Life in the Bottle remains under construction

Since March 7th of this year, I have been undergoing reconstruction to repair demolition from the procedure called "mastectomy". The demolition also took place on March 7th. The process is called immediate reconstruction; however, the term should not be understood to mean reconstructed immediately. The truth is the reconstruction process has begun, but this process usually takes up to a year to complete. I have undergone 3 surgeries thus far. The latest one was yesterday. In 3 months, I will get my first and only tattoo to complete the breast reconstruction.

My plastic surgeon is the Michelangelo of plastic surgery. He is definitely an artisan and a great surgeon. However, he will never be a great doctor unless he accepts that his artistry is not done on inanimate objects. His art medium is the human body, and much as he might want to, he will not be able to successfully back the humanity out of his patients. My first visit in his office was about 3 weeks prior to my mastectomy. My husband went with me, and Dr. C appeared to be nice enough. The only impressions I had about him were that he seemed very credentialed, and he was very, very small. I don't mean just short, he was very tiny in every aspect. This initial exam concluded in a positive way, and he was selected to come in right after the breast surgeon was finished to begin the reconstruction process.

The next visit to his office began innocently enough. There was nothing to indicate that this doctor's visit would turn out to be the most traumatic medical episode in my life. I was to go there the day before surgery for a pre-op appointment. This appointment was to go over the blood work done the day before, get my prescriptions, and be told where and when to go to the hospital the following day. To my surprise and growing horror, I was told that I would not be actually admitted to the hospital. I was to be housed in a unit called Rapid In and Out. This unit did not even contain real rooms. There were curtained off areas only, and you had to walk down the hallway to one of two bathrooms on the unit. Also, I was informed that I would be sent home almost as fast as they could yank the tubes out. The final straw was when the nurse said that I would have to care for my own drain at home. I did not know what a "drain" was, or what caring for one entailed. I did know that the learning curve for this new and terrifying data was going to be extremely short. I'm sure for them this information was something they discussed on a daily basis, and were very familiar with. I, however, was totally unfamiliar with any of it, and this surgery for breast cancer was the most challenging health issue I had ever faced or hoped to face. The hospital protocol for my care certainly seemed callous and lacking in any measure of medical competency. I was in this office without any family member or friend, listening to this information, trying to make some sense of the butchery planned for me on the next day, and I was doing my utmost not to cry. To my dismay, I did shed a few tears and was visibly distraught. At this point, Dr. C said to me, "You need a counselor. I can't help you. I don't want to help you. I must remain absolutely objective when I go into surgery. I don't want to know you. I don't even want to recognize your face when I enter the OR." I was horrified to the point of being in shock. I said very little the rest of the appointment. I just wanted to get out of there. All the way back to work, I kept thinking that I had to go through with the surgery the next day, because I had to get rid of the cancer most of all. If a very dear friend hadn't recognized the soul wrenching distress etched on my face, I would have continued on through the cancer treatment without ever releasing the agony and hurt caused by Dr. C.

I look back now and wonder, to how many other women has he showed the same coldness and distain during a life altering time for them. I vowed after that appointment I would not go again to see him without a family member or friend with me. Even though this doctor has been cordial to me since that incident (I believe my breast surgeon had a few words with him following the pre-op debacle), I still long for the day when I will no longer have to go to his office. What a shame that a doctor so gifted and talented lacks the fundamental qualities of compassion and kindness, for without those, no doctor can be called "great".

Yesterday, as I went through my third procedure with Dr. C, I did get a little revenge. Even if he doesn't know about it, I am certainly petty enough to find pleasure in it anyway. The head anesthesiologist came in to discuss any past health concerns and health history. He was a very amicable gentleman, and we got along quite well. As he was getting ready to leave, I wanted to ensure he didn't forget about the Versed (loopy juice as I call it). He reminded me that Dr. C hadn't been in to talk to me yet, and I couldn't have the "loopy juice" until after speaking with him. To which I replied, "I have given Dr. C all the advice I can. He's going to have to be on his own now!" My nurse tried very, very hard not to laugh out loud, but she was largely unsuccessful. After the anesthesiologist left, the nurse said that she didn't think Dr. C would need any advice. I said, "I know. He does seem to have a healthy dose of self confidence!". She said that actually he had Little Man Syndrome. At which point, I had to interject, "Yes, he does...in a Big way."


Life in the Bottle gets a petty revenge!