30 March 2008
It seems like all I am doing lately is waiting. It’s like the world has slowed and stopped, and nothing is moving forward. I am waiting, but what am I waiting for?
When I was a teenager, I wrote a short poem that said something about waiting for spring, for life and rebirth. Now, at 52, spring is here again, and I am still waiting.
I am waiting to hear from Social Security. They should have all my paperwork, yet they claim they do not. I am tired of waiting for them; they don’t want to help me, they want to hinder me. I am done with waiting. This week, I will go to them, and demand action.
I am waiting for my landlord/apartment manager to cash my rent money for March. He has still not cashed it out. I was one day late, and e-mailed him to apologize profusely and ask for a break in terms of the late fee, but I have yet to get a response. I am waiting to hear from him, waiting for him to cash the rent money, waiting to arrange to go meet R., since G. offered (G. is my ex-landlord and R.’s friend. And maybe even mine.).
I am waiting for May, to plant my seeds. May is a long way off, or at least it seems that way right now.
I am waiting to hear from HEAP (they help out with heating bills in the winter. Yes, I know it’s spring. I still have not heard from them.).
I am waiting for my promised coupons for my converter boxes so I will have television next year. I ordered them in the beginning of February. They said it would take 2-3 weeks. They are still not here. I wrote down the reference number, but not the phone number I called to order them.
I am waiting to hear from D., knowing what a slim thread that hope hangs by.
And worst of all, I am waiting for surgery on my vulva, to cut away this frightening part of myself, waiting for my own mutilation. I have been waiting two months to find out the diagnosis, to get my questions answered, to make a decision. Yesterday, one piece of this ugly puzzle was sent to me by my gynecologist.
Who is no longer my gynecologist.
She is dumping me as a patient. How else do I understand these words: “At this point I feel that I have answered your questions the best that I can and I am more than willing to transfer your records as necessary. Good Luck in the future.”
Of course I am angry. Of course I am terrified. Of course I am left more lost than ever, having no idea now what I need to do about this surgery. Yes, I have decided to have it. And now I have no idea who will see me and who will do it.
I am hurt. All I tried to do was to get answers to questions I needed to ask before I could make a decision. I had a friend online who happened to work for a gynecological oncologist; she happened to offer to ask her boss to take a look at my records for a second opinion. I felt that J. was incredibly kind to do that, and that Dr. H. was gracious for agreeing to give an opinion. I thought it was a wonderful thing that happened, that helped me understand this better in my own mind, feel a little better about it, and begin to form an idea of what I needed to do.
Dr. G. wrote: “I appreciate your need to understand what is going on, but when a second opinion is offered it is not typically something that is done via conversation with another physician . . . .”
She is angry at me because I got another opinion from a well-respected expert who just happens to be in another state entirely and who just happened to agree when his employee asked him if he’d mind taking a look at my records!
And now she is dumping me, leaving me alone in this terrifying quagmire, unwilling to clarify any answers, and not even willing to see me again, even for a Pap test.
I cannot believe this. I am devastated. It is hard enough as it is for me to endure any gynecological examination; I am one of those women who finds a yearly Pap test something just short of a mini-rape. As a rape victim, I am allowed to say that. It is invasive, it is humiliating, it is frightening, and it is painful. And after this, I do not think I will ever have another one again.
I went to her because someone else did an x-ray, or MRI, or some such thing, for something else entirely. And an ovarian cyst showed up. This last visit was supposed to be the last time she checked the cyst regularly (every three to six months for a year or two), and I was supposed to simply go to a once-a-year Pap test/cyst check. And then I noticed the white spots on my vulva, and asked about them. And this nightmare began.
I don’t know where to turn. Do I call her nurse? Do I try to find another doctor on my own? Call my new psychologist and ask her for help? Do I ask my doctor for a referral? I am lost, and a terrified child right now, wondering why I keep getting kicked by the Universe when all I try to do is be a decent person and survive.
Making phone calls is something that I am finding harder and harder to do. I make one call, they tell me they can’t help me and give me another number. I cry for an hour, try the second number another day, and they tell me they can’t help and give me a third number. I am overwhelmed, frustrated, and feeling like I cannot handle any of this anymore.
I don’t want to call anyone anymore. I don’t want to hear another “No.” I don’t want to be in this position.
I am tired, and sick, and sick of being tired and sick. Every time I stick my head out of my shell and try to make something a little better, I get stomped on. And I still have no answers, and still I wait.
Today is the anniversary of the suicide of a friend of mine. He was a retired social worker, in his 70s, and he jumped off a tall building. I understand why he did it, I think. His marriage had failed (his third marriage). He had had open heart surgery, and could not do a lot of the things he used to be able to do. He had no work to make him feel useful and part of the world. He was alone. And long ago, his sister had thrown herself off a building in the same area that he chose to do the same thing. He loved his sisters more than anyone in the world, and he had lost both of them.
I miss him. And although I am not inclined to follow his lead, there are days that I wonder if he did not do the right thing. I know some may be horrified by that statement, but sometimes – not all the time, not even most of the time – but sometimes, it is the right thing to do to take your own death in your hands and end the suffering.
I miss you, P.; you brought much light and laughter into many lives, and that will never be forgotten.
