Fear of Elevators; A Funny Story of Cervical Cancer

By Larry Puls  @larrypulsauthor

Cervical Cancer; Embarrassing Moment

A long day on my feet. Numerous surgeries, but all of it a blessing. What else is there to do before I leave this place? I wondered, scratching my head. Two dictations, a set of charts to sign on my desk, a final talk with a family, those tasks remain. Living the dream. My desires turn toward home.

I dictate the final surgery while it remains fresh on my mind. The charts, they could wait until morning. Home just got that much closer. I make it up to the waiting room to chat with the last family of the day. So many questions, but not enough answers until I have pathology reports back. Done. Just change clothes, find the car, and I am off to that other half of my life, the family part. Leaving the final meeting, I find myself next to the public elevator, the one the hospital employees are not supposed to take. A good day. Maybe I made a difference. I hope so anyway. Realizing that no one else is around, the forbidden elevators entice me like like forbidden fruit, and they’re just five feet away. Who is going to know? I give in. I hit the down button.

Stepping in, I draw in a deep breath. The doors start closing when unexpectedly, a small hand reaches in and blocks them. I look up. The doors are now sliding open. There stands a boy, probably ten years old. He examines me, tilts his head, then gazes back into the hall. No one else is around. Five seconds turn to fifteen. Why are you holding the doors? I question. Just before I ask him to let the doors close, two women slip around the corner and waltz in. The elevator closes up.

Oddly, one of the women, a foot shorter than myself, immediately walks up deeply into my personal space, five inches from my white coat lapel. There she stares at my printed name. Is there something on my coat? Awkward! Her head slowly draws up, a studious glance. Then she speaks, “What do you do for a living?” I just want to go home. I tell her that I am a Gynecologic Oncologist, thinking that won’t register… 

Not another word comes from her, she just stares at me. Really awkward!! I'm very self conscious now. No movement until the elevator stops two floors down. The doors slide open and ten more people shuffle in. And then the scene redirects, just as the doors start closing, “I thought you were. You took care of my sister. She had cervical cancer.” At this moment, she is still speaking softly. The elevator stops once again. Debate rages in my mind about stepping off while this woman hovers, entrenched in my scrunched space. However, my curiosity grows about where this talk is going. Now on the third floor, five more people join us. The doors close tightly. Sardines in a can. There is hardly breathing room in this space now defined by four very incarcerating walls.

She starts back, louder this time. “And she died!” The lady standing five inches from me is not happy. All the heads, synchronized perfectly in motion, now gawk at the exchange. I’m shackled in that moment of fear, where you would give your right arm to be anywhere but where you are. Every ounce of attention, every eye, every head, focused on the man in the white coat. “And you know what,” she bellows. “Do you see that boy over there, that’s her son. And I am having to take care of him. Him!” Poor kid, I think.  “But you know what, you should be taking care of him. You treated her and she died. You hear me, she died.” Decibels louder.

I never promise anyone they will survive their cancer, no matter how good I think the odds are. But that doesn’t matter, she is screaming. I am fully cognizant that only God knows when life begins and ends. This woman, in this space, has drawn so much attention to her opinions and I am the cornered recipient, the squirming target. How do I respond? “She died, you hear me, she died,” ad infinitum—over and over, again and again. I offer a contrite apology for the suffering. But my words are met with her repeated rants about her sister's death. I'm trapped. I cannot calm the rhetoric. And so my eyes look for an escape, but the doors are simply closed. There is no escape possible--at least not now. I'm sure my face is shining blood-red from embarrassment. Have mercy on me. We approach ground--though not fast enough. The elevator ride from my worst nightmare is surely going to end soon. Surely!!! I cannot handle all the noisy stares. Doors, please open!!! We slow, then stop. A thud. The elevator lurches. I'm still enduring rant, rant, rant. Then the miracle. The confining space gloriously floods with freeing light. A clearing shows up over the shoulders of the man in front of me. I gather my wits. It's now or never. The mad dash begins, the break through the lines, and I separate myself from the all the stifling craziness with determined lightening speed.

Like Lot, I heed the warning to not turn back. The hallway twists and turns cover my tracks. I come to rest in a secluded hallway, a place to breathe. Now I'm overwhelmed with relief. Freedom!!! The claustrophobic four walls, nicknamed an elevator, have released its victim.

Like everything in life, there must be a lesson. I look for it and finally land on it. And I cling to it even now. No matter how tired I am, no matter how many surgeries I perform in a day, no matter how badly I want to see my family, I will never go down the family elevators again. Never. It will not be negotiable. Fear treads inside that elevator.  

Please share if you have ever had one of those "I want to escape" moments.