The 5 Stages of Fear

I recently underwent a procedure called a “laparoscopic ileocolic resection.” I thought about writing this prior to surgery but could not muster up the mental and emotional energy to put words on a page. Now that it’s in the rearview mirror, I’ve come to view it as a journey through fear. And more specifically, I’ve decided that the phases I went through are quite like the five stages of grief. In the interests of keeping myself organized, I thought I’d use them as a sort of outline for this piece.

Denial

Back in December, at age fifty-seven, I underwent my first colonoscopy. Now before you get on me for delaying, let me just say that I’d had prior clearance to submit poop samples instead. Who’s going to reject that option? Anyway, after my rural primary care provider transferred to urgent care (I will be writing about that at some point), I decided to make the hour trip back to my old primary doctor of almost twenty years. She immediately put the kibosh on any more poop tests.

So, I underwent the colonoscopy. As I was coming to, the endoscopist informed me that, while I had no polyps (yay!), he discovered a 4 cm mass of unknown origin. He couldn’t tell if it was outside the colon, pushing on it—in fact, he went so far as to say it could be an ovary for all he could tell. My confidence in him dipped considerably after that statement. He’d taken a small sample for biopsy and ordered a CT scan for the next day.

At first, I decided that the biopsy results as well as the CT report—both of which indicated nothing abnormal—would be good enough for me. Why go looking for trouble? Plus I didn’t really think about how big 4 cm actually was. Even at my subsequent appointment with a specialist, I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that she wanted to go in and take something out just because she didn’t know what it was.

“It’s a simple procedure…” she said. “It’s possible you’ll be in and out the same day, and at most, you’ll only be in the hospital a couple of days. The recovery is easy.”

Or at least that’s what I remember her saying.

The problem was, there was no convenient time for a procedure for which I did not have a definite timeline for outcome. Not to mention the whole possibility that I could die on the operating table. For some reason, I now see more of those stories popping up:

“So and so (often a famous person) age (under 60) died after complications following surgery…”

Didn’t Andy Warhol die from complications of gallbladder surgery? Wasn’t he only fifty-eight?

But I digress…

Because I have a book coming out in June, I needed to schedule this for when all the editing work with the publisher was finished. I didn’t want to be the cause of any sort of delay on their end. So, I picked the end of April. I’m busy, you know. I have a lot going on…

Anger

It wasn’t until the week of my pre-op appointment that I decided to get serious about understanding what exactly I was supposed to do. This was a procedure that required (ahem) prep on my part. I reviewed the medication list and realized I had not yet picked up the prescriptions the surgeon ordered for me. Then, it turns out, one was missing. When I called for clarification, I was informed that it was on “backorder,” so they were just not giving it to patients.

Now would be a good time to share that during my prior hospital stay for a hip replacement, I contracted a most dreadful infection that about tore my insides apart. So…if I had this straight, I was being denied an antibiotic that might prevent me from getting that awful infection I’d gotten in the past. Great.

Bargaining

Reminder: I’m a former lawyer. Although I haven’t actively practiced in a couple of years, I’d like to think I’ve kept my advocacy skills sharp—especially when it comes to my own self-interest. After deciding that the professionals didn’t care about me sufficiently to give me some sort of substitute antibiotic, I decided that I could take matters into my own hands by simply refusing the more invasive procedure that would require me to stay in the hospital. There! Done!

After I declared my intentions to my doctor at the pre-op appointment, I watched her roll her eyes behind her mask. “So…you’re just going to come back in six months to get the rest of it done?” she chided. “Look…anytime you can avoid general anesthesia you’re going to be ahead of the game, and the older you get, the harder it is on your body.”

Depression

That’s when the tears started rolling down, turning my own mask soggy.

“I can’t think that far ahead. I can only take one day at a time,” I stammered. What a mess I’d become.  That’s what happens when we spend just a bit too much time in the world of denial. At some point, reality is going to crash through, oftentimes with ugly consequences.

After that appointment, I encountered several other well-meaning people who conclusively dispelled any lingering notions that I’d be in and out and back to my regular life within a couple weeks. I had less than a week to pivot to a different head space.

Acceptance

So that’s what I did. What else can you do?

I took care of business. I let my friends take care of me. I let down my guard. I did what the medical professionals told me to do.

And where my mind went, my body followed. So far so good. The pathology results are not back yet, but preliminary reports are all positive. So I will sit in this feeling for as long as I can.

I know there are those who can start the journey at acceptance. I’m not one of them. But I think if I can get there eventually, I’m doing okay.