That’s Dad. Me? Well, I am due for my six-month CT scan to see if the cancerous nodes in my stomach have grown. If you were to look at my actual stomach, you’d think they’d grown the size of a watermelon, because it’s clear I have a giant squash growing there. At the same time, I’m ditching my oncologist because, after making me wait an hour to see him, he spends my visits with his back to me, asking me questions, typing the answers on his laptop, and addressing the multiple laptop crashes. Then he turns to face me, pokes my stomach and underarms, and sends me off. I need a little more bedside manner. A little more face time. A little less technology.
One year ago in August, I started to get some bad leg and back pain, so I went to see my back surgeon. He looked at my MRI and said I needed two fusions. I fretted. I told him I really didn’t want another back surgery, and, as I was still talking, asking him what else I could possibly do, he was getting up and walking out of the room, telling me to call him when I was ready for surgery. So I ditched him, too. When I told my second-opinion doctor the story, he said, “Did he really do that?” but it didn’t sound like a question. Unfortunately, he agreed that I needed two fusions. The issue that took me to see the back doctor in the first place—some nerve damage and leg pain—has returned with ferocity. Back surgery looks imminent. Hooray.