Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Breaking News: Cancer Blogger Lives!

Hello? Anybody still out there? I am well and fine, thanks for asking. Just not much in the mood for cancer blogging lately.

Cancer. Feh. You know, frankly, most days now I tend to forget all about it. Don't even think about it much. I feel a little guilty for not reading the cancer support boards any more, or keeping up with other cancer blogs. But my energies just seem to have drifted off elsewhere these days. I'm taking up new interests, and I mostly hang around with people now who didn't even know me when I had cancer, people who don't always think of me as Tragic Cancer Cootie Person. I'm carving a pretty good new life for myself.

But a couple of weeks ago a funny thing happened.

I had heard that an old friend named Frances, whom I hadn't seen in several years, had recently been diagnosed with lymphoma, and that she was undergoing chemo at, of all places, Our Lady Of The Damned. So on one of her chemo days I put together a little gift bag full of goodies and trinkets and headed over to pay her a supportive visit.

I set out in high spirits, full of good cheer. Going back up to the fifth floor chemo ward was kind of an exciting thing for me: I felt like a ragingly famous alumna returning to my old high school stomping grounds, proudly displaying a shiny cluster of Nobel medals pinned to my lapel. Except in my case the bling of success was a rack of ripply new muscles, a head full of unruly hair, and the unmistakable rosy glow of good health.

But my high spirits encountered a chilling little setback on the way up when I ran into my old buddy Scott, the only surviving member of the lung cancer gang I used to hang out with back in my own chemo days. I'd seen him once last summer at a big cancer fund raiser and he was doing well, recovering from the brutal treatment, growing a beard, hoping for a few more years with no active disease. But now the grim news was Scott's cancer is already back, and has metastasized to his bones. He told me he's trying one last round of chemo, but he's in severe pain, heavily addicted to morphine, weak, depressed, living alone with no family, not much money, no car. Suffering and struggling, but not ready to give up his last shreds of hope and independence for hospice.

Suddenly my spine felt like it was made out of ice cubes. I briefly toyed with the option of thrusting Frances's gift bag into Scott's hands and running off down the hall screaming, possibly even hurling myself through the next plate glass window. But thanks to many decades of cultivating an acceptably civilized superego, I managed instead to temporarily repress this initial impulse, politely wished him well, and continued on with my original mission. With a slightly heavier step I trudged on up to the fifth floor.

My first impression when I walked through the familiar double swinging doors was: Wow, they must have repainted the place with some amazingly brilliant white paint! I don't recall the walls being this bright. Or maybe they doubled up on the fluorescent light tubes. Everything was so white, so light, so bright! Almost blindingly bright. I blinked against the intense whiteness. In my memory, the chemo floor had seemed more like a dark tunnel.

I peered through the shimmering brightness until I spotted Mike, my old chemo nurse. He too was glowing with the eerie new brightness. He saw me, and slowly he smiled, a blindingly white smile. Slowly he stood up, slowly he moved towards me. His mouth was slowly saying something, and my mouth was slowly saying something back, and everything was perfectly normal. Except I guess the blinding light and the weird slow motion effect were making me a just little dizzy and disoriented.

In slow motion I said I had come to see Frances, and Mike's glowing finger slowly pointed to her room. Ah. I knew that room. It was the exact same room I had been in for my last chemo session, exactly one year ago. "Go on in," said Mike, his voice reverberating like an echo chamber. "She'll be glad (glad...glad..glad...) to see you. Her daughters are in there with her."

I squinted at the closed door. It too was glowing with the fiercely bright white light, like some kind of blindingly glowing radioactive shield. Even so, I could almost see straight through it to what was inside the familiar chemo room. I could almost see Frances lying on the same bed I'd lain on, brilliant sunlight pouring in onto the blindingly white starched sheets. I could picture her three beautiful smiling daughters hovering around her like angels, surrounding her with light and warmth and love. I could also see the one lone chair, pulled way back in the dark corner: the chair where he always sat, the Painter, the Designated Driver. With such vivid clarity I could see him sitting there still, reading his book: stern, aloof, annoyed, preoccupied, coldly indifferent to anybody else's feelings. And as I stared at the door and saw what I saw, the muscles in my throat clamped shut like a steel trap that would never ever again let oxygen pass into my lungs. I thought I was going to die on the spot.

