Well, that’s it. You can’t die now. I forbid it. There’s now way I’m bringing a child into this world that doesn’t know its father. Nope, dying is not allowed.
It was almost funny adding pregnancy to everything that was happening with Stan’s cancer and a thoughtless Navy. I honestly think I would have laughed if I’d had enough energy to spare, but as it was, I used it all up thinking of ways to save my husband.
I’m not sure when it started — like the mindless eating, the mission to save Stan began subtly, slowly, and had become all-consuming before I realized how I even felt about it. I mean, I’d get protective and irritated when I felt like someone had treated Stan ill, but by and large, I’d always thought that he could take care of himself.
Now, I was watching him waste away, and I was carrying his unborn child to boot. No, it was clear that my help was needed in making sure Stan got what help he deserved. Like with Petty Officer Scheisskopf. And now we were headed to an appointment with an oncologist. I silently prayed that this doctor wouldn’t prove to be as useless as Stan’s corpsman.
The oncologist was in Corpus Christi, a city about 15 miles away. Corpus Christi had a Naval Air Station (NAS) on it, a base complete with a NEX, a Commissary, housing within base limits, and resources for the families there. I wondered idly what God was thinking when they stationed Stan at Ingleside. Truly, it was a wretched assignment, and seeing Corpus Christi’s NAS only 15 miles away seemed more like a middle finger from heaven than anything else.
Dr. Hassan’s office was just inside Corpus Christi’s city limits. Stan and I walked through the door, and I looked around the waiting room as he checked in. There was a large tank of salt water fish on one end of the room, a stack of cancer magazines on the other end, and the seating was plush leather.
Guess they’re trying to make terminally ill people comfortable, I thought as I sat. But they’re still going to die. Because it’s cancer.
Don’t get me wrong — I knew intellectually that there were plenty of people who survived cancer, but I’m not sure there is any way to divorce cancer from contemplation of death. Years later, at a cancer group I attended, I would meet a woman who had early stage breast cancer. The doctors were able to ensure her recovery, effectively curing her, but she would tell us how she still contemplated her own death, despite her full recovery.
And now we had a baby on the way, which made Stan’s survival that much more important. Death was not even an option.
Stan finished checking in and sat down next to me, taking my hand. He looked tired, haggard. I wasn’t sure I believed him when he said he was happy about another baby. We’d both talked about how we wanted at least one more child, but that was before Stan got sick. Now, I was torn between pangsof guilt for being excited about having another baby, feelings of selfishness that I thought about the baby as much as I thought about Stan, loathing for God and his impeccable timing, and a consuming hatred for anything that got in my husband’s way.
The nurse at the counter called Stan’s name and brought us back to the exam room. She took his vitals, asked him how he was, and told us that Dr. Hassan would be with us shortly. I noticed more cancer magazines in this room, too, with middle-aged and elderly men and women smiling from the cover. That was another thing I found incredibly unfair: Stan was 27 years old. Why did he get cancer? Where were the magazine photos of people his age?
Dr. Hassan knocked and entered the exam room. He was a handsome Pakistani man who looked to be in his early thirties, with pleasant brown skin and thick black hair. His white teeth and easy smile contrasted with his coffee-colored skin. He introduced himself and asked Stan how he was doing. Before Stan could answer, a nurse knocked and poked her head in, telling Dr. Hassan that the hospital was on the phone for him again. Dr. Hassan apologized and excused himself. I clenched my jaw.
After a few minutes, he returned and asked Stan again how he was doing.
“Fine, good,” Stan answered. I hated it when Stan did that. You’d never know he was sick at all by the way he talked.
“Ah well. Good,” replied Dr. Hassan. “It looks like your diagnosis of Primary Cutaneous B-Cell Lymphoma is nothing to worry about. All you’re really faced with is tumors on the skin, but they can be excised without a problem.” He looked as though he would continue, but he got called away again by the nurse.
