Reconstruction has saved me.
I’m not referring to my prophylactic bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction. I’m talking about the transformation of my hospital’s Cancer Care Center, where I received my treatments and followups, to the now-named Center for Advanced Care, where I receive followup care.
Years ago, I first met my oncologist in the Cancer Care Center, a very ordinary, depressing sort of building with few windows. Thus the interior was somewhat dark and ugly — like cancer and my resulting depression. Luckily, the building’s dimness couldn’t eclipse my doctors’ and nurses’ bright smiles, hugs, encouragement, and their communication with each other in order to save and extend their patients’ lives.
Still, it was a darker space during the darkest place in my life.
When I’d get my post-treatment followups at the Cancer Care Center, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) would overtake me. Everything would trigger flashbacks. I’d pass by the bathroom I threw up in, the nook I sat in and cried, the examination rooms where I had breakdowns. I associated all areas with sickness and death. Even the bathroom soap’s scent made me ill, for I smelled it on my hands during chemotherapy. To this day, I cannot tolerate the scent, which triggers those horrible flashbacks.
Imagine a Vietnam veteran who, after the war, is placed on the same battlefield where he witnessed death and destruction. And he is told to just calmly walk through the area. That’s the best way I can describe how it felt for me to be at the Cancer Care Center year after year. I barely coped.
Then a kind miracle: the building came down, wing by wing.
I remember the pardon-our-appearance signs, as well as entering the building in some weird insulated construction tunnel amid concrete structures. My oncologist apologized to me for the noisy mess, which made the building look even more dismal. I still was having flashbacks because the layout was the same for the most part, and the change was gradual.
But seemingly overnight, the center’s transformation was complete. It was magical, like when the fairy godmother turned Cinderella’s rags into a beautiful gown.
What’s In a Name?
The now-named Center for Advanced Care better reflects the hospital’s integrative-team approach for patients, as so many hospitals have. The first time I walked in, I was shocked how beautiful the space was. The entire building was reconstructed to create an open, light, airy feel, with glass walls that let in lots of natural light. Beautiful artwork adorns the walls, and the space is inviting. The first followup in that building left me blinking several times in disbelief and wonder.
This new center provides the same excellent care to patients. But I have no illusions that this new center will save more lives or provide care superior to that of its predecessor. And I still have panic attacks in my oncologist’s examining room, as well as scanxiety. But gone are those awful flashbacks when I see doctors in this building.
It turns out that the act of tearing down has built me up emotionally.
Do you have flashbacks or panic attacks in doctors’ offices/hospitals?
Have you witnessed physical changes to your hospital/doctor’s office?
I’d love for you to share your experience(s).
Tags: flashbacks, hospital, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, reconstruction