When I met with Dr. W several days after my D&C, I had an idea it wasn’t good. After I was led back to the examining room and examined, and while I was still prone on the table, I recall him almost flippantly telling me, “Well, you have cancer and you will need surgery and probably chemotherapy afterward, and you’ll need to take hormones for the rest of your life.”
Then he left the room. I lay there on the table soaking in all this new information. His answer left me with more questions. I waited there on the table, thinking surely after dropping such a bombshell, he’d be back in to talk to me. After about 20 minutes, I decided that he wasn’t coming back and got up and got dressed.
When I went down the hall toward his office, I peeked in his office. He was on the phone. I waited silently at the door for him to finish his conversation and invite me in to talk about what he’d just told me. Instead, he cupped a hand over the receiver and told me to “make an appointment for next Friday with my receptionist.” Stunned, I did as I was told.
My mind reeling, I drove, numb, to the nearest public library (remember, this was 1990, long before the age of the Internet and instant information) and checked out as many books on my kind of cancer as they would let me have.
When I got home, I carefully unloaded the books, concealing them from Robert as I went past him up the stairs to the master bath. I locked myself in the bathroom with the books and draw a bath and started reading.
At least I could form a plan of action if I knew what I was dealing with. (Little did I know that only part of my problem was the cancer. My other problem was the damn doctor.)