Oh, the cognitive dissonance
I type this to you one-eyed and literally bent over so my face is parallel to the floor (per doctor’s orders).
Yesterday, I had my very first ever eye surgery. More specifically, the eye problem my myopic/bug-eyed self has been fearing (and warned about), since I was about thirty, finally came to roost:
my retina busted.
This was scary.
For a whole host of reasons not the least of which being that I am a WRITER and READER (who does not know braille) and my EYES are pretty important to me.
I will write about the fear of going blind later, but must keep this post uncharacteristically short.
What I want you, reader, to know is this: I had a wonderful surgical/healthcare experience yesterday at St. Joseph’s in Tucson.
I had a wonderful healthcare experience the day prior at Retina Associates (yes, I’ll happily plug that business: they were SO GOOD to me). I’m talking compassion, organization, timeliness, proper urgency, exactness, kindness, decency — basically everything every American patient is seeking when they go to the doctor’s office.
Doctor’s offices are scary.
Surgery is scary.
Hospitals are scary.
I really appreciate — as I’m sure you do, reader — when I feel truly seen, valued, and cared about as a patient.
I felt that yesterday, and the day prior.
I have only felt that cared for by healthcare in Arizona TWICE before
— once when I met my brilliant surgeon in Sedona, and the second when I met my kick-ass oncologist in Scottsdale.
Up in Flagstaff, I had to travel out-of-town for proper healthcare.
I had the luxury of a car and a compassionate employer.
I had the luxury of certain financial resources not all in America are given.
I had the luxury of consistent access to the internet, so that throughout my journey I could broadcast needs for help and support to virtually all of my “online and “real life” friends quickly and concisely.
The internet, too, is a privilege to which not every American is provided access. Sit with that for a moment.
As I regularly tell my students “the internet is both a wonder and a horror.”
There are seismic changes happening all around me and within me.
No, I am not “high.”
Nor am I drunk (14 days actively sober, fyi).
I am simply, profoundly awake.
How this happened, I do not know.
That is territory for another piece when I am not having to dangle my head over a screen and type with my elbows in the air.
What I want to say is that yesterday, at St. Joe’s here in Tucson, an inherently frightening, traumatizing, very human “crisis” was managed with care
and compassion by reasonably happy people who, I can only ascertain, are reasonably happy because they work for a reasonably good organization.
And yes, for every nice thing I’ll go on to say about St. Joe’s and Dr. Wong after my refreshingly calm, caring, and thorough (and thoughtful) treatment, there is someone out there with a grudge.
I know.
Trust me.
People get pissed off.
People make mistakes.
People are unreasonable.
People are wonderful.
People are horrible.
Everything is as it should be.
Nothing is perfect.
All of this is always true all at once.
But yesterday, I was reminded — after many torturous months with NAH — what competent healthcare looks and feels like.
For this, I am so blessed and lucky.
If I don’t want to, I don’t ever have to go to NAH again.
The problem for me is this: why do I get this opportunity when so many of my fellow Americans don’t?
Moving 250 miles away from a community I loved (in Flagstaff) was painful for me.
Deeply painful.
But I had to choose my life or my community:
I chose my life.
Why do Americans have to make such an agonizing choice
when so many other “counterpart” (I use this term loosely) countries
have already figured out that no human being OUGHT TO be forced into making such a choice.
I guess what I mean is that I am thinking, today, of all the women like me who couldn’t make this choice — for whatever reason — and had their lives cut far too painfully and tragically short by breast cancer.
The women who couldn’t just up-and-move.
The women who had to stay in the system up on the hill.
This is not right.
This is a sin against even the most secular morality.
The only truth today is this:
I am bored from having to “rest.”
I hate “resting,” but I also really like having some vision in my left eye,
so . . . I hate resting, but that is what my body needs, organically, in this moment.
My body is one odd little planet on a vast planet that,
not entirely unlike me, is fairly ill at the moment.
The America part, in particular.
As for healthcare, I’ll leave you with this:
I came across an article about my breast cancer surgeon.
It was in Sedona Today, I think. Published last year.
About a month after my stage iv dx.
My breast cancer surgeon is brilliant, gifted, and compassionate.
One of those Miracle People (capital M & P intended)
who we are rarely lucky enough to find in this life.
And though I regard my surgeon as a personal hero (she indeed saved my life last year), this article featured her THIRD:
after the CEO of the system and
an NAH board member.
What are we really doing in healthcare, when the CEO, who never works with patients, who probably really has no true passion for the profession,
is being “featured first” in an article about “Healthcare Heroes.”
The CEO of NAH is not my hero.
Frankly, I couldn’t name a single “CEO hero” of mine
because at the end of the day, corporations do not interest me.
It is well within my rights as an American to not be terribly interested/impressed by money/corporate success. As it is within the right of every American to not be terribly interested in/impressed by, say, poetry.
So if you’re going to write an article about “Healthcare Heroes,”
write about HEALTHCARE heroes.
Write about my surgeon, or the ER doctors, or the COVID nurses,
or the really sweet guy who helps nervous patients at surgery registration.
If you are going to write an article about “Paper Money Heroes”
for Arizona Paper Money Heroes Weekly, then feature a CEO. Look at
all the Paper Money and drool or whatever you money-incentivized folks do.
What do I care?
I am far more inclined to read about “Healthcare Heroes”
than “Paper Money Heroes.”
But if you want to know how to be a Paper Money Hero, if you are deeply inspired by the almighty dollar, then by all means, read the latest edition of Paper Money Heroes . . .
See, Cancer Lady knows something Paper Money Heroes might not know:
you can’t take that shit with you.
The best you have to hope for at the end of your little blip on this planet,
is a good reputation, and the confidence that during your short, beautiful journey you tried your level best not to hurt anyone or anything living, and left your tiny corner of the place better than you found it.
Off to rest my eyes.
