What's in a Name?

If you are a Flight of the Conchords fan, then you are no doubt familiar with the genesis of my blog name.

My oncologist's name is Dr. Come. He did not treat me, I was transferred to his care when we moved up north two years ago. I did some research, and he is pretty much the shit in terms of breast cancer doctors in the Boston area who accept our ridiculous federal government lowest-bidder insurance, so I called to make the initial appointment. I asked his secretary whether Dr. Comb was accepting new patients and she cheerfully informed me that indeed, Dr. Come (just like the verb), he was.

Despite his unfortunate moniker, he's a peach. All of 5 foot 3, white hair, smart as a whip and completely literal, total funny-bone-ectomy. But that's OK, because I'm not paying him to make me laugh.

I visit Dr. Come every four months at the oncology clinic, where I sit in a room full of mostly old, mostly sick people. Sometimes the palliative care aid wanders by and offers me coffee or crackers, and I stifle the urge to defend my presence. I know I look all young and healthy, but I used to be bald, too. I watched it fall out in clumps. I vacuumed it up off the floor. I carefully tied it back in a skinny pony tail then sprayed the crap out of it, there is a football sized hole in the ozone layer but I was able to make it through Emma's dance recital dress rehearsal with my last few strands peeking out from the ballcap. Then I was shorn like a sheep on the back deck in the Maryland suburbs and I watched my 4-year old daughter play with the hair balls.

Follow-up cancer visits, mine at least, are alarmingly low-tech. They ask me a lot of questions, first the resident, then the nurse practitioner, then Doc Come himself, and then I get felt up like a teenager at prom. Very old school.

One of the things I appreciate about Dr. C is that he talks to me like an equal, he doesn't dumb it down. He is ridiculously thorough, which is a desirable trait in a cancer doc. So this latest visit he presented me with a potential additional treatment, involving a twice-a-year infusion of bisphosphonates, which are the osteoporosis drugs like the one Sally Fields pitches in that commercial where she looks like she's still Gidget. I have a lot of follow up questions, but the fact that my doctor is still actively considering additional treatment for me 3 years out...it takes me back to that uneasiness that sets in right about the time that your hair starts growing back, and your scars fade from red to pink, and the fruit baskets stop coming and your oncologist visits get further and further apart. You are on your own to try to puzzle it all back together, to figure out how to live a full color life in a world of gray.

Which gets me back to my modeling gig. Back in May I was invited to participate in a New Balance fashion show to benefit the Massachusetts Affiliate of Susan G. Komen. I walked through the New Balance store outfitted head to toe in the New Balance pink ribbon line while someone read my bio. The other models were also survivors, one story more compelling than the next. It was a giant step for me in terms of integrating the pink ribbon into my new world of gray. I left there invigorated, wearing my awesome new Lace Up For the Cure duds, and called everyone I knew. My brother's immediate response was "wow, you're a part time model." He may be the only doctor on the planet who survived medical school with his funny bone intact.