I took myself off to a "pre-admission" appointment at the hospital yesterday (Thursday) and found out all sorts of stuff. Some of it was even to do with having surgery. After the obligatory wait in the standard pink walled, blue floored waiting room, I was called into the inner sanctum by Nurse Energiser Bunny who told me all about how she's doing two jobs 'cause they're short staffed and she's sorry that she has to answer the phone while she's sorting me out.
So we communicate using hyroglyphics and sign language for awhile as she's talking to another patient on the phone, and she establishes that I'm the guy that's described in the file she has open on the desk. Then she takes my blood pressure and tells me that it's one level above perfect but we still have to do an ECG. She explains what it is and how and why it's done while I nod as if I've got a clue. Then before I can scratch my head while looking confused, I'm lying on the bed with electrodes all over me. I'm waiting for something to happen - while she's having a chat on the phone - but next thing Nurse Energiser Bunny is ripping the electrodes off and telling me to get off the bed.
So I resume my place in the visitor's chair and she shows me this computer printout with wavy lines on it. She explains what it all means while I nod; she tells me my heart's in great shape and then she starts to take me back to the waiting room to wait for the House Surgeon... What??? Why am I waiting for the House Surgeon? Nobody's told me!! I thought I was going to see the anaesthetist!!
While we're wandering the corridor looking for the waiting room we come upon a dishevelled twenty-something dude who looks like he hasn't slept since puberty kicked in. Turns out this is the House Surgeon. He has a conversation with Nurse Energiser Bunny - it's one of those "third person" conversations people who know more than you do sometimes have about you,where you're standing right there listening, but you're totally excluded - then Dr Needs Awash takes all the paperwork off Nurse Energiser Bunny and leads me off to another room about the size of the bedroom cupboard.
We play musical chairs for a bit until I land in the "old person's chair" and he ends up in the chair guarding the door. He flicks through the paperwork while asking me the same questions that everyone else has. (I must remember to carry a packet of Tic Tacs with me.) Then he asks me if I remember what my blood pressure was? When I say "no" he looks very disappointed and starts flicking through the paperwork again, mumbling that it must be here somewhere.
After a bit he gives up trying to find it and pulls out his stethoscope. He gets up close and personal and listens to my heart and lungs for a bit (really need to remember those Tic Tacs) and then sits down to write up another piece of paper. When he's finished he tells me he's really not the House Surgeon, he's just filling in. The real House Surgeon is on holiday and will be back next week, and he'll go over this again with me on Tuesday before the surgery...??? Hmmmm... Ok.
Then I'm excused, so I wander back into the waiting room, which is now full of old people, (shut up, you kids!) and settle in to wait for the anaesthetist. A couple of days later I hear someone calling out: "Chris Flat... Flaty... Fluty...??"
"Is Chris here?"
So I wander 'round the corner and see Miss Eurasia 2005 holding a clipboard and looking at me expectantly. Her first question's an original: "How do I say your name?" After a couple of attempts we agree to disagree on how it's pronounced and she leads me away to another little room. Turns out that she's the anaesthetist. We go through another round of personal questions, just to make sure that she asks all the same ones as everyone else. Then she tells me how she's going to stick needles in me and shove tubes down my throat, but it's all going to be fine 'cause I'm apparently in pretty good shape - for my age! We talk about how many flights of stairs I can climb without passing out, and I must have come up with the right answer 'cause I get a smile and reassurance that she has no concerns at all about me having anaesthesia.... uummm!! I guess it's good that one of us isn't concerned.
Then it's disclaimer time and the tone of the conversation changes somewhat. Now she's, sort of, apologizing to me - but it's more a commentary on the sad state of society - and talking about how it's unfair and this is why I have to sign a disclaimer. It seems she's done all she can to make sure I understand the risks of anaesthesia and if I want more information I'll have to go to medical school. So I do a Bob Marley on her and tell her "everytings gonna be awright". I'm then told I can't have McDonalds on my way to the hospital - like some other patients do - cause it might cause me to throw up while I'm knocked out and the "stuff" would end up in my lungs. We agree that this would'nt be a good thing, and then I'm chucked out while being told that everyone's looking forward to seeing me on Tuesday.
