Palliative Care.

Who knew two words on a little sign above a non-descript doorway could make my blood run so cold it feels like someone has ripped an icicle spear from a wintery roof and stabbed it into my carotid artery. Every second I stare at the sign, the drip, drip, drip of fear slides through my veins.

I look away in case in some messed up way, staring at it for too long will foreshadow my future. An image crystallizes in my mind of my friends and family bringing their young children to see me in my prison while I spend what’s left of my youth, waiting for “it” to be over.

To escape this morbid thought, I search for the Information Desk and speed-walk under florescent lights installed in the shape of sky lights to get there. Patients in draughty hospital gowns lean against IV poles and visitors wear the masks of soldiers in the midst of battle.

Just make it to the information desk…just make it to the information desk, I whisper to myself. When I get there, a white haired woman wearing a Wal-mart inspired blue volunteer vest gives me a bright smile and asks how she can help. I almost grab her by the wrists, stare into her grey eyes and say, “you can help by promising me I DO NOT have the start of ovarian cancer on top of my recent breast cancer and I WILL NOT end up in Palliative Care. Ever.” Instead, I ask her to direct me to Diagnostic Imaging area for my 2pm ultrasound appointment. Continue reading →