It’s Hard To Be A Woman #10

In It’s Hard To Be A Woman #9, I recounted the shock I felt December 29—almost a month ago now—on realizing I had once again entered “Thyroid Crazy Land.”
One short day later (after the shock had worn off a bit), I was on my way to meet a new gynecologist.
If you read my book, you will remember that when I first found the lump (which I thought was a cyst), I did not panic and go get a mammogram right away. Instead, I went to have a pap smear and “while I was there,” I asked Dr. Morrison to take a look:

“Well, you’re right, it’s probably just a cyst,” Dr. Morrison said, observing my insides up on his screen. He frowned.
“It sure hurts,” I answered. “What would you do? Surgically remove it? Lance it?” I felt a shiver go up my spine at the word “lance.”
“I think I’m going to send you for a diagnostic mammogram.”
Before I knew it, I found myself not only getting a mammogram, but an ultrasound and an extensive biopsy in rapid succession.

I have not been back to Dr. Morrison since my breast cancer diagnosis almost five years ago. It’s not his fault. I love him. He delivered two of my babies (well, maybe I should say he had to yank them out through my stomach because they weren’t coming out the old-fashioned way) and we got along great. As much as one can get along with one’s gynecologist.
I’ve mentioned before how sick and tired I got of doctor appointment after doctor appointment during that dark time in my life. Gynecologic care just didn’t make the cut.
Fast forward several years to December, 2013, and in addition to earnestly trying to prevent a recurrence of breast cancer, I was trying to make sure I didn’t end up with some other hormonal cancer and if I did, I wanted to catch it early.
“Hello? I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Morrison,” I said calmly into the phone.
“I’m sorry. Dr. Morrison is no longer here,” the receptionist replied curtly.
“What? Where is he?” I asked in shock. Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to be at my beck and call?
“I don’t know, Ma’am.”
Oh yes, you do. You just don’t want to tell me.
A few short days later, I found myself sitting in the office of the new gynecologist, this time a woman. Her name was Dr. Susan Rivers and I liked her immediately.
“So, Marie, tell me why you’re here,” she directed, glancing down at the paperwork in her hands.
I immediately started to babble. Uncontrollably.
“Well, I really miss my old gynecologist, Dr. Morrison. Do you know him? I suspect he’s retired. Do you know where he’s at? Because, of course, I suspect all of you gynecologists here in town get together and have coffee all the time. You know, the receptionist over at his old office didn’t want to tell me where he was. It’s not like I’m going to stalk him. I just really want to give him a copy of my book. You see, I had cancer several years ago and during the whole wretched experience, I wrote a book—I still don’t know how I pulled that off, to be honest—and afterward, I gave a copy of it to all the other doctors I had: oncologist, surgeon, naturopaths—there were two of them, an old one and a new one—and let’s see… I gave a copy to the guy who did my breast reconstruction. Hm. What was I saying? Oh yes. I need to find Dr. Morrison. He was the doctor for two of my babies. Before I got cancer. I really liked him. I realize he has a life, Dr. Rivers, and would probably like to enjoy his retirement and everything. It’s just that I feel like I have a bit of a mental block about his office and that time in my life when I first found out I had cancer, because as you know, that visit didn’t go so well. It’s like I have some unfinished business….”
Oh. My. Goodness. This really was going to be another one of my thyroid episodes. What was I even here for? Maybe instead of this pap smear, I should have checked myself into the nearest lunatic asylum.

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