Awhile later I'm sitting at home having a cuppa and wondering what I'm going to spend my Lotto winnings on when the phone rings. It's the admissions lady from the hospital who tells me that I have a pre-admission appointment that morning and that I'm booked for surgery next Tuesday. "Yes" says I, knowingly.
"No" says she - "I mean your second surgery. Dr G has booked it for Tuesday 9th."
"Oh - ok". The lady then tells me she'll send me out a letter of confirmation and that will explain everything.
So, now we're up to date. First surgery on Tuesday and second the following Tuesday. Let's hope that's all 'cause I don't want to miss out on too much TV.
Friday 28 June 2013
Sunday 23 June 2013
A weekend away.
Denise and I have been telling each other that we should have a weekend away soon, 'cause it's been ages since we've been anywhere. What better choice than to go to Auckland so we can spend some quality time with the A-Team at the hospital. I'll bet none of you can think of a better getaway. Anyway, Denise sneaks a couple more days off - she has the most amazingly caring and thoughtful boss - and off we go. This is Thursday, 'cause it's a six hour drive and the appointment at the clinic is at 08:00 Friday morning.
We arrive at the clinic about 15 minutes early, fill in the compulsory form to make sure I'm not some imposter who just wandered up off the street. Then Nurse Smilealot takes us for a tour and we get to see the interrogation room. This is just two offices with a sliding portion that's open and a few chairs facing what looks like a cheap version of a reclining armchair and a flat screen TV. Then they teach us a new version of the waiting game. This time we get to play in our own little room, and every so often Nurse Smilealot pops her head in to see that we're playing nicely. After about an hour and a half she threatens us with the promise of a cup of tea and we think we might be able to escape to the coffee shop, but no.... we have to finish the waiting game first.
Then Dr Mumble Something comes in to warn us about what's in store for us when they take us into the interrogation room, and off we go. Of course I'm the centre of attention - well, my nose is really but we normally hang out together - and I get the reclining chair. Dr Mumble Something then explains to a group of teenagers that are staring at me, why my nose is worthy of serious consideration and mentions to the room that I'm from Australia and have worked in the Islands. Everyone looks at one another, nod in a sage manner and then turn their attention back to me. Dr Mumble Something then arms himself with a fishing rod, tells me he's going to shove it up my nose, and seems to be surprised that this is not my first experience doing an imitation of a fish. Everyone then shifts their attention to the TV screen to watch the latest episode of "Snott - a boogie's real life adventure". Thankfully for all my TV career is short lived, so then a few guys with reassuring smiles and very white teeth line up to poke and prod for awhile. A couple of them wave tissues over various parts of my face to see if I'm ticklish while repeating the words; "can you feel that? can you feel that?". I keep repeating "yes" while trying not to slap their hands away, and then suddenly I'm dismissed.
We're told we can now make the long awaited trip to the coffee shop if we promise to be back within three quarters of an hour. We have a coffee and spend a bit of time watching the denizens of the coffee shop, then go back to our room and start a new game of Waiting Around.
After awhile Dr. I'mthe Bossdude (who looks like Adam's twin brother - but better looking) comes in to have a chat. He tells us everything we already know, then tells us the margins on the BCC from my ear are too small and they'll have to do it again. To top that he then tells me I have another BCC on my right temple. So, not to be outdone, I show him a lump on my right arm and he tells me that that's another one that'll have to come out. He then explains to us that all the exciting stuff will happen in Hastings, except the pathology, that will be done in Auckland, and then races off to answer his pager. (All a bit Grey's Anatomy, but that's OK.) On the way out, Nurse Smilealot meets us in the corridor and gives us each a packed lunch, so we're all set and off we go.
All in all not something I'd give five stars to on Trip Advisor, but we did play tourist for a bit. We visited a real shopping mall, spent a bit of time at the museum and a bit more time with Serena and Adam. The trip up and back was uneventful except that my wife pinched all the nice lollies... again!!
