Let's talk about check-ups

Check-ups. Whether you spell it with a hyphen or not, these are always looming for cancer survivors. I remember the progression of my check-ups. When I was undergoing treatment daily that first month, I saw my oncologist every week (every Monday actually). When I was doing treatment just three times a week, I saw my oncologist every month (the first Monday, maybe? Doesn't matter). After that first year we went to check-ups every three months which was just enough for me. As in, not having to be there constantly, but going enough that it gave me peace of mind. However, after a few years of consistent contact with my oncologist, I think we became a bit...attached? And by this I mean we were attached to him (ironically after that first not-so-thrilling impression). I definitely don't think he was attached to us, ha. He didn't have a problem with us or anything, but I know that our family can be a bit "overwhelming" at times.

So as time passed, my family and I slowly stopped being the "regulars" at the office. It was weird. Every three months turned into every four months.

And then came the visit a few years in, when my oncologist finished his checking and said, "Well things look good, I think you can extend it out to six months." I was dumbfounded, more confused than anything. This is where some of that attachment came in. What did he mean? Was I "cured"? Is there such a thing as being cured? I wasn't going to see him three or four times a year? Ummm, was I okay with that? Was I ready?

And (to be a little insenstive but honest), the look of sheer panic on my mother's face was priceless. She was more confused and freaked out than I was. It appeared that she definitely was not ready to cut the cord. Without our even realizing it, this doctor, whom we didn't even care for in the beginning, had become our family security blanket. And now we were supposed to just give that up (not completely, but going from monthly visits to just twice a year seemed pretty cold turkey at the time)?? Then the tears started to come, and I don't mean from the doctor. We depended on those visits. That was how we knew that I was still okay and we could keep going. My extended family counted on those visits; on getting the assurance that I was good to go for another few months. And now what?

When he saw our panic he actually became a little confused. Were we the only ones with this attachment? It was definitely possible, but I still don't think so. We settled on a compromise that we would just keep coming as often as we had been and he'd deal with it. Perhaps a bit one-sided, I suppose. After that year, though, we were prepared for the extensioning (today's new word) and we did not put up a fight (well, not much of one) when he carefully broached the topic of the six months. After a few years of the six month visits, it actually got more normal to not go there and see him than it felt to be checking in. The six months became a whole year, and by that point we were really okay with it.

The only issue being that the tests he ordered changed. I used to get a CT scan of my chest (where they think the cancer would matriculate if it returned) at his office in the nice, non-threatening suburbs.

When we moved up to a year, he decided I could also advance to the less-radiation-exposing chest x-rays instead. Great, right? Well, sort of. I had/have to do the x-rays downtown at the main hospital, and that is a place I do not like to go (particularly as a patient). That building is full of painful memories and a past I had/have spent a lot of time trying to overcome--more on this subject later. The first time we went for my x-ray there (instead of the CT), I started crying on the parking deck. It sounds really bizarre, but just proximity to that building brought back a flood of emotions that apparently I had been supressing. It's better now when I go than it was, but it still feels somewhat like a time warp back to when I was 16, scared to death, and didn't know what was going to happen to me.

But once the x-rays are complete, I go to see him every year still at his office (strange how that building--the oncologist's--where I received bad news, chemo, and more needle sticks than I care to remember is not nearly as intimidating as the other). It is a long process of waiting and blood taking and talking... But even though it's not a fun time, I do feel that security of knowing I am still under someone's watch, and I am thankful for it.

I bring this up now because it is actually time for my yearly check-up and I am feeling those mixed emotions once again. I truly believe, and somehow "know" (if one can) that nothing is wrong with me. Yet that apprehension has descended as naturally as Christmas decorations appearing at Wal-Mart in September. It's part of the journey, though. I wonder if other cancer patients, patients with any kind of chronic anything, their friends, their families, share these feelings? Anxiety and relief occurring practically simultaneously. For some reason, I really don't think I am the only one.