Frances, if you're reading this: I am so very sorry. And embarrassed! I swear, that was the very first time in my life I've experienced a full-blown panic attack. It was all there, the racing heart, the sweating palms, the spinning room; feeling faint, unable to breathe, a sense of utter dread and impending doom. I think I mumbled something about being late, threw the bag at poor bewildered Mike, and fled the hospital like I was being pursued by a rabid pack of ferocious fire-breathing land sharks. I sat in my car shaking and hyperventilating for fifteen full minutes before I could drive.

A few days later I mentioned the incident in passing to my therapist, with a mildly bemused and detached clinical interest. Wasn't this peculiar? I said. An actual textbook panic attack, straight out of the blue. How odd! Then I shrugged it off and moved on to something more important, more real.

But no. "Uh-uh, wait a minute," she interrupted. "Hold on. Go back: this panic attack, tell me, what does it mean? What exactly was it telling you?"

It took me a while, but I finally said it. It meant that my whole situation was pretty damn dire, something I've been kind of denying lately with all my happy-happy healing and forgetting and moving on. This panic attack was telling me that I went through something extremely huge and horrible and intensely devastating, and it's just not that easy to just move on and forget about it, to leave it all behind me like it never happened.

The illness, the pain, the terror of almost dying; the being without health insurance, the scary degrading hospital experiences, the dangerously uneven medical care; the loss of my beloved home and all my life savings and any hope of financial security; the slug in the gut of finding out that the person I loved and trusted was incapable of empathy or emotional support and not in love with me after all; the ongoing knowledge that my cancer, like Scott's, can always come back, any day, any minute, and turn my life into a living hell. This whole unthinkable nightmare hitting me all at once seems to have shattered something in my soul, and done some permanent psychic damage.

And now, even though the worst appears to be over and I'm coping extremely well, adjusting, healing, rebuilding, still, at a very deep cellular level, permanently etched in my very neurons, I remain deeply traumatized. And this buried cellular trauma can be triggered and might rise up to haunt me and debilitate me at any time. Fun, eh?

So in one sense there's healing and moving on, but another sense there's no such thing. No matter how strong or brave I try to be, reality will never be the same.

Anyway. As for blogging, I have to wait and see. I'm schedule for my routine six month CT scans on January 25th. Plus I may have to have an MRI of my brain because I've been having having some memory and cognitive problems that are probably just a combination of lingering chemo brain fog, chemo induced menopause, and/or post-trauma nerve damage effects. But worse possibilities have to be ruled out, though I'm definitely not looking forward to 45 minutes trapped in the Pounding Tube of Claustrophobia.

Anyway, various tests loom on the horizon. And if those are clear I think it's maybe time for me to officially sign off as a cancer blogger and wrap this baby up. If I decide to start another blog it'll probably just be a trivial chatty little what-I-ate-for-lunch dealie, amusing for me and my dogs and a few close friends but not so much to anybody else. Though I will post a pointer here if I do. Meanwhile, I'll keep updating Flickr from time to time to let folks know I'm still alive. Click on those pics in the right sidebar to follow the aimlessly meandering plot of my ever-improving days.

See ya'll around the blogosphere!


Anonymous Anonymous said...

I missed you when you left Granny gets a Vibrator, i've missed you while you've been away here. I got kinda used to reading you :). I'm sure i'll find you again when you're ready to be found.
I've learned to love your spirit and your dogs too :)

5:12 PM  
Blogger Unknown said...

Just Mimi in FL here, wishing you well. It was nice to see your blog name bolded in my feeds and I'm glad to hear you're doing well. All the best to you and the pups.

5:33 PM  
Blogger UnrulyDuckling said...

Please keep posting somewhere. You and your writing are awesome! Not cancer-awesome, just awesome. Your dogs are awesome. Your Frida Kahlo fixation is awesome. Your muscles are awesome. Seriously. Awesome.

6:41 PM  
Blogger Betsey C. said...

Whew, thank goodness!! Forget cancer, just write about anything. You, and your colorful life and your crazy dogs are so damned entertaining. I love your clever writing and your pictures. I live in the frigid north, and I long to hear about Mardi Gras and other steamy decadence. Write when you feel like it, but please don't stop!