Today (Monday) I've had so many phone calls from the hospital that I've decided to divert the phone to a call centre in India. The end result of the calls is that the surgery has been confirmed to happen on the 2nd July. (I think I'm busy that day). But the next step is to go and meet my new best friend, the anaesthetist. This happens on Thursday after I finish as a contestant on a quiz show at the hospital called; "All About Chris". If I answer enough questions correctly I win an overnight stay in Hawkes Bay Hospital.
It's all getting a bit real now so it'd be good if you guys could all keep your smiley faces in place and keep posting all the good stuff that's happening in your lives. I'll let you know if I win the quiz.
We arrive at the clinic about 15 minutes early, fill in the compulsory form to make sure I'm not some imposter who just wandered up off the street. Then Nurse Smilealot takes us for a tour and we get to see the interrogation room. This is just two offices with a sliding portion that's open and a few chairs facing what looks like a cheap version of a reclining armchair and a flat screen TV. Then they teach us a new version of the waiting game. This time we get to play in our own little room, and every so often Nurse Smilealot pops her head in to see that we're playing nicely. After about an hour and a half she threatens us with the promise of a cup of tea and we think we might be able to escape to the coffee shop, but no.... we have to finish the waiting game first.
Then Dr Mumble Something comes in to warn us about what's in store for us when they take us into the interrogation room, and off we go. Of course I'm the centre of attention - well, my nose is really but we normally hang out together - and I get the reclining chair. Dr Mumble Something then explains to a group of teenagers that are staring at me, why my nose is worthy of serious consideration and mentions to the room that I'm from Australia and have worked in the Islands. Everyone looks at one another, nod in a sage manner and then turn their attention back to me. Dr Mumble Something then arms himself with a fishing rod, tells me he's going to shove it up my nose, and seems to be surprised that this is not my first experience doing an imitation of a fish. Everyone then shifts their attention to the TV screen to watch the latest episode of "Snott - a boogie's real life adventure". Thankfully for all my TV career is short lived, so then a few guys with reassuring smiles and very white teeth line up to poke and prod for awhile. A couple of them wave tissues over various parts of my face to see if I'm ticklish while repeating the words; "can you feel that? can you feel that?". I keep repeating "yes" while trying not to slap their hands away, and then suddenly I'm dismissed.
We're told we can now make the long awaited trip to the coffee shop if we promise to be back within three quarters of an hour. We have a coffee and spend a bit of time watching the denizens of the coffee shop, then go back to our room and start a new game of Waiting Around.
After awhile Dr. I'mthe Bossdude (who looks like Adam's twin brother - but better looking) comes in to have a chat. He tells us everything we already know, then tells us the margins on the BCC from my ear are too small and they'll have to do it again. To top that he then tells me I have another BCC on my right temple. So, not to be outdone, I show him a lump on my right arm and he tells me that that's another one that'll have to come out. He then explains to us that all the exciting stuff will happen in Hastings, except the pathology, that will be done in Auckland, and then races off to answer his pager. (All a bit Grey's Anatomy, but that's OK.) On the way out, Nurse Smilealot meets us in the corridor and gives us each a packed lunch, so we're all set and off we go.
All in all not something I'd give five stars to on Trip Advisor, but we did play tourist for a bit. We visited a real shopping mall, spent a bit of time at the museum and a bit more time with Serena and Adam. The trip up and back was uneventful except that my wife pinched all the nice lollies... again!!
Today (Monday) I've had so many phone calls from the hospital that I've decided to divert the phone to a call centre in India. The end result of the calls is that the surgery has been confirmed to happen on the 2nd July. (I think I'm busy that day). But the next step is to go and meet my new best friend, the anaesthetist. This happens on Thursday after I finish as a contestant on a quiz show at the hospital called; "All About Chris". If I answer enough questions correctly I win an overnight stay in Hawkes Bay Hospital.
It's all getting a bit real now so it'd be good if you guys could all keep your smiley faces in place and keep posting all the good stuff that's happening in your lives. I'll let you know if I win the quiz.
Wednesday 19 June 2013
Good News Wednesday!!!
