Leaving my Turkish Surgeon

This is not fair. You get cancer. You get nervous. You get referred to a Turkish surgeon.

Your Turkish surgeon is charming. Your Turkish surgeon becomes someone on whom you trust and depend. Your Turkish surgeon uses a magic marker to draw a horizontal line on your throat. Your Turkish surgeon opens you up and then removes your cancer, tension, and anguish.

You fall in love with your Turkish surgeon.

Your Turkish surgeon tells you that everything looks great. Your Turkish surgeon tells you that you don't need to see him anymore unless 'you get yourself into trouble again.'

Why can't I keep my Turkish surgeon? I mean, this is all happened in the span of exactly one month.

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My little garden plot finally got some attention last night. Most everyone else's is quite already planted. You should see the way the Africans grow food in our community garden on a hill at Luther Seminary. While I harvest a few tomatoes and zucchinis here and there, the Africans can grow enough food to last their families through February. Same dirt. Same size plot.

Went up there last night to turn my earth around and found that someone had planted me two tomato seedlings. I had a sneaky suspicion that it was from one of the Africans. Sure enough, Joe Ivan of Tanzania did it. We come from the same tribe, the Metro New York Synod. While my director, Brenda, is from the Chagga tribe. (Silly Lutheran companion synod humor.)

My ability to produce food from the ground up is about as shaky as my core power yoga yet I love it. The first summer I lost hope because my seeds were just not coming up. Until one day, 'We replanted your garden, Terri, hope you don't mind,' said my other Tanzanian neighbors, Andy and the Rev. Dr. Elieishi. Really? Thanks! It's beautiful! They had reconstructed my sad little patch with seedlings from their own; this time planting it the right way, in many neat rows. Their whole garden usually looks like a masterful organic woven tapestry that spawned from the music of a harp. If you could draw or paint, their garden plot would be your subject. If you ever wanted to sow vegetables in the design of, say, a labyrinth, you would ask Andy to plant it for you.

Sometimes when I go up the hill to water, there are about ten Swahili speaking people already there doing the same, in long bold print clothes to keep mosquitoes away, chatting in their common language. I fill and sprinkle the water bucket over my leafy greens that are trying so hard to grow as good as their next-door leafy greens. . .I fill and sprinkle, fill and sprinkle, and transport myself to Kenya, Nigeria, Liberia, and Tanzania.

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And so tomorrow I go back to my Ethiopian Endocrinologist, Dr. Asfaw, the one who sent me to the Turkish Surgeon in the first place. The one who said that he would walk with me and my cancer. The one who will monitor my thyroid replacement dosage, watch my cancer-prone lymph nodes and set up my upcoming radiation retreat.

My friend Martha A+ says that it's common for patients to feel connected with their surgeons. Can you imagine having a best friend who also happens to be a trained certified therapist?

Here's a picture of my parent's new puppy, yet to be named.

With love, T

P.S. Update: The puppy has been named. Molly. :-)