Waiting

Writing about cancer, especially childhood cancer, isn’t easy. I lost my father when I was 14, and then my grandfather, and then two childhood friends, both young mothers, and frankly, cancer makes me sick. I pray every day for a cure, and I write about it so often because it exists, and there is something that all of us can do to help in the fight against it. For my part, bringing awareness is so important. And now, the Reading Brave Program, makes me feel like I can actually touch a life and make a difference where I can. Cancer often leaves people feeling truly hopeless. When my loved ones were ill, I tried so hard to ignore reality. I fought against all the signs that showed me we were losing the battle. I have sworn my hatred for this disease, and to give everything that I can to help in the fight.

Last week, I went in to see my doctor about pain. I was sent for an ultrasound. My doctor had given me orders the year before, but I decided that I didn’t need one. My theory has always been that if you are going to go looking for something, you’re going to find it. Well, I’m a few months shy of 38, and my dear friend, a medical reporter, gave me comforting words about baseline mammograms and giving my doctor a history to go by before age 40, and I was convinced. Besides, the pain was getting unbearable. But then, on Wednesday, I convinced myself that it was okay to wait until Thursday. Besides, my husband had an appointment, and I figured we could knock out all the appointments in one day, right? Or was it really because the mere thought of climbing onto that table and letting someone look inside of me terrified me? Well, right then another friend called, learned I was delaying, and scolded me flat out.

I went for the ultrasound, climbed onto the table, clenched my chattering teeth still, and wondered if the tech could see my fast-beating heart or at the very least, quivering bones while she studied the pictures. She asked me to hum. That was odd. Finally, it was over, and I was told my doctor would receive results in two to three days. Well, three hours and fifteen minutes later, as I stood in the school parking lot loading my babies into the SUV, my doctor called to notify me that the radiologist saw a suspicious nodule and needed to perform an ultrasound-guided needle biopsy. The best part, it was on the side that wasn’t hurting, and it was a non-palpable nodule only found by ultrasound.

It was all still preliminary, and I didn’t have a diagnosis, so I vowed to stay positive. I went in the next afternoon, Thursday, to have the procedure done. I was sliced open with a small blade and had a long needle put in there to gather samples. “Be strong for my kids,” I muttered under my breath, and “Please, God. Please.” I mustered up all the strength I had, even scraping the bottom. The procedure was finally over, and I had a long weekend ahead of me.

It was over the weekend that I learned that whether the answer was benign or malignant, it was out of my control. There was nothing I could do to change my results for better or worse, except pray. And I did. I prayed all weekend, pleading to God to keep me well, pleading to see my children grow and to grow old with my husband. It may seem a little dramatic, at least that’s what a few people told me, but they didn’t understand the emotions that can consume you when you’re faced with the unknown. Was this little nodule on the inside of me a nasty little rogue poisoning my body? Or was it a sweet little pea just hanging out? Maybe it was some scar tissue from when I nursed my babies, I reasoned.

On Monday, I vowed to keep my calm no matter what came, and carried my phone by my side from the moment I woke up. At the breakfast table, sitting with my husband, with my kids playing out in the backyard, I gave a deep inhale and a long exhale and said, “God, please get me through this.” The second the words left my mouth, the phone rang. It was my doctor. “This is it,” I told my husband. He put a hand over mine and our eyes locked. I gave a breathless hello. My doctor was happy. I could hear it in his voice. I’d like to think that after knowing me for the last decade and delivering all my children, he was worried for me, just as my family was, hence, he was as happy for me as my family would be when he gave me the news. It was scar tissue. My hands trembled as I pushed the button to end the call, and finally, after puffing out my chest in bravery for the last five days, I collapsed into my husband’s arms and cried in gratitude that I could by no means put into words. I could not control the tears that symbolized relief from every unspoken fear that I had wrestled with, and the reality that I was not sick. Not today. Today, I could play with my children, and work on a manuscript, clean up my house, visit friends who I hadn’t been able to make time to see, call my mother to chat about nothing and everything, and just “live.” I ran to the closet where my children couldn’t see, and I ugly cried again, and I could not stop saying, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Jesus.”

I can’t say what determines who escapes and who doesn’t. I’m not saying that I am more special than other women and God listens only to my prayers. What I do know is that going through this problem led me to lean on Him… a lot. And my heart is renewed with thankfulness. I still have work to, and I’m going to do it.

#cancer #breastcancer #writing #author #childhoodcancer