How did I ever fit in that chair?

Sep 24

Sep 24 How did I ever fit in that chair?

Can you recall the feeling that you had when you returned to your high school as an adult? That feeling where everything seems so much smaller than it used to be. The lockers are tiny. The hallways are feet instead of miles. And it seems that the chairs are too small to support you .. too small to hold you because you have grown so much and are no longer the person that once sat in that chair.

Well that’s the feeling that I had today during my follow-up appointment with my oncologist.

I had been looking forward to this visit all week, as I hadn’t seen Dr. Shahin since early July. I was eager to show him my new hair, as silly as that may seem since he has seen lots of hair loss and growth in his profession. But for me, this is progress that is visual to the eye. No scan required! Since our last visit, my hair, brows, and lashes have made a formidable comeback! You should have seen me in the mirror before my appointment. I made sure the mascara wand hit every lash perfectly and filled in those little bits of brow that are still conspiring against me with an Anastasia brow pencil. After a few minutes, I declared myself done and yelled to the other side of the house to Theo .. “Ready!” He’s a champ .. still hanging there, supporting me during every visit.

The first sign that I am truly moving on was when I couldn’t recall the name of the entrance to access Dr. Shahin’s office. I’d read the words on the brick wall of that awning countless times as I arrived for either an infusion or an appointment with Dr. Shahin. But today, the words escaped me. Once we got through the Covid screening station at the hospital’s entrance and made a left towards his office, I had the feeling that I was going the wrong way. It did not feel like the halls that I wandered so many times .. months before. I walked into his office and seriously considered that I was in the wrong place. The office looked nothing like the office that I was used to. Actually, it was half the size of the office that I remembered, with temporary walls on the right. When the woman at the desk saw my confusion, she called my name, letting me know that I was, in fact, in the right place. Turns out, they were expanding the office. Seems that I wasn’t the only one that had outgrown the space.

Once I’m called to be seen, the nurse directs me to the scale. My nemisis. I grumble at the numbers that are computed. Betrayal. Like a tough high school teacher, the scale gives no extra credit for the many miles that I have logged since graduating from PT, not even partial credit. The examination room is tiny. The examination chair is even more minuscule. I adjust the chair and wait for Dr. Shahin to arrive. Moments later there is a knock on the door and who enters but a smiling, masked Dr, Shahin. He looks like the teacher that doesn’t age. The one who continues to be the “cool teacher” year after year.

Dr. Shahin’s overall assessment is that I am progressing well. The side effects experienced post chemo were all normal, and he is pleased to see that PT worked for me, never once mentioning my incorrect self-diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis. We agree to schedule my first surveillance scan in December; 6 months after the MRI that showed no evidence of cancer and 1 year after I was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. Wow! How the time has flown by.

Before I can leave, a donation is required. But they aren’t asking for school dues. They want something more important ... blood. The nurse sticks the needle in my arm and the tube is filled immediately. In my head, I wait for her to say Nice veins.. (10 seconds, that’s a record.) I had to get used to needles again since I had my port removed. The trade-off was welcomed. I will gladly take the temporary sting of the needle over a painless blood-draw from a chemo port any day. I’m done with ports.

As we depart from the hospital, I can’t believe how much I have grown from what was once my state of normality. It was normal to drive to the hospital and not recall much from the ride between my home and the hospital. It was normal to visit the hospital weekly and to have so much blood drawn that I didn’t flinch at the thought of it. It was normal to share information with Dr. Shahin more than once (often more than twice) because we had seen each other so frequently that I couldn’t recall whether I already mentioned it. (Like a friend that you’ve told the same story to on more than one occasion.) My God! Chemo and infusions were normal! I’d sit there for hours and laugh, sing, as if the strongest medicine in the world wasn’t being pumped into my veins.

But thank God for progress. Those things are the normals of yesterday. These days, I have new normals. Normals that support this stage of my journey. And very soon, I will look back on this part of my journey in disbelief that I ever fit in these chairs..