The cancer's confined to the side of my nose. This is actually really good news, even though it means I'll still need about three operations.
We went off to see the specialist today where I found out a few interesting facts, like; do you want to know how many pamphlets there are in the waiting room? Or how many chair legs there are? I can even tell you how long the nurses from the other wing have for their lunch break. I was busy working out how many floor tiles were in the room when I was rudely interrupted by Doctor G coming out to get us. He had to come out himself 'cause he was running so late that all the nurses had taken off.
He took us into his room to show us these "really interesting" photos of the inside of my head and chest. My wife seemed to be a little bit fascinated by it all, but it seemed a bit gross to me. Anyway, the upshot of all this was that the cancer is confined to my nose. So, one operation to cut out the rust and another two to do the panel beating, filling and spray painting. The first op is tentatively booked for the 2nd of July. I think this is going to depend on someone else getting bumped. Sorry someone.
So, next? It seems Auckland City Hospital has a team of people that meet every Friday to assess "special" cases and advise the best course of treatment. As I've been booked to front up to the meeting this Friday this now confirms a fact I've been aware of for some time. I'm "special".
Apparently this team - of about 20 people of all different disciplines - go through the scans and medical history, then talk to you while doing a bit of prodding and poking. They then tell your specialist wether they agree with his proposed course of action, or if they think he's lost the plot. So it might be that they recommend that I have the ops in Auckland. If so, it might also mean that every thing will be done in one hit. I think they must use super glue and quick drying paint.
So, do I feel any differently now, after getting a lot more information? I've been trying to work this out, but the truth is, I don't really know. I don't think I do. Since this whole thing started I've been able to focus on the good stuff and I think this might be because I've always been aware of two indisputable facts. One is; I'm married to a wonderful, loving woman who is the strongest and most practical person I know; and the other is; there is one thing better than loving someone. That is; knowing, without any shadow of doubt, that you are loved by others.
The level of support and encouragement shown to me by my family, friends, my family's friends and complete strangers has left me feeling both indestructible and humble. A simple expression of gratitude to you all is totally inadequate, but please believe that it is heartfelt and genuine. Knowing that you are all out there dealing with your own life issues while still offering me your support strengthens my will and keeps me focused on the positive... Thank you.
I'll let you know how I get on with the A-team.
I'll let you know how I get on with the A-team.
Tuesday 18 June 2013
An astronaut...? Me...?
MRI day today, so we take ourselves off to the Radiology Department at the hospital and settle down in the waiting area. Along comes Nurse Lilmiss I'mincharge and proceeds to lead me off into the bowels of Radiology. After bypassing the change rooms, 'cause they're just going to shoot these rays though my head, we end up in the control room of the space shuttle where I meet Nurse Beenhere Toolong,
I'm told to divest myself of all my worldly possessions, including a partial dental plate I've been chewing on for a few years, and to make myself comfortable on this plastic slab that's got a fruit bowl shaped indent for my head. These two ladies take up position on each side of me and shove earplugs in my ears, then place thick foam pads against the earplugs that wedge my head into place in the fruit bowl. After taking great pains to ensure I can't hear anything, they then proceed to start giving me instructions and offering reassurances while fitting a helmet type thingy over my head that's got a mirror in it so I can see my feet. (Not sure what that's about?) After I've asked them what they've said a couple of times I then decide just to nod for a bit and after awhile they go away. Seems now I'm almost ready for launch. The slab moves me into position and a voice from nowhere mumbles something about three and a half minutes.
Here's another new learning experience for Chris. I always thought that Dwarfs lived at the bottom of the garden and when they wanted a change of scenery they pretended to be Gnomes and spent their holidays on your neighbour's front lawn. Turns out, some of them actually live in MRI machines, and they spend their time using little jackhammers and chainsaws and other random bits of machinery to make as much noise as possible while someone's in the machine. I figure it's a plot to stop people falling asleep. So the voice from nowhere mumbles on a few more times during the silences while the Dwarfs are changing shifts, and after awhile the slab spits me out of the machine.
