It's the question I hate most.
"How are you?"
Not the passing-in-the-hallway "Hi, how are you." That one's easy. "Fine, you?" is the answer, spoken without breaking stride.
But when someone who really wants to know looks me in the eye and sincerely asks "how are you?" I get a hollow feeling in my stomach. The honest answer is "I haven't any idea." I feel fine, but I have felt fine since long before I was diagnosed with leukemia. If they hadn't told me I have a life-shortening disease I wouldn't know about it yet.
Every time I see the doctor he asks how I've been feeling and I tell him I'm fine and have none of the list of symptoms he ticks through as he questions me. "I'm a pretty boring patient," I tell him. "Boring is good, I like boring," he tells me. It's the conversation we have at every appointment. I'm planning to put it on tape.
My latest appointment was for a bone marrow biopsy. It's a charming procedure where I lie on my stomach while they stick large needles into my hip. My doctor's physician's assistant performed the test. She came in and, along with asking my name and birthdate to be sure I am who they think I am, she asked if she had ever done a bone marrow biopsy on me before. That's when I started to dislike her.
"Yes, twice before," I informed her. I don't think I ought to be the most important patient she sees, and I don't think she ought to remember everything she's ever done for every patient. But I do think she ought to take a couple minutes to look at the file and refresh her memory about me. It's a big deal to me and I'd like to think I'm not just another bare butt to her.
That wasn't the only reason I was unhappy to see the physician's assistant. I had questions for my doctor, and he wasn't there to ask. Plus, while she doesn't recall, I remember vividly the last time she did my bone marrow biopsy. It almost killed her. She pushed and struggled and twisted and stopped and started three times before she was able to get the metal swizzle stick syringe into my hip. Then she drew out some of the core of the marrow and declared mission accomplished. She was dripping with sweat and happy to have it over with. I was the one with the sore hip.
When the results came in, she hadn't secured enough core to get a decent sample to test. She shrugged, looked sheepish and said "I really tried."
I would have thought she'd remember that. But when I told her the last biopsy had been aerobic for her, she gave no indication she recalled and said she hoped the stars were aligned better this time.
It did go more easily. She got the first, smaller needle in and drew out the liquid portion. As it is drawn out, I can feel it pulling all the way down my leg. It gives a whole new meaning to deep tissue massage. When it was time to get the core, she took two stabs at it -- literally -- and then announced she got it done.
Next week, I'll see my doctor and get the results. That's when we'll find out if the physician's assistant did it right. More than that, we'll find out if there's still CLL coursing through my veins, and I will have an answer to that question I hate.
"How are you?"
Not the passing-in-the-hallway "Hi, how are you." That one's easy. "Fine, you?" is the answer, spoken without breaking stride.
But when someone who really wants to know looks me in the eye and sincerely asks "how are you?" I get a hollow feeling in my stomach. The honest answer is "I haven't any idea." I feel fine, but I have felt fine since long before I was diagnosed with leukemia. If they hadn't told me I have a life-shortening disease I wouldn't know about it yet.
Every time I see the doctor he asks how I've been feeling and I tell him I'm fine and have none of the list of symptoms he ticks through as he questions me. "I'm a pretty boring patient," I tell him. "Boring is good, I like boring," he tells me. It's the conversation we have at every appointment. I'm planning to put it on tape.
My latest appointment was for a bone marrow biopsy. It's a charming procedure where I lie on my stomach while they stick large needles into my hip. My doctor's physician's assistant performed the test. She came in and, along with asking my name and birthdate to be sure I am who they think I am, she asked if she had ever done a bone marrow biopsy on me before. That's when I started to dislike her.
"Yes, twice before," I informed her. I don't think I ought to be the most important patient she sees, and I don't think she ought to remember everything she's ever done for every patient. But I do think she ought to take a couple minutes to look at the file and refresh her memory about me. It's a big deal to me and I'd like to think I'm not just another bare butt to her.
That wasn't the only reason I was unhappy to see the physician's assistant. I had questions for my doctor, and he wasn't there to ask. Plus, while she doesn't recall, I remember vividly the last time she did my bone marrow biopsy. It almost killed her. She pushed and struggled and twisted and stopped and started three times before she was able to get the metal swizzle stick syringe into my hip. Then she drew out some of the core of the marrow and declared mission accomplished. She was dripping with sweat and happy to have it over with. I was the one with the sore hip.
When the results came in, she hadn't secured enough core to get a decent sample to test. She shrugged, looked sheepish and said "I really tried."
I would have thought she'd remember that. But when I told her the last biopsy had been aerobic for her, she gave no indication she recalled and said she hoped the stars were aligned better this time.
It did go more easily. She got the first, smaller needle in and drew out the liquid portion. As it is drawn out, I can feel it pulling all the way down my leg. It gives a whole new meaning to deep tissue massage. When it was time to get the core, she took two stabs at it -- literally -- and then announced she got it done.
Next week, I'll see my doctor and get the results. That's when we'll find out if the physician's assistant did it right. More than that, we'll find out if there's still CLL coursing through my veins, and I will have an answer to that question I hate.