8:46 PM  
Blogger Trasi said...

I will second that sentiment - it doesn't so much matter WHAT you are writing about - planting things, what you're collecting or creating, how things are going with your family... I just love the way you string pearly little words together and find you poignant, funny, and interesting. I know it is a total 1-way street, not like some real relationship, but I always wonder what is going on at that little shack in rural Louisiana and long to read about it. So I hope you do direct a little note to wherever you'll be going blog-wise, if you blog at all.

8:49 PM  
Blogger Unknown said...

-Huge Sigh Of Relief-

Allow me to join the chorus of having missed you, of being glad to read you again, and sorry you might not continue to write here. In whatever form your future "prattling" might take, it will be one I'd very much enjoy keeping up with.

You are a marvelous person who has been through something unimaginable, and by getting this far with humor, muscles and great hair, you are AMAZING. I know that were I in your shoes, I'd be crabby. And flabby. Significantly less amazing.

Good to hear from you.

9:31 PM  
Blogger citygrrrl said...

i am totally jealous about mardi gras, and why the hell is it so early this year? i want to be there and share a pull of crown with you at some seedy roadside dance hall...

as i started to read this, i thought, oh goodness, this is like watching a horror movie where the girl opens the creepy door. don't go back there!!!

i am glad you survived it more or less in tact.

and i also thought when we hadn't heard from you it was a sign of health. so don't post and be healthy, post and be healthy, whatever whatever.

9:33 PM  
Blogger debinca said...

Yea!!! Glad to hear you're back. Sorry to hear about the PTSD, yikes but well deserved unfortunately.

I look forward to a nice boring blog about cooking, grand baby and roses. Wont it be grand?

heres to a great spring! Debinca

12:30 AM  
Blogger Penelope said...


It's so good to read you again! I kept hoping you were just off having aventures. I want to join in the chorus of readers who implore you to continue writing, whatever the subject. You are talented, funny and inspirational in both your courage and your creativity. I would very much miss your joie de vivre if you were to permanently stop.

Wishing you and yours all the best for the New Year.


6:40 AM  
Blogger Corvi said...

Glad to see you again, Liz. Please do keep writing - we love it. Happy Mardi Gras!

8:30 AM  
Blogger Tuesday said...

What a lovely, troubling post. You know this doesn't have to be a cancer blog (despite the title). You can just keep going on down the road with it -- just as long as you keep going.
Strength and love,

8:47 AM  
Blogger Sarah said...

Just plain happy to hear how awesome you are. Great big hugs and love.

10:00 AM  
Blogger Suzanne Horn said...

What a joy to see you back! It was a jolt to hear you refer to yourself as "cancer blogger", since I had never considered this a cancer blog. This was a chronicle of what was going on in the life of the woman I had come to delight in as "Dr. Leda" in the rose world. I've never read anyone's blog before. I've never followed anyone else's day to day life before. I began to treasure my early morning continuing adventure with you, laughed with you, cried with you, prayed for you. The red boots will be with me forever.

You are an amazing woman who I one day hope to actually know. You've given me courage to face the unknown future and what slings and arrows it may contain.

In the interim, I care about what happens to you - the good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful. Please keep posting somewhere. I don't even care what you write about - the dogs, Le Shaque, Mardi Gras, roses, family... whatever. I just don't want to lose touch with your wonderful spirit.

Suzanne Horn in California

11:40 AM  
Blogger Joan said...

Please. Superman, Dixie and Dolly pics. Please

12:09 PM  
Blogger Patrizia said...

Thanks for this -- I was worried.

Totally understand why you might want to 86 this blog, but I hope you don't -- there's at least one person I gave the URL to for whom it provided a lot of comfort.

"She gets it, she gets it," my friend said. And then she wept.

Hadn't cried much before then.

Personally I think crying is a good way to purge psychic toxins. But then I cry a lot, so maybe that's just a rationalization.

I have some Frieda Kahlo swag that wants to go live with you. Give a holler.


12:32 PM  
Blogger Lark said...

Thanks for the update! I join the chorus of readers who hope you will keep writing about something. I think the idea of a new blog is a great one.

Happy mardi gras!

