30/03/2023
Well, today I'm a little pissed off. First, I got caught out when I woke up, like an idiot, by an email asking me to recover a password I had on Cour Supreme's website, so I spent 40 minutes sorting out the problem with the hosting company and had to change my passwords instead of calmly getting ready to leave for Cochin. I'm "loving it". Then I had a MRI control a week ago, and I haven't heard anything about the results, even though I've asked several times. That's another thing that's getting on my nerves. Another driver picks me up on Thursday, March 30. JP is as cool as Hassan, and since both of his kids are geeks, we talk about Linux and Ubuntu, which is his sons' favorite distribution (mine are Mint and Big Linux). When we arrive in the 14th district, I notice that there are fewer trash cans and that the catacombs are no longer on strike. The ride goes smoothly, and I'm half an hour early. So I drink a hot chocolate at the cafeteria terrace, enjoying the beautiful weather. I get into my room around 12:10 p.m., settle in (I'm starting to be a pro at this) and I wait.
After 30 minutes, there was a rather unpleasant surprise. At that point, I had only seen the physical therapist, who had come, as she always did, to check on my physical condition. A nurse entered, connected a tube to the device implanted in me, and informed me that she had been asked to take blood samples urgently, but she did not know why. And that's exactly what I hate: feeling like a piece of meat or an animal that isn't being told anything because it wouldn't understand anyway. I call Rachida while they're taking the blood, and she reassures me about the MRI she's finally been able to see (she can't see it until a doctor has opened the report), and tells me that overall it's pretty positive, which is already a good sign. I have to wait for the blood test results, but the doctor should come and see me to explain everything.
I see an intern or an extern, I don't know how to tell the difference or what the difference is. The conversation is a little difficult at first: she is defensive and, even though I assure her that it's nothing personal, I am quite upset and must seem a little aggressive. She explains that the tests carried out two days earlier in Étampes show that the liver is struggling and that they took blood samples at lunchtime to decide whether or not to continue with the third chemo and that we are waiting for the results. I ask why I haven't been kept informed. She replies like if it was already a closed case “But I just told you!” ‘Why didn't anyone tell me before, or at least when they took my blood?’ ”I found it worrying...” Suddenly, she realizes where I'm coming from and softens considerably, blaming the lack of staff. Yeah, right... She asks me the usual questions and takes out her stethoscope to listen to my breathing. We say goodbye on good terms.
They leave me waiting and at around 5:00 p.m., I head out to buy some candies 20 meters from my room, letting them know I'll be back in five minutes. I've been there for five hours and, of course, the doctor walks in during the five minutes I'm gone. Luckily, Dr. To is there and agrees to spare me half an hour of her time.
Doctor To
Dr. To is a woman about 5'3” tall, slim and discreet. If you pass by her on the street, you'd mistake her for a student and pray that a gust of wind doesn't blow her away. At first glance, you're not very impressed, and you're. WRONG!
During my stays at the hospital, I came to understand that Dr. To is a pulmonologist who is highly skilled in her field and respected by all her colleagues, who are themselves top professionals, for her hard work, expertise, and professionalism. I consider myself more than lucky to have had her as one of my doctors. If I were religious, I would say that this woman is a blessing. I will always be grateful to her for the discussion we had that day. She took the time to give me a complete overview of stages I, II, III, and IV (my stage), explained in detail when surgery is and isn't necessary, what can “prevent” or “require” it, and the advantages and disadvantages of my situation. From the very beginning, I locked eye contact. I understood that she was ready to answer anything, and I wanted to show her that I was paying attention and really interested. After a few small comments to show her that I understood, I saw her passion for her job unfold right there in that small hospital room. And I was truly amazed by the wealth of knowledge she possessed, the ease with which she could conjure up vivid images to explain some of the most difficult concepts, the generosity and pleasure with which she shared her knowledge and experience, and her concern to make herself understood. Even today, I know that I met someone exceptional—you always know when that happens. Dr. To may be small in stature, but within her lies a vast, rich, and vibrant universe.
Of course, the very next day, I told Rachida how happy I was to have her as my doctor.
— “Yes, she's very good, it's a shame she's leaving at the end of the month.”
Damn it! Consolation, she'll be here until chemo #4 and then she'll be gone the next day. What a bummer...
