“You Gave Yourself Cancer Because You’re Fat.”

​November 6, 2019

The next morning I got up and drove the hour and a half to work.

I text my Mom. Then, I call her.

I break down while informing my boss at work.

Somehow I manage to robotically navigate through the next day and a half.

There is not much I remember about my first oncology appointment, but some memories are vivid.

I am extremely careful to pick my outfit. Because, I know without a doubt, once I have the news confirmed, the dress I am wearing is tainted. It will become, “The dress I was wearing when I got cancer.”

Now, I cannot remember which dress I wore.

Until Jamie started going to all appointments, my Mom sits next to and comforts me through every doctor appointment. She is the holder of tissues – and the tissues at doctor’s offices are worthless. I might as well blow my nose directly into my hand as the thin paper disintegrates immediately. Most importantly, she is strength as I fall apart.

Dr. Santoso comes into the exam room. He is accompanied by his nurse. He is matter of fact. I have pre-cancer, atypia hyperplasia with a 40% chance of it having already spread to my uterus. This is something that I’ve had since the previous D&C in November 2017, something he accuses me of knowing about and doing nothing about.

I correct him. This is new. This is something that Dr. Donato never followed up with me.

We want to know how I got this.

Dr. Santoso says, “You gave yourself cancer because you’re fat.”

None of this makes sense. There are so many fat people without cancer. Let’s suspend that line of thought and possible research. This is the first confirmation that I have cancer and the oncologist is using it as an opportunity to shame me for being fat.

He has no bedside manner. He is rude.

The lack of compassion should not be a surprise. Without a warning from Dr. Donato or Dr. Santoso, they sent me an automated telephone call announcing this appointment, without a declaration of what or who I was seeing. I had to Google the phone number to learn it is an oncology appointment.

Santoso asks, “Do you ever drink fruit juice or sugary drinks?”

I reply, “Yes. Sometimes.” I scoff because this is an odd line of questioning.

“Don’t drink it any more. You only drink water and you will lose weight.”

I might have an orange or cranberry juice once every six months. I don’t see how that is going to work. He doesn’t know my diet and is making assumptions.

He recommends I immediately schedule a hysterectomy.

A hysterectomy is out of the question. Jamie and I already discussed still trying to have a baby. Our ultimate goal is to treat this issue, have a baby, and then immediately after delivery have the hysterectomy. We don’t have the need or desire to go into the business of breeding multiples or repopulating rural Mississippi. We refer to our plan as “One and done.”

Santoso offers a second opinion, recommending one of his mentors, Dr. Smiley. I request the second opinion. I never want to see Santoso again.

Because saving fertility is of the utmost importance, he also recommends a fertility specialist, Dr. Kutteh. I request that too.

Santoso and his nurse leave the exam room, but tell us to stay there. Mom and I do not know if we are to stay to wait for an appointment. There is confusion. There is a lack of communication from the doctor. We find a different nurse. She explains that it will take days and we are free to leave.

As I approach the nurse’s desk to check-out, I catch a glimpse of my Dad sitting in the waiting room. He is content to sit on his phone. He is innocent of what was said in the exam room. He doesn’t know I have cancer. I break down. Then, I cry harder because he is sensitive, like me, and I don’t want him to know I was crying. I cry more because I don’t want to tell him.

Mom and I stay in this hallway for a few minutes. She doesn’t know if she should put her arm around my shoulder or hug me. She is just as stunned as I am. I splash my face with water. There are no tissues. I use rough, brown, paper towels. At least they don’t soak my hands.

I rush out of the office, trying not to make eye contact with my Dad. I make it to Jamie’s car. Heading towards home, I cry a majority of the commute.