2:22 PM  
Blogger BadKitty said...

i'm a lurker who has almost missed you and your writing. As a cancer survivor myself, i understand why you may not want to continue blogging about cancer. but like the other people here, i didn't read this as a cancer blog. i'm also casting a vote for you to continue the blog writing about whatever the heck you want.

i also wanted to say that i had a similar experience when i went back to the clinic where i was treated. i thought i was doing all fine and dandy and then the sound of the automatic blood pressure cuff completely freaked me out. i immediately flashed back to being in the hospital bed post-surgery, in pain, doped and terrified. i sat there in the clinic and sobbed.

take care of yourself and i hope to hear from you again.

6:47 PM  
Blogger Betsys said...

betsys from the WELL - good to hear your voice! I've been cheering you on from the sidelines here. Let us know where you move to.

(PS What's the real name of Our Lady of the Damned, if you don't mind saying so?)

7:06 PM  
Blogger Cheri @ Blog This Mom!® said...

I've enjoyed you, learned a lot, and have been inspired to make some dramatic and positive changes in my life from reading Granny and Tumor. Lately, in between posts, I've been enjoying the flickr photos. I will check back in for the pointer to the next incarnation of your blog. Sending warm, fuzzy, like they're well-knitted (by someone who knows how to knit like you, not me) thoughts your way. Thanks for being there Liz, from my heart to yours.

7:47 PM  
Blogger JLE said...

Ahhhhh . . . my As the Tumor Turns need is met! FYI -- I have been reading for at least the last six months (thru my own chemo and radiation). Your words of love, life, art, heartbreak, and abject fear have helped to keep me going. They made me feel like I was, in fact, human, even when my bald head, scarred chest, and fatigue screamed otherwise. THANK YOU! You move right on to living your life. I look forward to joining you (next Tuesday, when radiation is over) in an honest attempt to be more than patient and once again, just a person.

9:08 PM  
Blogger Ya Looblue said...

i'm glad you're still around. it doesn't have to just be a cancer blog you know. xoxox

12:36 AM  
Blogger momo said...

Thanks for letting us know how you are, Liz. I also would love to be able to read whatever you choose to put out here because I care about you, and I love your writing and pictures. I"m sorry to hear that about your friends' struggle with illness, and I'm glad you have a smart therapist!

By the way, you look radiant yourself.

6:23 AM  
Blogger Melinda said...

I want to thank you for writing everything you did. This year several women I know were diagnosed with breast cancer (all seemed to happen at once), and my grandmother had a 2nd mastectomy. Reading your blog has helped me to understand what they are going through, and for that I can't thank you enough.

On a different note, let me join in the chorus of people saying you can blog about whatever you want and we'll all be here to read it. If you decide not to write anymore, I'll still visit here in hopes of seeing pictures of your garden blooming this spring.

You're an awesome person - thanks for letting us get to know you. Best wishes & God bless.

11:48 AM  
Blogger Amy said...

Yes, please keep posting somewhere. Take a break if you need to, but give us a way of finding you again when you get back into the mood to be public.

I missed you when you deleted "Granny", found you here, and have been following since. I would be sad if I couldn't read you anymore.

You have something that not many bloggers have and that's difficult to find.

It's too bad you deleted your "Granny" blog - if you'd put Google adwords on all the pages of that one and this one, you'd probably have a tidy monthly sum from people reading them.

12:15 PM  
Blogger Rent Party said...

Great post. Don't disappear entirely, I think you're outright needed.

9:44 PM  
Blogger KinnicChick said...

Lovely to find you and thank you for checking in. Hugs.

Understand the need to be moving on and LIVING OUT LOUD completely. Went through that around here, too.


my non-blogger blog

9:47 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Run Forrest Run

1:55 AM  
Blogger Kim said...

Another one of those who follows (stalks? in a good way?) you around the interwebs. From GGV to here ~ and hopefully wherever you go next.

I'm sorry about the panic attack. I've had them for years, and they really suck rocks. You went through some major trauma in those rooms, so it doesn't surprise me that you had such a visceral reaction. 100% normal.

I've missed reading your words and seeing you rebuild your life. I know I haven't commented often, but I've checked in several times per week for...gosh, it seems like years now. Anyway, just wanted you to know how thrilled I am that you are building your new life, and moving on. I don't think of you as toxic cancer woman ~ I think of you as someone that I'd dearly love to know IRL, and someone whose words often touch me in unexpected ways.

