I visited the hospital yesterday to submit to a battery of tests. I huffed and puffed into a plastic tube to measure my lung function. I walked round and round the hospital corridors with a little clip on my finger to record my pulse and oxygen use. And the technician inserted a needle into my wrist to take blood from an artery. Arteries are deep beneath the skin. It hurt like hell. She was really nice though, stroking my arm gently with her free hand.
"I know. I know it hurts. I'm sorry. You're really brave."
I actually stopped feeling sorry for myself and began to feel sad for her. It must be tough to have a job like that - hurting people, even if it is for their own good. She told me she'd entered that field because of her mother.
"My mum had lung cancer," she said. "I watched her suffer and vowed I would try to help people with lung conditions. It's something I felt called to do."
After the tests, (it took about an hour) Colleen and I walked across the hospital parking lot to Dr. Perl's office. We had written down some questions to ask him. Colleen carried them on her tablet under her arm. We didn't wait long before the doctor called my name.
"Dale Pringle?"
We stood and walked through the waiting room and into his little examination room. Two chairs were placed in front of his desk. We sat and waited a minute while he studied the test results.
"Well, this looks fine," he said. "Your lungs are functioning at nearly 100%. See my receptionist. She'll set up an appointment for another CT scan and lung function test in six months. Come back and see me then."
And he stood and held the door open for us.
"But don't you want to do any more tests?" I asked him.
"Yeah," said Colleen. "We've done some research online. IPF is a difficult disease to diagnose without further testing."
She was hoping maybe further tests would rule out this horrid condition. We both were. But the doctor wasn't interested in our concerns.
"The CT scans show scarring on the lungs consistent with pulmonary fibrosis. Why put him through the pain of a lung biopsy? What would it tell us that we don't already know? There's really no treatment for it anyway. I'll see you in six months."
To me, it felt like a six month reprieve. He'd said there was nothing to do for six months. Maybe, I could stop worrying. Maybe I could just get on with my Life and forget about this for a while. The tests had been good. Maybe this was cause for hope. Colleen didn't share my feelings.
"He didn't give us time to ask any questions," she said in the car later. "He just rushed us out. He dropped this bomb on us a month ago and assumed we wouldn't bother to research the disease. He assumed we wouldn't have any questions or concerns. How can a doctor ...?"
Her lip trembled as she gripped the wheel. Fear and frustration trickled in salty streaks down her cheeks.
I don't know what to do now. Perl's not the only respirologist in this city. We can get a second opinion. We can change doctors. This is not my issue alone, is it? Colleen must be part of every decision we make. We're in this together, aren't we? Sometimes, I feel sad. Sometimes, I feel hopeful. Sometimes, terror visits me in the night, and I am overwhelmed with despair. I'm sure Colleen has some of those feelings as well. Right or wrong. Good or bad. Life or death. We'll get through this together.
I am blessed to have Colleen in my Life. And I am so sorry to be the cause of such sadness.
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