August 25, 2014
It was a quiet week in Cancer-town. From initial discovery, to tests and more tests, through diagnosis and second opinions – all of this led up to now – an exhausting 5 weeks.
Anissa had only one appointment scheduled this week and that was with a reconstructive surgeon.
One of the toughest and largest decisions she’ll have to make is about building her “team”. The surgical oncologist Anissa has been seeing in Burbank is nothing short of awesome. He’s highly regarded in his field and Anissa feels comfortable with him. Same holds true for her oncologist. So, it’s foreseeable that two-thirds of the team could be in place. But that last third of the puzzle is finding the reconstructive surgeon. One that has the same hospital privileges as the others and play well with the others.
We were given a few names to research and meet with. Some, from the start Anissa knew wouldn’t be a good fit for her team. Others were “out of network”. Since it’s all about determining what’s best for her, we did schedule an appointment with one surgeon who was out of network and we knew nothing about.
Perhaps it’s because we live in Los Angeles, or maybe it’s a trend in the industry but Anissa and I were getting the impression after many calls and visits to plastic surgeons office’s that Angelina Jolie’s highly publicized surgery has become the gold standard. Anissa and I have no plans to adopt 10 Cambodian children, nor do we really care how perfect Angelina’s boobs are. We’re sure they are spectacular… all we want to know is that the doctor she chooses is qualified and the right fit for this team we’re putting together.
The one appointment we had was with a doctor who shall remain nameless. For the purposes of this story, we’ll simply refer to him as “John”.
John was dressed in classic green surgical scrubs. He entered the room and immediately introduced himself…to me…then to Anissa. (penalty points awarded right there). He sat across from Anissa who was sitting up on the exam table wearing a medical gown. His posture was a little too casual: slightly reclined in an office chair, leg’s sprawled, chewing gum with his mouth open while he listened to Anissa’s story. If it helps to visualize, picture Norm MacDonald’s impression of a 1970’s Burt Reynolds on SNL.
For most of the time he just stared at Anissa’s chest while she spoke. It was creepy and uncomfortable. I was waiting for Anissa to interrupt herself and politely remind him “My face is up here.” When Anissa finished getting him up to speed – it was his turn. Still staring at her chest – he took about ten awkward seconds of silence, waved his hand in front of his nose as if we were a chef standing over a pot of gravy trying to get the aroma into his nose as he let us know, “I’m still gathering my thoughts”.
Anissa asked how long he’d been in practice. His vague response was, “I’ve been doing this a while?”. Well THAT’S good to know. He used phrases like, “You know, that’s the thing.” and “That’s the situation your are in” with no context to any part of the conversation. It was as though he sat there more concerned about how he was being perceived by the two of us. More about his impression than his qualifications.
It was an uncomfortable meeting and about halfway through I was sure Anissa and I both knew this was not the guy for her.
My impression is that most of his patients go to him for elective cosmetic surgery. He immediately shared his opinion that implants are “the way to go”. His “pitch” was centered around “what size do you want to be?” which he asked a few times.
Based upon the brand new suite of offices he and his staff moved into that week, I’m sure his practice is doing well. Well enough to afford him the new Audi I assumed was his in the parking lot (since there was only 4 cars in the lot and two of them belonged to us) and the botox he, himself, was clearly was a fan of.
I have no doubt that it’s just a matter of time before Turd Ferguson gets his own makeover reality TV show.
The rest of the week was spent processing everything that’s taken place so far. I would eventually create a spreadsheet listing all the doctor’s we’ve met with. Cross referencing everything from their in-network vs. out-of-network status to their opinion on surgeries and procedures. Treatment couldn’t be factored into the list until after the surgery. No decision was going to be clear cut. Every decision ended with a fork in the road. Like a game programmer that has to consider all possible scenarios when programming… if this, then that. With each ‘this’ having it’s own ‘this and that’, and so on and so forth.
All of this based on a stage II cancer diagnosis… a cancer that hasn’t gone beyond the breast tissue or into the lymphnodes. I can’t begin to, nor do I want to, imagine what people diagnosed with later stages go through when it comes to picking their own teams.
.jpeg?auto=webp)
.jpeg?auto=webp)
.jpeg?auto=webp)
/1x.jpeg?auto=webp)
/1x.jpeg?auto=webp)
/1x.jpeg?auto=webp)
/1x.jpeg?auto=webp)
/1x.jpeg?auto=webp)
/1x.jpeg?auto=webp)