One of the nice ladies comes and takes my helmet off and I sit up and look around in wonder expecting to see ET or a Transformer or some other alien life form. But no - all I see are pink, yellow and blue teddies placed in strategic places around the room and I realise that this is something some little kids have to go through. It must be a really scary experience for them. It's lucky I'm a big kid, and I'm brave too. I didn't even cry once.
Then they shuffled me out the door, with what I thought was undue haste, while they mumbled something about morning tea. I turned on my homing device and after a few twists and turns found myself back in the waiting room.
So now I'm sitting up writing this at some stupid hour of the night instead of sleeping and wondering what tomorrow's going to bring when I go off to see Doctor G. I'll let you know.
I'm told to divest myself of all my worldly possessions, including a partial dental plate I've been chewing on for a few years, and to make myself comfortable on this plastic slab that's got a fruit bowl shaped indent for my head. These two ladies take up position on each side of me and shove earplugs in my ears, then place thick foam pads against the earplugs that wedge my head into place in the fruit bowl. After taking great pains to ensure I can't hear anything, they then proceed to start giving me instructions and offering reassurances while fitting a helmet type thingy over my head that's got a mirror in it so I can see my feet. (Not sure what that's about?) After I've asked them what they've said a couple of times I then decide just to nod for a bit and after awhile they go away. Seems now I'm almost ready for launch. The slab moves me into position and a voice from nowhere mumbles something about three and a half minutes.
Here's another new learning experience for Chris. I always thought that Dwarfs lived at the bottom of the garden and when they wanted a change of scenery they pretended to be Gnomes and spent their holidays on your neighbour's front lawn. Turns out, some of them actually live in MRI machines, and they spend their time using little jackhammers and chainsaws and other random bits of machinery to make as much noise as possible while someone's in the machine. I figure it's a plot to stop people falling asleep. So the voice from nowhere mumbles on a few more times during the silences while the Dwarfs are changing shifts, and after awhile the slab spits me out of the machine.
One of the nice ladies comes and takes my helmet off and I sit up and look around in wonder expecting to see ET or a Transformer or some other alien life form. But no - all I see are pink, yellow and blue teddies placed in strategic places around the room and I realise that this is something some little kids have to go through. It must be a really scary experience for them. It's lucky I'm a big kid, and I'm brave too. I didn't even cry once.
Then they shuffled me out the door, with what I thought was undue haste, while they mumbled something about morning tea. I turned on my homing device and after a few twists and turns found myself back in the waiting room.
So now I'm sitting up writing this at some stupid hour of the night instead of sleeping and wondering what tomorrow's going to bring when I go off to see Doctor G. I'll let you know.
Tuesday 11 June 2013
It's not me, it's them!!
Last week I went in to the place I used to work to pick up the paperwork associated with my redundancy. When I met with the boss, he gave me lots of smiles and made - what I'm sure he thought were - appropriate noises of sympathy followed by the comment, "You're moving very stiffly, are you sure you're alright?" After assuring him that I could probably last through the course of the meeting before collapsing, he then proceeded to pay close attention to his computer while he printed out the paperwork. I was expecting to receive a formal letter outlining the reasons for the redundancy, the terms of the redundancy, and some form of expression of regret - or to put it another way, words trying to justify their actions. Silly me..!!
What I received was a single piece of paper with four separate, one sentence paragraphs, telling me I had agreed to their proposal of the 27th May 2013, and that my last day of work was to be 7th June 2013. One of the paragraphs explained to me, in one sentence, that even though the 3rd of June was a public holiday the company was being magnanimous and paying me sick leave for this particular day. This piece of paper wasn't on letterhead, nor was it dated; but it did have a place for signatories with my name printed as one of them. When I told the manager I would take it away with me unsigned, I got a look. Knowing what I know now, it was probably a look of fear - where this guy sees himself being reprimanded, and being held accountable for his words and actions in an Employment Relations mediation meeting.
Hang on, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I then ask if he might possibly be able to give me a copy of the Employment Contract I had signed in April. "Don't you already have a copy?" is the response.
"No!" say I.
