running an hour behind schedule. My oncologist does not appear pleased by this development. I walk towards the door, pause, turn and announce, “Oh, one more thing”. The lack of opportunity for a more wide-ranging conversation about treatment options, how I’m holding up emotionally and strategies to mitigate the life-sapping side effects of treatment just feels wrong. The author after finishing chemotherapy (on left) in his driver’s licence photo and one year later. The final straw comes about four years after my diagnosis of stage four metastatic prostate cancer, as I stand up to leave another perfunctory ten-minute consultation after an hour’s wait. My oncologist takes a cursory glance at my latest blood test results, usually tells me to continue the medication I’m on, writes me a script for another blood test and tells me to come back in four to six weeks. I sit and wait for anywhere up to an hour or more, in an atmosphere thick with dread and stress and anxiety, whiling away the time on my phone or with a trashy magazine, until my name is called. Yet the routine of the oncologist’s visit feels deeply dispiriting. I don’t wish to appear ungrateful for the miracles of modern medicine, without which I very probably would not be alive. One day, bored with the long purgatory of the waiting room, I tweet this news to the world with the observation: “If I trusted my instincts, I’d run screaming from this place and never come back.” My oncologist has one of those little motivational prints hanging on his waiting room wall, with the simple statement, “Trust Your Instincts”.
0 kommentar(er)
