Support Group, Thursday Version

The Thursday support group at Sloan-Kettering could not be more different than Tuesday's group in midtown. For one thing, it's run by two professionals, long-time social workers at the hospital who have been doing this for many years (I remember one of them from my first bout with cancer twelve years ago). The volunteer at SHARE on Tuesday was an extremely nice woman and not unskilled, but these two Thursday ladies know what they're doing --- they're large (not literally) and IN CHARGE. They run the discussion with a tight rein, make sure everyone is brought in by asking individuals leading questions, and dispense information, wisdom, interpretation and emotional comfort with a sure hand.

So it was a less queasy experience than Tuesday's, though I kind of missed that feeling of being with people very much unlike those I normally encounter. The women here seemed more middle-class, more articulate, more savvy in general. They included a professor at a college five hours away who had just had a mastectomy and implant, two women with young children, and a 73 year old former dancer. Most were undergoing radiation or chemotherapy, or both, or had just finished. The younger ones had been thrown into menopause, which caused debilitating depression, and for one, the consequent loss of her job. No one there had metastatic cancer -- I guess they're in the separate group for those with Stage Four that meets another day.

There was one moment that upset me: the professor was complaining that the schedule for radiation is annoyingly erratic and unpredictable. She was told that they reserve the mornings for children, who have to be anesthetized before radiation because they cannot keep still. Morning is best for them since they are not allowed to eat before the anesthesia, and they would have to go hungry all day while waiting. Sure enough, she said, there was a four year old coming out with his head on his mommy's knee last time she went early. That is, she said, it was hard to tell if it was a boy or girl, because of the lack of hair. I cried. One of my grandsons is four.

It's easy to forget, when I'm whining about my poor lost breast, that this is a brutal disease that attacks the innocent and the not so innocent alike, the very young as well as the elderly. I must remember that when I become too absorbed in myself.