The preliminary examination period is coming to an end, and it appears that it's all Kaiser Lung's fault, so I'm being transferred to Cornil-Brissaud in the Pulmonology Department. First contact.
What one imagines
I must admit that medicine has never interested me: knowing how it all works is (was?) of no interest to me. Perhaps it was the influence of Judeo-Christian culture, in which the body is nothing compared to the mind, or perhaps it was the fact that my mother, who was passionate about all that, often talked to us in great detail about this or that illness, this or that doctor. In short, I'm not a fan. Not at all! So I expected a doctor/patient duo, a binary system. A one-on-one situation...
What's really happening
In the real world, there's a team of about 20 people getting ready to fight for me. There are several pulmonologists, one of whom is the team leader who sets the course of action, a nutritionist, Cochin's pharmacy, nurses, two of whom are dedicated to the protocol that has been put in place, a coordinator, plus those who provide treatment at the hospital, three others, in my case, for daily injections at home, a taxi driver and, occasionally, radiologists, oncologists, surgeons, dermatologists, and physical therapists. Suffice it to say that the dramatic and one-sided image I had in my head, fueled by novels, movies, and my lack of interest in medical matters, was swept away in 48 hours, along with my stereotypical view of doctors. You have to understand that before all this, I was the kind of person who went to the doctor every three years and took an aspirin every six months in between.
As a patient, you are part of this team, you are even one of its central players, the one who will ultimately decide the success or failure of the whole team. And you play against the Lung cancer metastasesteam. It may not sound like much, but it's important to understand this quickly, because it motivates you, makes you feel committed to your “teammates,” and helps you get organized. Because, let's be realistic, the first week is chaos, confusion, and a whirlwind: you don't know where to turn, between exams, appointments, medication, trying to understand this new situation, stopping work, setting up 100% coverage, arranging transportation, telling your loved ones, deciding whether or not to tell the whole world... And thanks to this team, one by one, you pull the strings and untangle the knot, until you can move forward with relative ease.
Accuracy and franchise
One condition, however: ask from the start to be told the truth, to have everything clearly explained to you, including what will be done, why it is being done, and what the risks are. Don't bury your head in the sand, don't let yourself be treated like a child, and don't settle for a vague explanation such as “We're just going to take a little blood sample” or “Come on, let's go for a walk.”
I immediately told the team members I met that I wanted to be kept fully informed, that nothing should be hidden from me, and that everything should be explained to me. And since we're dealing with top-level people at every stage, they adapt instantly. This is essential, a bit like in sports: if you want to beat the opposite team, you need to know the goal and the rules of the game, the strengths and weaknesses of your opponents, as well as your own, and it is also essential that there is trust within your team.
The same goes for loved ones. From the beginning, I made sure to share the information I had with everyone who matters to me, and I assured my partner of my determination to get through it all. She didn't doubt me in theory, but I needed to verbalize it and didn't want her legitimate concern to turn into discouragement. Because, little by little, my life was changing focus, and so was hers. I needed her support, and she needed mine.
