Goddess, Queen, Badass

There are people in your life and then there are people in your life. I’m going to backwards to go forwards and tell you about a special “people” in our life.

In 2008, Glen was diagnosed with “base of tongue” (head and neck) cancer. In typical Glen fashion, he used all of his connections and resources to do the research so that he could make the best treatment plan decision, including who would be his guide – aka radiation oncologist – aka ray-doc (my spelling). Long story short (because it’s really his story to tell)…that brought him to UCSF at Mt. Zion. If you’re really bored, you can read our blog from that experience here: https://gtptoh.blogspot.com/2008/06/initial-posting.html (Note that Glen wrote at the beginning and then as he started treatment, I wrote most of it. Scroll to the bottom of 2008 on the right, “Initial Postings” if you want to read from the beginning.)

2008 was a big year for us…Yes, Glen got the scariest diagnosis that no one wants to hear and then Niels graduated from high school a few short weeks later and then a few short months later he headed to Oregon for college. In July, we took Niels and Blair to Eugene for orientation. Glen had just begun treatment and we were still blissfully ignorant of the road ahead.

By the time we took Niels to Oregon to move into his dorm the third week of September, Glen had (barely) lived through treatment. (I like to say that they pretty much had to kill him in order to save him.) In our enduring ignorance, we didn’t realize that treatment was only the beginning. We were slow to understand that a patient’s journey doesn’t actually end when treatment ends. All of that chemo and radiation is cumulative and there were many more painful and challenging months ahead for Glen and in different ways, for me as a bystander.

So those couple “move in” days in Eugene have stuck with me for many reasons – mostly emotional. (Emotions are one key to memory retention.) First, obviously I was dropping my first-born off into the unknown so I was feeling all those “mom” emotions – love, sadness, joy, excitement, sadness, hope, sadness, fear, love, sadness…any parent gets it. In addition to the usual mom stuff, I had the added layer of concern for Glen.

As had become so clear during those grueling months of treatment, Niels had always been my source of staying grounded. He was my sounding board. He always saw things clearly and could could articulate what needed to be done in a respectful and effective way. He could negotiate a peace when needed, provide a voice of reason, or present some common sense solution. I know. I know. He was barely 18. But he was an old soul. And here I was in the most traumatic period of my life with my husband and my “rock” was leaving. I know. So selfish.

So there were all those emotions. And then there were the emotions having to do with Glen. He was a shadow of himself in some ways – mentally and physically exhausted, in pain (also mentally and physically), and feeling all the feelings of his son leaving the nest. Basically, we were a mess. I remember sitting in the sad little hotel room the last night knowing (and celebrating) that Niels was off experiencing his first night as a college student. (I think I warmed up a can of soup for dinner that I purchased in the lobby. No celebrating for me.) As I ate my soup, I stared out the window looking over the parking lot…I needed to be strong for Glen – or was it for me? But I was crying. For me. For Glen. For Blair. And even for Niels.

On our last morning in Eugene, Glen and I stopped at Voodoo Donuts and bought dozens of donuts. We went back to the dorm to deliver the treat to his hall and to say our “good byes”. I remember that I clung to Niels. Hard. Until it was awkward and then I pulled away and because Glen wasn’t able to drive…with tears running down my cheeks, I jumped in the driver’s seat and we headed home. I felt so empty.

Through this whole period of duress aka treatment+, who was there by our side helping us deal with the physical and emotional pain? Who was listening, guiding, laughing, crying, giving hope, sharing the hard truths, and generally holding us up?

Enter Dr. Yom, the diminutive giant, our “ray-doc” who treated Glen in 2008. In our house she is known as the “goddess”. Angel would also work. Therapist. Confidant. Cheerleader. Bad-ass. Butt kicker. Queen. I could go on, but you get it. She lived through that period of our life right by our sides. She carried us through. Glen would email her in middle of the night, he didn’t think he’d make it through the night and she’d answer his email in 10 minutes. I don’t know how she knew. I don’t know that she slept. She was ALWAYS available and ALWAYS present. I think that maybe…she cared too much for her own good. (Sidebar: She was very private, but occasionally we saw a personal side of her. One day she told us she was going camping for a few days. She was not a “camper”. She was nervous. We couldn’t believe she was taking time off! Yeah her! She was nervous about practical things…like the dark and critters. I gave her my headlamp from the 3-Day to help her make the treks to you-know-where in the night. She survived, but I think it was her last camping trip!)

And then we jump some 14 years down the road…new health challenges began to emerge for Glen. We’d been warned of the possibilities, but human nature (i.e. denial) takes over and of course, those possible down-the-road side effects were for “other people”. Not for Glen.

So why all the background information? (aka – Will she ever get to the point?)

Over the years, the frequency of Glen’s visits with Dr. Yom have been reduced to…almost never though he has an annual appointment with her assistant (I forget the correct title.) In November, he asked and was granted an appointment with the goddess herself…but he had to wait till March. Until today.

So now we are in the present when we had the honor, pleasure and joy of having an appointment (more like a visit) with Dr. Yom. And yes, I’m a tagalong. Glen invites me to come and I almost always do.

I felt so many emotions as we drove to the city. While the radiology department has been moved from the Mt. Zion location to the new Mission Bay building, the smell of the hand soap hit me as soon as I walked in the door. For Glen, that smell is a warm fuzzy. For me, not so much. We were early so we waited. Without staring, I did what I always did to pass the time…I looked around and imagined the emotions of the people in the waiting room. So many possibilities. Glen got the call to go to the exam room and then…there she was…our goddess, Dr. Yom.

I was surprised to find that my eyes immediately filled with tears at the sound of her voice. I felt a sudden fullness of my heart – a feeling of comfort, respect and a kind of love. After warm hugs, she went straight to Glen’s chart with questions and with her usual sense of humor, she got to the bottom of a lot of his symptoms.

But here’s the part that sums up Dr. Yom. Even though her group had already knocked and opened the door to tell her she was late, she stayed with us for 10 more minutes. When we were preparing to leave with prescriptions, instructions, a bit of hope…she paused and said…”I know that your son died. I’m so sorry.” She shared her memories of him – she remembered that he was a Duck. She asked about the circumstances of his passing. She asked about Blair (by name) wondering how she was doing without him. We paused a few more minutes to take time to share some photos, some tears and some stories of both kids. We shared…a moment. A connection. Another hug. And maybe a few more tears for me.

Dr. Yom is not your run-of-the-mill doctor. She is not normal. She is a humanist. A caregiver. A giver-of-care.

She is a goddess. And a badass. We will be forever grateful for her care. And we will forever stand in awe of the Queen. Dr. Sue Yom.