Man oh man oh man.
I really hope my PI never reads these posts, otherwise he's going to think he's subjecting me to extreme amounts of emotional stress. But that's what I get for voluntarily joining a lab that exists solely because so many people die from AML.
I went into my PI's office yesterday to talk about my project, and another doctor came in while I was there to ask him about some patients. They discussed a very sick NPM1-mutated person. They talked about how GCSF can be dangerous for someone with AML during induction. There were mentions of the infamous ANC and platelet counts and how high they have to be to have procedures done. And I felt the color drain from my face at the phrase, "If they survive." When they were done, the other doctor walked out, and my PI looked at me and said, "It's always weird having these conversations in front of you."
I stiffly smiled and nodded, and we continued with our conversation, but I could feel my face getting hot. He asked me if I was okay, and I insisted that I was, but the tears could not be fought. I felt like such an idiot. He apologized and said he needed to be more sensitive to the fact that this kind of stuff bothers me, but gimme a break; I should be able to accept the fact that people die of AML without having an emotional breakdown. But apparently, I can't. I almost laughed when he said I "clearly still have a lot of feelings about this," because this is actually the SECOND time I've starting crying in his office. Yeah, I have a lot of feelings. Who knew? I didn't.
I was pretty shaken up for the rest of the day. I couldn't stop thinking about everything that was said in that conversation and what exactly made me react that way. After talking to myself for a little bit, this is what I think: I'm starting to experience all the fear I should've experienced back on Day 1 when I had the nerve to say, "I'm truly and honestly not scared at all." At the time, that really was true. I wasn't just saying that so people wouldn't worry about me. I really didn't think that anything bad was going to happen to me, and I had no doubt in my mind that I was going to survive.
Almost three years later, I'm realizing how crazy that was. What the hell made me so sure? I don't think I ever internalized how serious my condition was and how I so easily could have died. Listening to their conversation really opened my eyes to all of the things that could have gone wrong; I was just lucky that they didn't. Instead of asking myself why I'm alive, the question has really become, "How am I alive?" In their conversation, they said someone wasn't doing well because they came in really sick. Really sick? My bone marrow was 91% cancer when I got to Sloan Kettering. How much freaking sicker could I get? It makes me wonder what my doctors said about me behind closed doors. Was there ever a point when they were worried about how long I was going to survive? Were they surprised I was doing so well because they expected me to die? I don't actually want to know the answers to those questions, but it's something I'm starting to think about now that I'm witnessing the other side of the doctor-patient relationship. I don't think I was ever lied to or kept in the dark, but I also doubt they'd come into my room and say, "Your bone marrow looks terrible. You're not doing so well."
Ugh. I should stop being so morbid. This blog is no longer inspirational and interesting to read. It's just gonna make everyone with cancer have a panic attack. DISCLAIMER: I'm being completely negative and dramatic. I spend about 98% of my time doing fun things and NOT thinking about cancer. Well, at least not my own cancer. My job requires that I spend a lot of time thinking about cancer, but how to cure it, not how to die from it...
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