I’ll be going to see my oncologist this coming Thursday for the normal scheduled check-up. I’m utterly dreading this – not because of the perhaps more usual fear of recurrence (I’m really not concerned; if there’s anything brewing in my bones, breasts, or brain*, it won’t be detectable as of yet) but because I’ll have to talk to her.
I don’t want to.
This is the oncologist who failed to inform me of the long term permanent effects of chemotherapy, and I need to talk to her about that. Not so much for me – that bell’s rung, and I’m not overly hopeful of solutions, though maybe I’m wrong – but so she knows.
And as much as I may seem to dwell on those effects (at least judging from this blog):
I don’t want to talk about it, it doesn’t do any good, it’s pointless, and upsetting; going over and over the damage, the pointless suffering, all the ways in which I’m broken, all the fine details. The devil in the details.
What I want to do is run away…
…but I’d only bring myself along.
*most likely spots – well, organs too, particularly the lights and liver, but that would have ruined the alliteration.