the eyes have it, bedside manners, and please pray

Last Saturday I went in for my routine annual eye exam. "Doc," I said, "I've had this odd vein-thing for a while." He looked. And looked again. "How long has it been there?" he asked. Panic started to kick in. I gave a rough estimate of more than 3 months but less than 6, explained that I reasoned it was just a burst blood vessel from lifting weights, and commenced the internal kicking of one's rear and smacking of one's forehead. Seriously Allison? He explained that it was not a blood vessel but pigmentation, and ought to be checked out sooner rather than later. I kicked and smacked myself again. Seriously? I am a walking talking skin cancer risk. Very fair skin, very dark hair, blue eyes = cancer, cancer, cancer.

Me and my still-numb eyes walked out to the car and, in the middle of the crosswalk, recalled something about my grandmother. She died a few months before I was born, and I know little about her. Frugal, made my mother re-use her brown paper lunch bag. Strict, took "wash your mouth out with soap" literally, and passed this on to my mother who stocked a small half-bath off the kitchen with liquid hand soap and a toothbrush. And had a glass eye.

I phoned my mother and asked the cause of my grandmother's death. A rare intraoccular melanoma. I lost it. Those yellow numbing drops, by the way, do come out of shirt sleeves with a hearty swipe of Fels-Naptha.

Then got it back. Decided that I could live with one eye. Decided to cut off my hair if I needed chemo. Made a mental note to get medical wishes, power-of-attorney, and will in order. And so on.

I knew exactly the two specialists I needed to see, and I wanted everything done Right Now. A flurry of phone calls to my retired eye surgeon uncle, physician aquaintances, and my friend's friend who once dated a resident at this particular hospital ensued. Nothing. In the midst of all those calls, I prayed for a quick appointment. (Not so) curiously, I phoned for an appointment on Monday. A last-minute cancellation meant I could get in to see Dr. R. on Tuesday...or else after Christmas. Tuesday, done, sold. (Not so) interesting that a dozen well-connected folks could not cause a last-minute cancellation! And then, tomorrow, an 8-hour appointment with Dr. S. Wowsa.

My (physician) father gave me a calming, supportive lecture.
"Allison, you must see a very good surgeon."
"Yes, I agree."
"Really, it is absolutely crucial that you see someone good."
"On the same page, Dad-o."
"Allison, you want someone who is a highly skilled surgeon."
"I am not arguing with you. Agreed. You are making me anxious."
"Well, I'm just saying that you need to see a highly trained, highly skilled, highly experienced surgeon."
"Actually, I was just going to see my mechanic. He's got some drills and such in the back and would do a phenominal biopsy."
"What is wrong with your car?"

Seriously, Dad? F for bedside manner.

A patient, tolerant, lovely, tolerant friend insisted on accompanying me to Dr. R. Eye appointments largely consist of waiting: waiting for eyes to numb, dilate, etc. Numb, see Dr. 1. Numb, see Dr. 2. And so on. After wrestling away my Blackberry - on which I was conducting some frantic research - she tried to keep me distracted. In gratitude, I said nice things like "I don't care about Wikileaks" and "I don't care about North Korea, I care about my eyes" and "I'm only criticizing the way you hung up my jacket because yelling at you makes me feel in control of something."

Well. A for self-awareness, at least.

When the 5-hour appointment was finally over, Friend pleasantly asked if there was a way for me to feel in control without snapping at her for not hitting the elevator button quickly enough, I lost it. Again. Right there by the elevator. "Kiddo, loving you is like tackling a porcupine! Why?!" she said...a little louder than necessary. "I'm a very scared litle porcupine right now!" I wailed. To all the lovely folks on the ninth floor around 2pm last Tuesday, I do apologize. I'm actually a generous, considerate, lovely person. Though I completely understand why you might have confused me with the occular oncology version of Bridezilla.

And, just for the record, I am amazing at handle anyone else's crises. Really. Really. People pay me to put out fires! And I volunteer with people who are dying in hospice care! I'm good at it! So says the foot-high stack of heartfelt thank-you letters in my office!

Dr. R. said go see Dr. S. Again, landed a quick appointment for tomorrow morning. Dr. S. is, interestingly, the same surgeon who treated my grandmother. And Dr. S. is no joke. All of this week was spent getting pre-op clearance in the event Dr. S. orders an immediate biopsy/surgery. Whew. Blood work, cardiac checks, physical exams are a full-time job!

In all likelihood, I am looking at a benign bit of pigmentation. If it is malignant, it can probably be excised. If that doesn't work, there are chemo eye drops. But there very likley will be a biopsy involved. And, in addition to being a horrific patient, I have horrific issues with eyes. I deal with blood, guts, gore, pain, suffering for work, and I'm perfectly - if strangely - at ease. But eyes? I get nauseus at the sight of eye models in waiting rooms. So, yes indeed, tomorrow should be tremendous fun :(.

The good news? I secured both appointments with unheard-of speed. People come from around the world to be treated at this hospital (including my late grandmother) and it is right down the street from me. And work has been perfect...much like my pre-op blood work! Please pray that all this pigmentation-melanoma-cancer foolishness goes far, far away.