The email that saved my life (or, at least, my sanity)

CancerGirl was born mostly out of my frustration with the dismissive attitude of my surgeon. On the two occasions that I'd visited my surgeon's office, I left feeling extremely confused and scared. Now, granted, the first visit consisted of an unexpected biopsy, and the second with her telling me that the lump was malignant. Even in the best doctor's hands, I'm sure that people feel confused and scared when faced with that news. Yet I still could not deny my gut feeling. This feeling was validated by a close friend that came with me on the day that I was diagnosed. My surgeon left him feeling confused as well, so I knew it wasn't only "the big C" taking over my emotions. In fact, during that visit, she told me to write down my questions and left the room. She was finished with the appointment but didn't answer any of my most important questions or even tell me specifically what kind of cancer I had. After the appointment, the receptionist gave me referrals to three different doctors: a genetic counselor (to tell me if I had a BRCA gene), an oncologist (for my chemo and/or radiation), and an MRI technician. At promptly 9 a.m. the next morning, I called Blue Cross and spent an hour on the phone verifying that each one of them was in-network. After that, I called the doctors and left messages with receptionists who said they'd get back to me later. I spent that day, a Friday, not-so-patiently waiting for someone to return my phone call. No one did.

On Saturday, I was exhausted from a restless night and crawling the walls with nervous energy. I was faced with two more days of just waiting. I felt that the world was moving in slow motion while my tumor was growing quickly. By that night, I had spent the day alone watching a marathon of "The Big C" and felt scared and desperate. (I know that watching a TV marathon of a show about someone with terminal cancer is not the best idea when first diagnosed, but I was not at my most rational.)

Two days before, the day of my diagnosis, a friend had given me the names of three surgeons whom he knew were top-notch. I started the process of trying to make an appointment on Friday. It was worse than applying for a job. Register with the system at the hospital, verify with Blue Cross that they were in-network, send my imaging CD, pathology slides, and medical records, and wait (again, that four-letter word) for a call from the assistant of the surgeon to then schedule an appointment, which may not be for a long while because the surgeon that I requested was very popular. It was as if the UCSF Cancer Center was the Emerald City, and I was asking to see the Great and Powerful Oz.

So, to deal with my complete lack of control and to see what all the fuss was about, I started researching her Greatness. The surgeon that I was trying to get in to see was one of the best surgeons and researchers in the country. She was not only skilled and passionate about her field, but she was also a human being. (I think the majority of surgeons may actually be robots.) In fact, the first article that I read about her explained that she is a trained singer who takes requests from her patients and sings to them as they go under anesthesia. One of her favorite songs happened to be a song that I absolutely love. I remember saying aloud, "She needs to be my doctor."

But what could I do other than follow the ridiculously long procedure for appointments?

I found her work email address carefully hidden on only one of the many sites that mentioned her. And for the next hour, I set about crafting the perfect email: succinct yet descriptive, emotive but not whiny. I sent that email at around 11 p.m. on Saturday night and took a deep breath. At least I could say I tried. Immediately, I got an auto-response stating she was on vacation until Monday.

The next night, Sunday, at 9 p.m., she called me. I felt as though I was on the phone with a celebrity. I had to pace to calm down, I was so thrilled. Me?? She's calling little ol' me??

She listened patiently and, even though she was totally booked that week, reassured me that she'd fit me in. First thing on Monday, her assistant called. Wednesday morning, she greeted me with a hug. By the end of the day, she had completely taken care of me. I saw three different doctors that day, had all of my remaining tests scheduled, as well as a date for surgery.

Two weeks later, she held my hand and sang to me, "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good," as they gave me the anesthesia. I know without question that her presence in my life has changed me for the better. And as I fell sleep, I thought of that email and how a good honest piece of writing can change lives. Well, maybe just one life in my case. That email also taught me that I can and should make changes in my healthcare if I don't like how I'm being treated. In the past, I'd been somewhat complacent, even staying with a doctor though I didn't truly trust them. It's not going to happen again.

I go into this school year with a renewed appreciation of what I teach, knowing from personal experience, that you never know when something as simple as a carefully written email could save your life.