What follows is something in the manner of a dance around the office, where this guy is looking in filing cabinets, desk drawers, his briefcase and under various stacks of paper hoping that my copy of the Employment Contract will magically appear. When this doesn't happen he assures me that he will arrange for a copy for me straight away. So I wander off happy in the knowledge that everybody has my best interests at heart.
A couple of days later, I've received, read and re-read my Employment Contract - compared their redundancy offerings with the contract requirements and come to the realisation that they are shortchanging me two weeks worth of wages. So I put my superpower to good use and write them a very professional looking letter, where I explain the error they've made, and kindly ask them to reconsider their redundancy offer. This letter was sent to them on Monday afternoon.
Tuesday night - ten minutes past eight - the phone rings. It's for me...! It's never for me. This time of night it's got to be one of my wife's mates. Anyway, I say hello and some guy then tells me his name and starts apologising for the error he's made and that the company will make sure it's corrected and I will definitely receive my full redundancy entitlement, and on and on he goes. After listening to this guy apologise over and over for a couple of hours (... well it felt like it) I interrupt - quite rudely - and ask him who he is. Turns out, this guy is a contractor who provides HR advice and documentation to this company and he was the person who wrote the four sentence, four paragraph piece of paper in the first place.
So. Thinking this through, and using my cynic's glasses to get an overview of this whole affair, it now seems that this company has gone to some lengths to contract themselves out of Human Resource responsibilities and accountability. Looking back, it is very doubtful that this HR contractor was ever told of the circumstances of my redundancy, bit simply instructed to put the process in motion based on the subsequent changes to my duties at work.
So now I've got another decision to make. Should I go and have a chat with a Department of Labour dude?
Who's responsible? The company or the contractor?
Should I care? Am I focused in the wrong direction? I've got an MRI and a specialist's appointment next week.
I know what some of you think but I'd be interested in your feedback.
What I received was a single piece of paper with four separate, one sentence paragraphs, telling me I had agreed to their proposal of the 27th May 2013, and that my last day of work was to be 7th June 2013. One of the paragraphs explained to me, in one sentence, that even though the 3rd of June was a public holiday the company was being magnanimous and paying me sick leave for this particular day. This piece of paper wasn't on letterhead, nor was it dated; but it did have a place for signatories with my name printed as one of them. When I told the manager I would take it away with me unsigned, I got a look. Knowing what I know now, it was probably a look of fear - where this guy sees himself being reprimanded, and being held accountable for his words and actions in an Employment Relations mediation meeting.
Hang on, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I then ask if he might possibly be able to give me a copy of the Employment Contract I had signed in April. "Don't you already have a copy?" is the response.
"No!" say I.
What follows is something in the manner of a dance around the office, where this guy is looking in filing cabinets, desk drawers, his briefcase and under various stacks of paper hoping that my copy of the Employment Contract will magically appear. When this doesn't happen he assures me that he will arrange for a copy for me straight away. So I wander off happy in the knowledge that everybody has my best interests at heart.
A couple of days later, I've received, read and re-read my Employment Contract - compared their redundancy offerings with the contract requirements and come to the realisation that they are shortchanging me two weeks worth of wages. So I put my superpower to good use and write them a very professional looking letter, where I explain the error they've made, and kindly ask them to reconsider their redundancy offer. This letter was sent to them on Monday afternoon.
Tuesday night - ten minutes past eight - the phone rings. It's for me...! It's never for me. This time of night it's got to be one of my wife's mates. Anyway, I say hello and some guy then tells me his name and starts apologising for the error he's made and that the company will make sure it's corrected and I will definitely receive my full redundancy entitlement, and on and on he goes. After listening to this guy apologise over and over for a couple of hours (... well it felt like it) I interrupt - quite rudely - and ask him who he is. Turns out, this guy is a contractor who provides HR advice and documentation to this company and he was the person who wrote the four sentence, four paragraph piece of paper in the first place.
So. Thinking this through, and using my cynic's glasses to get an overview of this whole affair, it now seems that this company has gone to some lengths to contract themselves out of Human Resource responsibilities and accountability. Looking back, it is very doubtful that this HR contractor was ever told of the circumstances of my redundancy, bit simply instructed to put the process in motion based on the subsequent changes to my duties at work.