Thanks for being out there, and please do leave a link if you decide to relocate again. I've said it before, and I'll say it again ~ you are one cool lady, and I wish only the best for you, always!

2:03 AM  
Blogger Val said...

Wonderful to see a new post from ya (I was getting worried)! I can't always get comments to work for me either, grrrrrrrrrr!
I suppose I ought to change the title of MY blog, too, since I write next-to-nothing about the Big C...
Best wishes, Val

1:14 PM  
Blogger sumo said...

Glad to see you back! I followed you here from Grannyvibe and will happily follow you to wherever you decide to write next. I don't believe you're finished with the blogsphere yet.

3:58 PM  
Blogger Jeanne said...

Liz--I'd like to say that I'm sorry you had this experience, but actually, I'm not, because you told the story so very very well.

Once you've had cancer, is it ever really over? Are you ever the same again?

My answer is no, to both questions.

But then, as you know, I have metastatic disease, so for me it won't be over until it's over.

For those of you worrying about a recurrence, let me say: a recurrence is NOT the end of the world. It's not good, but it's NOT THE END. It has been six years since my cancer invaded my bones, nine years since the first diagnosis, and I'm still here, raising hell.


10:14 PM  
Blogger RP said...

I'd love to keep reading whatever you feel inspired to write. And I'll check in at Flickr to envy your early spring from up here in the frozen North!

12:01 PM  
Blogger Carny Asada said...

Whatever your next blog is about, I hope it includes pictures of Superman.

Good luck and clean check-ups!

4:25 PM  
Blogger monicac2 said...

So glad to see you again. I'm glad that your life is filled with family, new friends and lots of love.

5:18 PM  
Blogger Bob said...

There you are! I'm glad the absence was one of neglect and not of a relapse. I too have been reading you since Grannyvibe, turning the world up on its ear. Looking forward to the inconsequential blah-blah of life in Deep Inferno.

take care of yourself.

1:49 PM  
Blogger Shauna said...

Hi! Long-time reader, first time commenter. Love your writing. Glad to see you back and looking forward to your possible future blog. You look fabulous!

1:53 PM  
Blogger Julie B said...

I echo what everyone else has said. Your creativity and style are engaging. I would read whatever you chose to write.

I guess I had better go post to my blog. I had gotten bored with writing about my husband's cancers so I just stopped writing.

12:34 AM  
Blogger dulcigal said...

I'll add my voice to the chorus - you are awesome, your writing is awesome. I read only three blogs regularly and one of them is yours. I started reading when the rose place said your column with them had been suspended. Bless them, they provided your blog link. Because of your writing, I've listened to zydeco, read books I would not have noticed, and explored your part of the country courtesy of the Web. I've revisited the concept of 'neighborhood'. And when cancer came to our family, your honesty about yours was...helpful? I can't find the right word. So, whatever you choose to do with your blogging, I hope you'll consider letting us all check in once in awhile.
- Susan in the Pacific NW

1:10 PM  
Blogger Axon said...


Good to see you're still kicking. Never could get enough of your wit.


12:57 AM  
Blogger Old Knudsen said...

Interesting post, I hope yer new life works out well blogging is way doon on the list of priorities sometimes and only needed to fill a void. Lets hope yer void gets filled if you know what I mean.

I have no idea what I mean.

2:14 AM  
Blogger Yankee T said...

Gah! I can't believe you posted on the 9th and I'm just seeing it now. Glad you're well-I got worried-and please continue to blog elsewhere if you are so inclined. I'd love to keep following you and the hounds. You look terrific. I'm in awe of you.

12:17 PM  
Blogger neighbor_nancy said...

Thank you for sharing your experiences, Liz. I've truly missed your insightful posts. We may have different journeys, but so many of the lessons we learn (and sometimes, relearn within the context of a dramatic paradigm shift) are important to share. It means something. You've brought much to so many of us.

Choose for yourself where to go next. Hopefully you will feel comfortable bringing us along with you on the next journey by posting a link for us to follow...

Thank you for everything, and take care of yourself and those wonderful doggies (and grandbabies!)

10:12 PM  
Blogger Irfan Ahmad Ansari said...

Visit cancer-biology.blogspot!