I felt the color rise in my neck and ears. Who the hell was this doctor, anyway? Another Scheisskopf? My husband was sick, damnit!
Dr. Hassan returned again, this time to meet my scowl when he apologized for stepping out again.
“Like I said, it’s nothing to worry about,” he told Stan. He was about to turn and go when he saw my expression and hesitated, about to say something else when the nurse came in again, telling him that he was needed on the phone.
This had to be some sort of joke. First an incompetent corpsman/wannabe surgeon, and now a trained oncologist who had no time for us and told my weakening husband that he had nothing to worry about. Yes, it had to be a joke. Because taking it seriously made me want to get violent.
Dr. Hassan entered the room once more, with apologies, and thanked Stan and I for coming.
“Wait a minute,” I said hotly. “You said that this cancer is just in the skin?”
“Yes,” Dr. Hassan answered, looking unsure of what to make of my agitated state.
“Well then, how do you explain the night sweats Stan’s been having for the last six months?” I asked, feeling my voice rise. “How to you explain the weight loss he’s had, the stomach flu that sent him to the ER when it only gave me cramps? How do you explain all that? Because I’ve done a little bit of research and the fever and weight loss and compromised immune system are all symptoms of systemic cancer, not just bits on the skin. So how are you going to explain that to me?”
Dr. Hassan looked at Stan again and then turned back to me. “I’ll send the tissue sample back to pathology,” he answered. “It is unusual for those kinds of symptoms to show up with just a legion in the skin.” He looked at Stan again. “If all of those things your wife said are happening, we need to do some more tests.”
Stan nodded. I breathed a little easier. At least I got the doctor’s attention; I shuddered to think of what would have happened if I’d not come with Stan today and he left thinking that everything was supposed to be all right, that legions in the skin were all he had to worry about.
It looked like Dr. Hassan might be an okay doctor, though I wasn’t sure about his professionalism, as he got called out of the exam room a fourth time, just as we were leaving.
On the way out of the office, I stopped at the front desk and expressed my irritation at Dr. Hassan’s leaving so often during our appointment. I didn’t want to say anything, but the nurse asked me how the appointment went and I couldn’t really help but unload. I felt unimportant, I felt like Stan was unimportant, and that Dr. Hassan was unprofessional. The nurse apologized and mentioned that she’d pass it on to Dr. Hassan. We left.
Then, about three hours later, when Stan had gone back to work, I got a call from the oncologist’s office, surprised to discover that it was Dr. Hassan himself on the other line.
“My nurses told me that you were upset that I kept leaving during your appointment,” he said. I felt my defenses go up.
“That’s right,” I answered.
“I’m sorry about that,” Dr. Hassan continued, “but there was a 19 year-old boy in the ER dying of brain cancer and the doctors there didn’t know what to do, so they kept calling me.” He hesitated and I kept quiet, feeling mixed. I don’t think I’d want to have a doctor insist that he had patients to see if I was the 19 year-old in the ER with brain cancer.
“I care about my patients!” Dr. Hassan finally said, with passion. I smiled in spite of myself, appreciating his intensity. “If your husband was the one in the hospital, I would pay just as much attention to him.”
I nodded, and then realized that Dr. Hassan couldn’t see me, so I said, “Yes, I would, thank you.”
“I care about my patients,” he said again; he was quieter this time, but his voice carried the same passion. “I want you and your husband to know that.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “And thank you for calling me yourself. I appreciate it.” I hung up the phone feeling a deep relief. Maybe we had finally gotten lucky with Dr. Hassan. It wasn’t so much that he apologized that gave me relief; it was his emphasis, his intensity. I really believed him when he said he cared about his patients. And Dr. Hassan’s passion was so refreshing after the insufferable indifference we seemed to meet in the Navy. Maybe Stan would get the treatment he deserved now. Maybe he’d be live.
Then I wouldn’t be a widow, and our baby could know its father.
© 2012
