The jarring feeling of being ghosted is unnerving. You pour everything into something and then bam, silence. Imagine that, but by them – the people who hold the power of your future healthcare. And imagine them not remembering your name nor how to pronounce it. Every time in the waiting room with your fingers crossed, thinking “this time it will be right, this time will be different,” they stand there with your chart with notes of the exact pronunciation, and yet they still mispronounce it; Each time a little jab into your heart saying, “you don’t matter, you don’t matter, you don’t matter.” It’s been 1,000 times of me crawling back with high hopes.

Today is my third opinion at a different cancer center. Another morning in a different waiting room. Another chance that they will do the right thing. Just say my name right and then I’ll know that I can trust that you will look into my chart, like it’s a peek into my soul. Take my life into your hands with softness, with care. I’ll pray, “I do matter, I do matter, I do matter.”

I’ve been vague about what I’ve endured for the last 4 years, because it’s complicated. When I bare my bits, I feel like it’s just for consumption. People are hungry to know what is happening in other people’s lives. I am guilty, too. It’s the dynamic of social media. Perhaps it is comparison era, or perhaps it’s just humanity. But when I share pieces of me, I want it to be on my terms and most importantly, I want people to actually care.

My oncologist ghosted me after my first bout with cancer. I was under the impression that I never had to step foot in another cancer center. No-one reached out. No-one told me that I had to continue check ups. I thought, “I’ve removed the source, I’ve done the most aggressive thing I could do.” For four years, as I battled the aftermath of cancer – surgeries, reconstruction, other cancers, more surgeries – not one note was in my chart to schedule a check up at with my original oncologist. Clear communication, alongside care & reassurance, is all I ask of them. All I ask of anyone, really.

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I’ve lost 20 pounds. I watered my plants today. I cleaned up my table of crafts from weeks ago. I did laundry. I want to start knitting again. Things are okay.

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I met with a different oncologist today, the third opinion. Park Nicollet, Mayo, now Regions. When I tell my story, people often get a tear in their eye in solidarity, to let me know that I’ve been mishandled. I feel vindicated, though I am NOT a victim, and yet, I am not a warrior either. I trust so easily, that’s why. I think the best of everyone and I am often disappointed when I learn the truth: we all fuck up. We’re all human and we all make mistakes. We all unintentionally mishandle someone’s feelings at some point in our lives. Some of us learn, some of us don’t. Life is a juxtaposition. Life is complicated, WE are complicated.

The assistant came into the waiting room and called out, “Glinda.” I didn’t answer even though I knew it was for me. I am Gilda, not Glinda. I am Gilda, not Gilda. I am Gilda, not Gina. It’s the smallest, seemingly unimportant, detail that makes the biggest impact. If you say my name right, I’ll know that you looked in my chart. Right there, in my chart, it says “pronounced Jill-dah.” And no-one ever looks. Something so small and something I usually let slide at my annual check ups back when I wasn’t at the hospital day after day, appointment after appointment. Now, all I want is for them to see me, to pay attention, to care.

That’s what I said when the oncologist asked me what I want out of my “care.” I said, “Just that, care. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re the hottest doc in town and you have a wait list that took me months to get in. I just want someone to say my name. It’s Gilda.” Right away, she said, “I will make sure of it.” Big smiles and wads of tissues. She sees me!

I haven’t decided if I’ll make the switch. I really, really liked her. She assured me that I’m on the most aggressive first line of treatment for my cancer. I have side effects from the treatment and she offered ideas of how to relieve them so that my quality of life is good. She said, “the whole point of treatment is for you to live longer, but the quality of your life is just as important.” She said the prognosis of the treatment working is 20-22 months. Then, I’d move up to a next aggressive treatment.

I’ll be on treatment for the rest of my life. It IS possible that I could have NED (No Evidence of Disease)- aka “remission”-, but that doesn’t mean I’d beat it. I thought I’d already beat it when I had a double mastectomy and they told me recurrence was unlikely. You never beat cancer. I think it’d be more fitting if people said they tackled cancer. Just because you knocked it down this or that time doesn’t mean that it isn’t there, minisculely, just waiting to get the umph to get even. Basically, cancer is a little bitch.

Gilda, not Glinda