Dr. Mark Kaminski

Courtesy University of Michigan

Just days after cancer called, my husband Alex and I sat in the waiting room at the Lymphoma Clinic at the University of Michigan Comprehensive Cancer Center. It seemed more like a holding pen. Most people looked tired and resigned. Some were in wheelchairs. Others wore scarves, hats, bandages and surgical masks. I wondered what horrors were happening to those poor souls. Surely Alex and I couldn't belong in their midst. We'd always been so healthy. And just how many strangers would have to see me naked? I had not aspired to become a middle-aged Gypsy Rose Lee, and I certainly didn't want to suffer degrading, disgusting or painful procedures.

Though it had only been a week since I'd heard ,"We suspect lymphoma," I'd had enough. I didn't have time for lymphoma, whatever that was.  And I wasn't about to trust perfect strangers, especially doctors who, I was certain, would bolt through the door, ask a question or two without ever looking up, and bolt out just as quickly. No matter who came into the examining room, I was ready to wallop anyone who tried to prolong this little scare.

And then I met Dr. Mark Kaminski. And he almost disarmed me. Almost. Wearing a friendly smile and genteel manner, Dr. Kaminski strode into the small room where Alex and I were fidgeting. He sat down, looked us squarely in the eye, and with his calm and steady voice, began to talk about lymphoma.

Intuitively knowing that we had no idea what questions to ask, Dr. Kaminski patiently explained what he knew we needed to know, unhurriedly and with such reassuring authority and compassion that I suspected he had aced his Bedside Manner class back in medical school. My urge to wallop fizzled down but not out.

I was determined to get an answer to the only question I had, which was how long I had to live if I had lymphoma. Dr. Kaminski seemed reluctant to share that little tidbit, instead trying to assure me that statistics do not predict an individual's outcome, but getting my question answered seemed the only thing over which I had any control in this little meeting, so I pushed. Big mistake. I would later have to do some serious mental gymnastics to forget that from diagnosis to death, the median was eight years.

Hearing that, I considered throwing myself at Dr. Kaminski's feet and begging for a guarantee of many years on the far side of the median, if I had lymphoma, which I didn't think I did, or at least I wanted to believe I didn't think I did. I'd been telling myself that surely the results of those emergency room tests were mixed up with someone else's. And no matter how nice Dr. Kaminski was, surely he was wrong, too.

By the end of our visit, I'd agreed to have a CT scan and a biopsy, because it seemed the only way to prove him and the tests wrong. At the time, Alex and I had no way of knowing that we were sitting with one of the world's foremost lymphoma experts, much less how lucky I was to have landed in his care. As we parted, Dr. Kaminski wanted us to leave his office with hope. All I hoped for was this nightmare to end. Immediately, if not sooner.

As Alex and I walked hand in hand to the car after the appointment, I joked, "Hey, don't look so glum. I'm willing to be knifed and drugged to prove the docs wrong. Aren't I the martyr?"

"Okay," Alex said, trying to smile. "If they want to biopsy, maybe the docs think it's a mistake, too." A year later, Alex would tell me that he added silently, "But what if the biopsy confirms their suspicions. Then what?"

How did you feel at your first visit to the oncologist?

Coming Tuesday, Sept. 28: The Queen of Denial Dethroned By A Song

Betsy de Parry is the author of The Roller Coaster Chroncles and host of a series of webcasts about cancer. Find her on Facebook or e-mail her.