Disclaimer: Say what you will, but I very much enjoy Kathy Griffin and her show, My Life on the D-List. I've borrowed the title for my post only because I was reminded of my own life on the D-list yesterday afternoon at my first physical therapy appointment.
Before I begin, if you should be compelled to classify my social status, please just quietly note that I hover somewhere between the B- and C-lists, with an occasional, usually food-related, foray into D-list territory. Oh sure, I know a thing or two about A-list life and do, from time to time, enjoy the finer things; but truth is, most of the time I languish further down the alphabet.
While going over my health history with the Medical Physiologist yesterday I realized that, at least where cancer is concerned, I'm living a top-drawer, A-list, champagne and roses life. All because of my amazing oncology team.
Let me explain. Have you ever the been guest of someone you don't really know all that well? Even so, you agree to hang out with her (or him if you prefer) because she's fun to kick it with and well, the invitation to go to say, Maui (in my case, Seattle) is just to good to pass up? An hey, who doesn't love an all-expense-paid (in my case, not so much) vacation?
When you arrive in Maui though, it turns out your friend is all tied up with appointments and meetings - so you're on your own for those spa appointments, guided hikes to the volcano fields, and deep jungle water falls; not to mention that you'll be spending more than a few meals dining solo.
But, and here's the cool thing, every time an esthetician, a field guide or a server finds out that you are with so and so, the service factor goes up - way up. I mean after all, if you're with him, well you must be someone special too.
"Oh, you're with Barrack? Let me exchange that Korbet for the Dom."
Very A-list.
Transfer all that to Pill Hill in Seattle, where I'm spending several hours a week traipsing around the various hospitals and medical centers that populate one of Seattle's oldest neighborhoods and earning it it's endearing nickname. Instead of chatting up spa employees and field guides though, I'm hanging out with nurses, phlebotomists, medical techs, doctors and more medical receptionists than I could begin to count.
Standard procedure in each and every appointment is to ascertain my name, date of birth, age (actually yes, they ask my age right after my dob. seriously) primary care doc and my surgeon. Every time. Even if I just gave all that info to your receptionist twenty minutes ago.
I noticed early on that people would subtly raise their eyebrow's when I uttered the name of my primary care doc. Ever so subtle. But it was there. In the case of my surgeon the looks were more noticeable.
"Your surgeon, Mrs. Namba?"
"Patti -D*""Oh, you're with Barrack? Let me exchange that Korbet for the Dom."
Very A-list.
Transfer all that to Pill Hill in Seattle, where I'm spending several hours a week traipsing around the various hospitals and medical centers that populate one of Seattle's oldest neighborhoods and earning it it's endearing nickname. Instead of chatting up spa employees and field guides though, I'm hanging out with nurses, phlebotomists, medical techs, doctors and more medical receptionists than I could begin to count.
Standard procedure in each and every appointment is to ascertain my name, date of birth, age (actually yes, they ask my age right after my dob. seriously) primary care doc and my surgeon. Every time. Even if I just gave all that info to your receptionist twenty minutes ago.
I noticed early on that people would subtly raise their eyebrow's when I uttered the name of my primary care doc. Ever so subtle. But it was there. In the case of my surgeon the looks were more noticeable.
"Your surgeon, Mrs. Namba?"
And there it is: back straightens, nose tips slightly down, head turns just a bit to the right, eyebrows go up and eyes open wide and peer over glasses.
"Really?" Then under their breath. "Hm."
"Can I get you anything - water perhaps?"
OK, that last line is a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. Every time I mention her name I have a new best friend. A most impressive experience was right before my mastectomy. The nurse whom I'll never see again had gone through the litany of questions, implanted the IV, given me a nice little pat and wished me well. But just before taking her absence, she paused and asked:
"How did you ever get Doctor D for your surgeon? She's the best you know." Telling, not asking.
"Your in very good hands."
No, I didn't know, but I'm beginning to get the idea.
On and on it goes over The Hill, everybody gushes about my surgeon, oncologist and primary doc.
Yesterday was no different. Doctor Z, renowned in his own right, couldn't stop the gush. Though he's worked with all three women before, it seems it's the first time he's had all three of them on one patient and he's very honored to part of this "amazing assembly of talent." Nope, not making this up either.
"It's very fortuitous that you are here in this place, with these people, at this time." This to a cancer patient!
What else can I say? I've got a Dream-Team of Docs.
What else would one expect when you're on the A-list? Watch out Mr. Bon, a girl could get used this end of the alphabet!
~~~
(*Name changed to protect her privacy)
