Suffocating

Ain’t nothing normal about my new “normal.”

My medical oncologist just retired. 

And I find myself emotionally flailing and suffocating. I have been sobbing in ugly, snot-dripping-from-my-nose fashion, with my face all puffy and eyes all red. Drowning in despair, I’ve been having trouble breathing lately, and I have had to concentrate on slowing down and deepening my breaths. 

Since my cancer diagnosis 23 years ago, I always had someone looking out for me medically. And my oncologist was a stellar watchman throughout these years. He is brilliant in the oncology field, but he also is immensely kind. He treats his patients as family members. And he returns patients’ calls immediately. 

Not all oncologists are so patient-centered. One whom I had sought out post-diagnosis told me I was as good as dead. I’ve heard similar stories from others’ interactions with oncologists. Not that all these specialists are nasty; many are excellent. 

It’s just difficult to find the right one.

My oncologist was my rock. I have been lucky to have him in my corner for so many years. Not just in trying his best to save my life, but in being a positive force in my life. 

For example, during my process of adopting a baby girl from China, the Chinese government needed proof that, given my cancer history, I was now in good health. He wrote a stellar letter on my behalf, which the country accepted. He wrote a letter to my oppressive boss that treatments would interfere with my work hours and that I was not to do the overtime she demanded. 

He was a sounding board of support during my divorce and referred me to a stellar psychotherapist. And he supported my decision to get a double mastectomy with DIEP Flap reconstruction. He wrote a letter to my insurance company stating the medical necessity of this procedure. 

He was my advocate and always looked out for me. 

Now that he’s retired, I feel like an astronaut whose lifeline has been abruptly cut, and I’m floating away into dark space without oxygen. 

With my other doctors’ exodus from their practices this year, I refused to leave my medical group because I refused to give up my oncologist. My medical group has been great, but it’s almost an hour drive each way to each physician’s office. For years, I figured that if my oncologist retired, I would seek a sound medical group close to home. 

Well, it’s that time. True to my word, I just changed medical groups. I can’t get in touch with my oncologist to get a recommendation for another oncologist who’s associated with the new group and hospital. I’m in the process of getting records sent to the new staff.

Right now – for the first time since cancer diagnosis – I have no medical professional looking out for me. 

I just added a primary care physician I don’t know. Hell, I know nobody in this medical group. I have to start from scratch and also get a new pulmonologist and oncologist. I’m terrified. 

A friend will accompany me to the new-oncologist appointment whenever I get a new doctor. Chicago Magazine thankfully has an annual list of the best doctors in the Chicago area. My friend, in her efforts to assuage my panicking, found one of their lists online and scrolled down to the field of medical oncology. Two supposedly great medical oncologists are affiliated with my new medical group. I’m hoping these two are gems.

I’ve even been thinking about no longer seeing an oncologist. Do I really need one, after all this time? This is my moment to throw all caution to the wind. Then I remember a number of people who developed metastatic breast cancer twenty-plus years after their initial diagnoses. So, yes, I need a medical oncologist.

When I get panicky and depressed, I tend to avoid all things that make me feel better. This week, the last thing I wanted to do was focus on artwork, for I was feeling all shades of sorry for myself. 

But I forced myself to show up to the canvas and finish a simpler piece of art, the cloud painting I started a while ago (see below). 

In this painting, I focused on the contrast of darks and lights, making the entire painting show more light. This included lightening up the Thalo Blue.  Payne’s Gray inhabits some clouds, as they actually appeared before a storm that night. But I’m naming the artwork The Storm Before the Calm to reflect my current mood. Right now I’m in an emotional upheaval, but I think I will eventually reach a state of calm. And I’m glad I painted because it has improved my mental state.

I’ve learned that when I’m down, I need to lean into art to lift me up. 

First draft of The Storm Before the Calm

Final Painting