2002-06-17

10:51 a.m.

I thought my drive into work would be hellacious since the red wings parade is happening this morning.

All of the hockey fans must have got a real early start.

I don't like hockey that much and I am cranky so I was secretly glad for the rain today. I imagined parents tending to their screaming children with all of their red satin jackets and cheap wing-on-a-tire flags soaked with dirty inner-city rain.

I wonder if anyone else sees an uncommon combination with the red wings and downtown Detroit. I lived in the city for sometime and rarely ran across a fan - yet on stanley cup days woodward is packed with a million people who frankly, don't look like they live here.

I want to live in a city with a good baseball team. Maybe I could follow the champion teams around. I like Arizona.

2002-06-14

8:09 p.m.

I just got in my car, sat in the driveway for five minutes and then got my purse and walked backed inside the house. I lost my motivation to go out somewhere between the kitchen and drivers-side door.

I did keep my "appointment" at a certain wig shoppe (pe added for panache) that was on the American Cancer Society "Wig List".

After a sleepy morning early doctors appointment and a spritied effort by the phelobotomist to "milk" my middle finger for blood, I was in an odd state of mind.

The wig shoppe only added to my clouded perception. It was one of those stores that is very near other rightfully bland but tastelessly modern strip mall stores - but so far. One of those stores that when you step in you realise the owner is one of those that refuses to order new inventory because the shit they got in back from the winter of 68's shipment is just fine.

I like retro merchandise. In fact I prefer it. But there are stores that are aware they sell dated merchandise and the ones that aren't.

I often wonder where the people who operate on this off-center timeframe live. They aren't a part of the retro-kitsch-loving garage-rock or rockabilly scenes by a 30 year long shot. I mean where does "Al" (not his real name)out at night? Al, who still looks good in highwasted double-knit and works in a profession in which is he allow the creative freedom to change his toupee from freaky bad to animal pelt bad.

Al has been working in the custom wig business for 30 years. He told me this over the phone and three time during the short appointment. In all that time, I suspect he hadn't been updated on the variety of synthetic wig styles.

It took a moment to convince Al that an expensive human hair wig was out of the question - a cancer patient has enough expenses. So he sized up my style and brought me back "the short hair wig".

He put it on my head. It was so inappropriate I actually thought to myself as Al began to obliviously brush the beastly mop "this is too good to be true."

"It's kind of a mature style," I told him "do you have anything younger?" He told me he could compress the wig with heat to make it less fluffy. Other than that, if I was still going to be a cheap ass and refuse the real hair, there wasn't much he could do for me.

He ran to the back one more time. I had a chance to sit alone in the private styling room with the short hair wig. The room had shelves on both sides with mens hairpieces randing from tight n' curly to newsanchorman stacked all limp-like on top of each other. It was an interesting conglomerate of tack and random art.

The mirror and surrounding wall space showcased all kinds of comic strip clipppings related to wigs and toupees. There was also a newspaper article about how a good toupee is better than being bald.

Before I could examine the dates on the wall artifacts, Al was back with the second choice - a butchy looking short bi-level.

I didn't let him get it all the way on. I told him again "I'm looking for something younger."

"I don't know what that means" he half-laughed because he was fully serious.

I thanked him for his time and went for the door. On the way out the no-era looking desk lady said "Good luck!" For some reason I assumed that she was probably Al's wife. No one would have a job as a hair replacement receptionist in a place like that. I was probably his first appointment that week and this was a Friday. I again thought about where Al might take the desklady out for entertainment.

2002-06-13

4:56 a.m.

Instead of getting proper rest necessary to rebuild my marrow and blood cells and ensure my brain can function during normal waking hours, instead of thinking about life, love and illness or my friends and family - I am up at this hour thinking, no obsessing, about Dr. Krauss.

Dr. Krauss is a rat bastard oncologist and I wish I could call his mother to tell her to stop bragging that her son is a big time doctor because really, he is just a rat bastard.

Dr. Krauss was the first oncologist I saw after the blood thirsty surgeon (another grubbin' doctor with her own set of problems) took out my lymph node for the "biopsy".

I went into the appointment expecting to be wisked away into a maddening world of X-rays, diagnosis and prognosis. I had seen "Terms of Endearment" and "Beaches" and I was well aware of how fast the evil cancer could spread. More so, I was familiar with the short time it took Barbra Hershey to deteriorate into a weak, dying mess. Cancer means acting fast.

So I was pretty wrong about the fast part. I found that out during the "pre-interview" part of the appointment with the old skinny PA. She was a bleached blond with a bad hair cut and she was wearing red. The combination of hair and red was highly offensive and brassy since her dye job missed the important "toning step".

Brassy-skinny told me I would have all of my tests within the next couple weeks. Since I was unfamiliar with the whole cancer patient experience (as most 26 year-olds are) I kinda got upset. I needed my answers much more quickly. I was popping cancerous nodes by the minute.

Besides actually confirming that I indeed did have cancer, it didn't help that the PA wasn't offering me any more useful information than I had found on webmd.com the night before.

So by the time Dr. Krauss walked in with his faced marred by an odd and very hot-pink inflamed sore under one eye, I was slightly anxious. Maybe even aggitated. Definitely confused.

He started to ask the exact same questions that the PA did. Since I could tell that Dr. Pinkeye wasn't going to be much help either, I gave him even shorter answers to the invasive health questions.

Last menses?

Instead of recognising my confusion or distress the evil doctor tapped into some sort of abusive boy-who-was-picked-last-for-baseball-and-I-am-a-doctor-now personality.

"Do you even want to be here?!" he looked at me, disgusted with my insubordination.

Ummm...I am 26 and have a huge research paper due and I was planning on kicking off my summer with something other than chemotherapy...This was no Doctor! This was a mind reader!

I told him "No". I didn't even know what was going on. Did I really have cancer? Everyone else in the waiting room are old and have metal poles with baggies and oxygen tanks. Maybe I should get treatment closer to home? What goes on when you get cancer?

When Dr. Notfoolinganybody heard that I might go elsewhere he announced "I am NOT ordering a bunch of tests so you can just go to another doctor"

That was enough for him to wrap up a half-ass exam, tell me that I have cancer and recommend the name of another doctor closer to my home.

I looked at the card he handed me and asked him "What do I do?"

"Call them up, tell them you have Hodgkin's and you want to be treated" and he left to go torture another patient.

Now, as if that experience wasn't scarring enough Dr. Krauss delivered one last weak jab.

When I got the bill for the "comprehensive examination" I immediately sent a letter questioning the nature of the bill and requested a record of the services provided.

I got an abrupt letter back with my name spelled incorrectly and a copy of the exam report.

Dr. Krauss wrote "physical exam reveals an angry woman..."

Th angry woman statement carries a little more wieght than "exam reveals aggitated patient or patient was upset." The word choice is a bit telling of Dr. Mommienevertreatedmethisway's personal life.

I truly hope that I can live or at least get some sleep accepting that there are sexist, age-ist, clueless and heartless doctors who deal with critically ill patients and there isn't much I can do.

It's not like when my little sister and I complained at Wendy's a couple weeks ago and we got two two-dollar "Wendy's Bucks" vouchers for our trouble. Although I haven't cashed in the colorful slips yet, I've already forgotten about the insulting fast-food manager (who is probably a dick to his employees by the way).

I will look into setting up a physician personality and bedside manner complaint service. "Nuclear Medicine Mad Money" or "Blood Draw Dollars" vouchers will be sent out to those wronged.

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