9:44 AM  
Blogger doctorval said...

I hope you choose to continue blogging or at least writing in some public forum. I've been with you since Regan's Nursery. The last two months I've had to re-read Dr. Leta Horticulture in the absence of anything else. I understand that the cancer blog has run it's course. May you never ever need to resurect it. In the interim, how bout tossin' us a bone? Maybe the further adventures of Superman?

11:10 PM  
Blogger anne said...

Not at all glad to hear about the lingering damage of your experience...but so very glad to hear from you.

You've been missed and worried over out here in the blogosphere.

Thank you for the update, and all the very best to you. You look terrific.

12:45 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Sorry, I've been sick for awhile (quotidian stuff, nothing dire), so I wasn't able to pop by and say so sooner, but this is extremely well written. And I'm sure Frances has forgiven you, or will.

And even with all your questing through the labyrinth of sorting out what is healthy adaptation vs. what is crippling denial, I have to say my heart soared a bit when I read this part early on: "Cancer. Feh. You know, frankly, most days now I tend to forget all about it."

That, my dear, is every cancer patient's most fervent desire. If you can achieve it, ever, I rejoice for you.

I never thought of you as a cancer blogger. I've thought of you as a writer and adventurer who got cancer, so she wrote about it along with everything else. I'm not a cancer blogger, either, just an artist who happens to have cancer. In the end, I find I want to be my whole real self, whatever that is; I want to make every kind of art I can about the experience of living my whole real life that I love, even as imperfect and sometimes downright traumatic as it is, and to know other people's whole real selves and whole real beautiful, terrifying lives to whatever extent they want to share them with me, as a close friend or as an anonymous stranger.

I thank you for the gifts you've given me in this context, and will no doubt enjoy any others you feel like giving. But please don't feel obliged. It's enough to know you're groping back to joy.

Best wishes, kiddo, and snuggles and pets to your companions.

10:47 AM  
Blogger Jenn said...

Honey, you could devote a new site to nothing but dog-blogging and we would be happy to see you.

9:33 PM  
Blogger bint alshamsa said...

Sweetie, no matter what you blog about, I'm going to keep coming back to read about it. After all, who else can relate to my experiences with Our Lady of the Damned.

Who knows, maybe one day I won't be a cancer blogger either. :)

4:35 PM  
Blogger Unknown said...

Glad to read anything you write about, you have a unique and readable style that I miss a lot. You could write about picking your nose and we would read it, believe me.

1:57 PM  
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6:13 AM  
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11:58 AM  
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I didn't want to send this to you via your comment section, but I could not find your contact info.

Love your blog.
I was diagnosed with Stage IV Hodgkin's back in December of 2006 and have just finished 10 months of chemo. I took time off from my day job to get through this whole "Cancer" thing. In my spare time, I created an online T-Shirt and Swag shop called

They are selling really well, but any exposure I can get would help. Can you please add my banner to your great website? Link info can be found in the lower left corner of the website.
I was sick and tired of looking for "Cancer" t shirts and only finding "Feel Good" stuff. My shirts are for the young hipster cancer set. Please give them a look.

For more of my story, visit my fancy cancer blog.

Thanks for your consideration,
Ryan Armbrust

12:39 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

If you suffer from anxiety or panic attacks, you are not alone. According to the National Institute of Health, 1 out of 75 people have these attacks at some time in their lives. It is estimated that twice as many women than men suffer from this disorder.

6:53 AM  
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Elizabeth Wilcox

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7:41 AM  
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1:29 PM  
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Express Clinics is India’s family healthcare expert building a standardized network of clinics across India providing superior quality healthcare services to meet the needs and demands of each of its customers. Our Integrated model offers General & Specialist Doctor Consultation, Preventive Health Checks, Pathology, Diagnostics, Pharmacy all under one roof. Express Clinics also specializes in providing value added services like Disease Management, Loyalty Cards, Healthcare Apps etc to provide customers a holistic experience.
Express Clinics engages over 350 doctors across its clinics and these include General Practitioners, Specialists and Super Specialists like ENT, Pediatricians, Gynaecologists, Radiologists, Cardiologists, Dentists, Physiotherapists, Ophthalmologists, Dietitians, etc to serve needs of the Family and Customers from other spheres.

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