As patients, we need to remember that we may not wear the white coat, but we definitely wear the pants in the doctor-patient relationship
BY Sarah DeBord
PUBLISHED December 17, 2018
Sarah DeBord was diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer at age 34. In the years since, she has turned her diagnosis into a calling, and become an advocate for other young adults diagnosed with colorectal cancer and parents with young families facing cancer. She works as a communications and program manager for the Minneapolis-based Colon Cancer Coalition , volunteers her time with the online patient-led support community COLONTOWN , and blogs about her often adventurous experiences of living with chronic cancer at ColonCancerChick.com.
A Facebook memory popped up on my feed from fpir years ago, and it was one that reminded me of the time I put my big girl pants on for the first time as a patient and fired my oncologist.
Two years into treatment, I moved to a new state and expected a smooth transition to a new clinic where my new doctor would pick up where I had left off. I knew I would be continuing on with the same chemotherapy plan, and knew what to expect as I got hooked back up to the bag under his care. Only things didn't continue on as expected, and I didn't tolerate these continuing rounds of chemo as well as I had before.
Unlike my first 12 rounds on this chemo cocktail, my nausea wasn't controlled with an assortment of antiemetic IV meds given to me in advance. My beloved anti-nausea pills weren't even making a dent in my ability to take the edge off the paralyzing sickness. All I could do was stay motionless in bed for days, eventually throwing up with no regard for any of the long-lasting antiemetic drugs that were pumped into me before my infusion.
Two years into treatment, I moved to a new state and expected a smooth transition to a new clinic where my new doctor would pick up where I had left off. I knew I would be continuing on with the same chemotherapy plan, and knew what to expect as I got hooked back up to the bag under his care. Only things didn't continue on as expected, and I didn't tolerate these continuing rounds of chemo as well as I had before.
Unlike my first 12 rounds on this chemo cocktail, my nausea wasn't controlled with an assortment of antiemetic IV meds given to me in advance. My beloved anti-nausea pills weren't even making a dent in my ability to take the edge off the paralyzing sickness. All I could do was stay motionless in bed for days, eventually throwing up with no regard for any of the long-lasting antiemetic drugs that were pumped into me before my infusion.
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