Be quiet

While at a doctor appointment yesterday to review my prescription status and how my physical and emotional health are doing, we somehow got on the topic of obsessive thoughts and how they affect us.  His wife had gone to a Mom's Night Out where one of the women, someone she considers a friend, was very vocal about how "doctors are just in the business for the money, that they don't really care about the patients, that she would never trust one," and on and on and on.  He said his wife was quite upset about it, and that he, too, had been quite offended by it, and how it had kind of put a damper on both their weekends.  I commiserated.  Talk turned back to me.

I told him that I thought things were going well, that I had my occasional hard days, but that I felt that things were continuing to go as well as could be expected.  I told him that I would eventually like to try an anxiety medicine, but that with how well things were going, I didn't feel it was the right time to try something new right now.  The last medication I tried gave me incredible headaches the very next day through the next week, more debilitating that my anxiety.  I have been doing so well the last few months, that I just don't want to try anything that could make a negative impact on me.  My anxiety is there, sure, but I feel like I can handle it passably without trying something that could possibly make it better.

When I told him that I was a little apprehensive for Caden's upcoming birthday, he asked me to explain a little more.  I told him that I was nervous thinking that it could be a hard day, but not because I knew it would be hard.  I don't think I will forebode about it enough to make it a bad day, only that it has the potential to be a hard day, and that is a little scary.  He said that made sense, and asked if we had any plans.  When I told him that we didn't really, although we have a few things we were considering, I kind of mentioned that we may do cake and ice cream.

In a tone and manner I can only describe as conspiratorial joking, he said, "Well, don't set a place at the table for him-- that would border on creepy and unhealthy."  *Chuckle, chuckle.  Eyebrow waggle.  I just cracked the funniest joke*

My offense reared up fast and searing.  I had been thinking of possibly doing just that.  We'd sing, we'd take flowers (real ones) and balloons to his grave, and we'd save for and deliver presents that would benefit children at either Seattle Children's (he got birthday gifts from them in 2014 when he was stuck in the hospital after his first major surgery), or the Ronald McDonald House (he got to choose a gift last year when we were stuck in Seattle for the immunotherapy). 

With a heart near bursting, trying very hard to keep my voice from wavering, I rasped, "Well, we did actually set a place for him for about a month after he passed.  But that became too hard.  We stopped doing that much sooner than I thought we would, actually.  But I was considering it, maybe, for his birthday."

It was at that point that the feelings in the room changed.  His face changed, his stance changed, his tone softened, repentant.  "You know, Stephanie, you have the right to tell me to stop talking.  I don't know what I'm talking about, I am not that kind of doctor.  I should not have said that.  I've never gone through anything like this before, never had to contemplate what I would do in your situation.  There is no right or wrong way to grieve, or to celebrate his birthday.  Just tell me to be quiet."

Our meeting came to a screeching halt.  He apologized, stuttering through his apologies, completely kicking himself, told me to call him if I felt I needed anything or wanted to try a new medication, and that he'd see me in six months.  In October.  Right after the 1-year anniversary.  Don't even ask how I think that day is going to go, or what we plan to do. 

I know this man, this doctor, means well; I know he didn't mean to hurt me, that he wasn't trying to hurt me, he was trying for light and fun.  But I did take offense quickly.  It hurt to be "made fun of" for a choice I was considering to celebrate what should be a joyous day.  I just don't understand how someone could say anything remotely similar to anything like that when a grieving mother says she's worried about how she's going to cope with her dead son's birthday coming up, or even think making a joke to lighten the subject was a good idea.  The subject will never, can never be light, and that's OK.

Because we all say things we don't mean, because we all just want others to feel happy, because I know this doctor really does care for me as a patient, as a person, as a friend, even, I will not obsess over his comments and allow it to put a damper on my week.  But, because I am human, I can say: I hope you know that really hurt.  Learn that lesson well, doctor.  Sometimes you do not have to say a thing.