The 6th stage of grief

Uncontrolled weeping

Today I had a mammogram appointment.

I knew it was going to be rough. Not the process itself – I’m at high risk for breast cancer so I’m used to these by now – but how I was going to feel being in UVM Hospital.

The last time I was there was Monday, November 18. That’s the day Andy finally got to see the oncologist – the one who wouldn’t see him while he was hospitalized. I was later told it was an insurance issue, but I still cannot understand how the head oncologist at UVM cannot see patients hospitalized at UVM. And I don’t understand why there wasn’t an oncologist at the hospital who could at least give us some idea of possible treatment options – instead of the breast oncologist who said he was there as proxy to the head oncologist, and said they might do chemo or maybe radiation or maybe immunotherapy or maybe something else, and that the head oncologist would tell us that when we met with her, and at that point she could give some kind of prognosis, which is something no one gave us at any point during Andy’s hospital stay because they all said the head oncologist was the only one qualified to give that.

The oncologist is the reason Andy had to be discharged on Thursday, November 14, even though he had declined to the point that he had to use a walker most of the time, and a wheelchair some of the time; and even though our house had a gravel path to the front door, and then a wooden porch with steps in need of repair that led to the kitchen that had such a large island that the pathways around it were too narrow for a wheelchair; and once we got a hospital bed into the living room, there was little room to maneuver there as well. Yet we were told we had to take him home if he wanted to see the oncologist.

The other option was hospice. But how could he opt for hospice when we had no idea what the prognosis or treatment options were?

We made it 2 nights at home before his pulse ox reading plummeted and his heart rate increased and I had to call the ambulance, and then the ER insisted on admitting him which would mean he couldn’t see the oncologist, and so we finally found a sympathetic social worker and physical therapist who advocated for Andy and convinced the ER doc to keep Andy for the night without admitting him, and though the ER doc grudgingly agreed, he was still kind of an asshole about it. And the next day, on Sunday, we left the ER against medical advice and took Andy to a hotel where he spent the night so we could make it to the oncologist the next morning.

The oncologist spent less than 5 minutes with him on that Monday morning, November 18, 2024, and she spent most of those 5 minutes telling us that he was too ill to treat and had to go to hospice.

I hadn’t been in the hospital since that day. I knew it would be hard to go back.

I’d spent enough time at UVM Hospital that I knew the tricks to finding a good spot in the parking labyrinth. I went into the hospital and took the elevator to level 2. The radiation department was on my left. I wondered if Barb was there. She took good care of Andy during his radiation treatments. I began crying as I walked past it.

I walked past the lab where Andy had to wait 90 minutes to get his blood drawn the day after he was discharged. It was a miserable day. While trying to get Andy out of the house, he and I had fallen on the porch, me breaking my fall on my purse and him breaking his fall on the walker he was using and me.

I kept walking towards the breast imaging center.

I was still crying, quietly, but I couldn’t stop the tears.

I got to the front desk and gave them my name. I tried not to cry but there was no holding it back.

They kept asking me to spell my name, and spell it again, and another woman came over to help the woman checking me in until they finally told me I was at the wrong place.

My appointment was in another building a half mile away.

“I haven’t been here since my husband died,” I said, “and you have no idea how difficult it is to be here.”

And then I cried harder and walked away as they said something I couldn’t hear.

And then I realized I was in front of the oncologist’s office.

I stood in the hallway and wept.

I am not a person who cries in public, despite crying in public all the fucking time these days.

I was running late for my mammogram.

I am the only parent left.

I cannot skip my mammogram, especially when it is already 7 months past due because this was the earliest they could get me in when I made the appointment 8 or 9 months ago.

I wanted to walk into the oncologist’s busy waiting room and tell all the people that they were lucky they were not hospitalized, because if they were, their oncologist would not see them or treat them. I wanted to tell them that if they had the misfortunate to be in the hospital when they needed her services, they would not receive a prognosis or information about treatment because the hospital’s head of oncology would not see hospital patients. I wanted to demand she see me and explain herself.

Instead I rushed to my appointment.

I could feel rage consuming me.

I yelled at the woman in the car ahead of me while I circled through the garage to the exit. Neither of us had our windows down so she couldn’t hear me but I screamed anyway. I cursed at everyone ahead of me as I drove to the correct location.

I parked in the lot – a thousand times better than the maze in the hospital garage – and walked towards the main entrance to the building.

There was another entrance that said “Mental Health Urgent Care” and I briefly wondered if I should go in. I thought it would be luxurious to be in a place where I could let myself fall apart and have someone take care of me, but I am the only parent left.

I walked past the mental health wing and to the main entrance and then to the desk for mammography and started crying as soon as I checked in.

The woman checking me in was kind and offered me an empty office while I could sit while I cried and waited, because I think she could tell the crying was not going to stop.

I sat in that office and fantasized about going back to the hospital afterwards and thought about what I would say to everyone in the oncologist’s busy waiting room. I thought about how satisfying it would be to confront the oncologist.

Then the mammogram tech came to get me. She was also kind, and I told her I was crying because I had walked by the office of the oncologist who refused to treat my husband unless he was an outpatient, and she asked questions about it and listened to me.

I finished my appointment and then I walked to my car and headed home, crying intermittently along the way.

The truth is, I usually cry when I get my mammograms. I cry for my friend Tracy, who died just over 9 years ago from triple-negative breast cancer; and for my aunt Mary, who died just over 8 years ago from breast cancer. I usually cry quietly for them, in the room where I change to and from the hospital top.

Today I cried for Andy. And for the boys. And for me.

Today I set personal records for public weeping.

I am exhausted.

Maybe once we get through the estate sale on May 24 I can have a nice spa day or a small nervous breakdown. I feel like either would be a relaxing break.