So now I've got another decision to make. Should I go and have a chat with a Department of Labour dude?
Who's responsible? The company or the contractor?
Should I care? Am I focused in the wrong direction? I've got an MRI and a specialist's appointment next week.
I know what some of you think but I'd be interested in your feedback.
Friday 7 June 2013
It's not you, it's me!
I had a weird experience today that shook me up a bit and got me thinking. I still haven't quite sorted this out in my mind so this might end up in the bin. But we'll see where we get to.
I had to go out to the place that made me redundant today to pick up a piece of paper. When I walked into the office, I straight away detected a level of discomfort and it was quite unexpected. Thinking about this after, I realized that these people didn't know how to interact with me. These are people I've worked with for the past four years and over that time I've heard some very personal and intimate details of their lives, and in some cases I consider these people to be friends, so it came as a real surprise to see them so "standoffish" and reluctant to talk.
It's a few days later now and I've been dwelling on this off and on, and also taking more note of other interactions I've had with people over the past few days. In a lot of cases, when I told people I was going in for an operation, their first response was to tell me, either about their own firsthand experience with cancer, or, about a family member who has fought cancer and either won or lost. I think this is the way most people are able to feel comfortable with this subject while still offering a degree of personal interaction. Funnily enough, it seems to be quite different when people are in a group. They then seem to be more reluctant to talk about themselves and in most cases start to ask questions about whatever it is you're going through.
So I think the answer is to tell people, but then to get off the subject as quickly as possible and focus on something they are more comfortable with. I don't think there is an issue here of right or wrong... I think it's more that that's just the way it is.
On a personal level, if I turn the coin over, I notice that the view is quite different. For instance: The young boy who died in Auckland the other day after football practice. My first inclination when this comes to mind is to feel a level of sympathy for the family - which I now realize is quite superficial. But when I compare this to my feelings about this cancer and the upcoming operation I realize that I really haven't got a clue. Try as I might, I can't even begin to understand how this boys' parents must feel, and I think it shows an unpleasant degree of egotism and arrogance on my part to even pretend that I do.
So now I've now come to a realization... Why should it be any different for other people? So my thinking has changed and I'm going to take some advice from my youngest daughter, and just...
Suck it up, princess.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6YNtM9lvpM
I had to go out to the place that made me redundant today to pick up a piece of paper. When I walked into the office, I straight away detected a level of discomfort and it was quite unexpected. Thinking about this after, I realized that these people didn't know how to interact with me. These are people I've worked with for the past four years and over that time I've heard some very personal and intimate details of their lives, and in some cases I consider these people to be friends, so it came as a real surprise to see them so "standoffish" and reluctant to talk.
It's a few days later now and I've been dwelling on this off and on, and also taking more note of other interactions I've had with people over the past few days. In a lot of cases, when I told people I was going in for an operation, their first response was to tell me, either about their own firsthand experience with cancer, or, about a family member who has fought cancer and either won or lost. I think this is the way most people are able to feel comfortable with this subject while still offering a degree of personal interaction. Funnily enough, it seems to be quite different when people are in a group. They then seem to be more reluctant to talk about themselves and in most cases start to ask questions about whatever it is you're going through.
So I think the answer is to tell people, but then to get off the subject as quickly as possible and focus on something they are more comfortable with. I don't think there is an issue here of right or wrong... I think it's more that that's just the way it is.
On a personal level, if I turn the coin over, I notice that the view is quite different. For instance: The young boy who died in Auckland the other day after football practice. My first inclination when this comes to mind is to feel a level of sympathy for the family - which I now realize is quite superficial. But when I compare this to my feelings about this cancer and the upcoming operation I realize that I really haven't got a clue. Try as I might, I can't even begin to understand how this boys' parents must feel, and I think it shows an unpleasant degree of egotism and arrogance on my part to even pretend that I do.
So now I've now come to a realization... Why should it be any different for other people? So my thinking has changed and I'm going to take some advice from my youngest daughter, and just...
Suck it up, princess.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6YNtM9lvpM
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