Friday, May 11, 2007
Watch your back, Beatty.
We were standing in the Oncologist's waiting room last week when Mark nodded to someone over my shoulder. I turned around and saw the back of a doctor heading out the door. I turned back to Mark and raised an eyebrow. He said, "Dr. Beatty."
I blanched. THE Dr. Beatty who traumatized me the day after my diagnosis? I don't think I would even remember what he looked like- I had erased his image out of my memory for self preservation's sake. He was the surgeon who presented my diagnosis as if it was grim, very grim. then he layed out the treatment plan as if it was the only option: immediate induction to get the baby out. radical mastectomy in one week. Chemo after that. Then radiation. I had asked if I had choices. No, he had said. 50% survival rate if you do the mastectomy alone. chemo brings the survival rate up. I nearly passed out.
He walked out of the room and I collapsed in tears. My mother jumped up and said, "no, NO! Do not listen to him! We will talk to someone else!" After he walked back in the room, I watched him interract with the intern who was shadowing him. He talked down to her. He made her feel stupid in front of us when she couldn't come up with an answer to one of his questions. I hated him for that. So, I narrowed my eyes, and began to drill him. He didn't like that one bit- he didn't want to give me more information. He wouldn't answer all my questions. He kept saying, "Whoa, we don't need to go into that now." Excuse me? You do not need to answer my questions? I nearly jumped off the table and kicked him in the shins.
I left there feeling broken, angry and so afraid I could barely walk. But, I was determined to get a second opinion.
Good thing I did. I found out breast cancer is never an emergency. I had time to make a decision. Chemotherapy first to reduce the tumor makes the surgery more successful. Those survival rates were bogus. AND I found out from multiple sources within, and outside Swedish that he is a very poor surgeon. "He really should retire" is what I heard more than once.
Standing in the oncologist's waiting room I asked, "Do you think anyone would notice if I ran after him, tackled him to the floor and tried to poke out his eyeballs?"
Mark said, "I'm sure a few people would cheer. Better yet, shove his arm behind his back until he agrees to say, 'I am an arrogant asshole.'"
I smiled...and felt thankful for how far I had come from that terrible day three months ago. He took me down then, but now, I could take him down in a heartbeat.
I blanched. THE Dr. Beatty who traumatized me the day after my diagnosis? I don't think I would even remember what he looked like- I had erased his image out of my memory for self preservation's sake. He was the surgeon who presented my diagnosis as if it was grim, very grim. then he layed out the treatment plan as if it was the only option: immediate induction to get the baby out. radical mastectomy in one week. Chemo after that. Then radiation. I had asked if I had choices. No, he had said. 50% survival rate if you do the mastectomy alone. chemo brings the survival rate up. I nearly passed out.
He walked out of the room and I collapsed in tears. My mother jumped up and said, "no, NO! Do not listen to him! We will talk to someone else!" After he walked back in the room, I watched him interract with the intern who was shadowing him. He talked down to her. He made her feel stupid in front of us when she couldn't come up with an answer to one of his questions. I hated him for that. So, I narrowed my eyes, and began to drill him. He didn't like that one bit- he didn't want to give me more information. He wouldn't answer all my questions. He kept saying, "Whoa, we don't need to go into that now." Excuse me? You do not need to answer my questions? I nearly jumped off the table and kicked him in the shins.
I left there feeling broken, angry and so afraid I could barely walk. But, I was determined to get a second opinion.
Good thing I did. I found out breast cancer is never an emergency. I had time to make a decision. Chemotherapy first to reduce the tumor makes the surgery more successful. Those survival rates were bogus. AND I found out from multiple sources within, and outside Swedish that he is a very poor surgeon. "He really should retire" is what I heard more than once.
Standing in the oncologist's waiting room I asked, "Do you think anyone would notice if I ran after him, tackled him to the floor and tried to poke out his eyeballs?"
Mark said, "I'm sure a few people would cheer. Better yet, shove his arm behind his back until he agrees to say, 'I am an arrogant asshole.'"
I smiled...and felt thankful for how far I had come from that terrible day three months ago. He took me down then, but now, I could take him down in a heartbeat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)