I wasn’t sure what to tell you, and, more importantly, when and how to tell you
My Dear Children,
Finding a lump where it doesn’t belong kind of puts things into perspective.
I’ve spent a lot of time this past month in doctors’ waiting rooms and offices, hanging on to words or phrases, seeking reassurance.
“I’m very concerned”; “It’s suspicious”; “We only do this twice a week here — find another facility that does this procedure daily, I don’t think you should wait” all pointed to the obvious.
I’d met with the surgeon just before the biopsy. She’d basically told us that it was most probably cancer, so we weren’t really surprised.
Honestly, she didn’t even have to say it. I could tell by the changes in each of the technician’s faces, the solicitous tones as soon as they saw the initial mammogram and ultrasound scans. “Are you okay?” offered with a gentle touch to the hand or shoulder.
I think compassion must be a prerequisite for the job.
No one said, “Don’t worry, we see this all the time, and it often turns out to be nothing.” No one.
As I was checking in at the surgeon’s office for the biopsy, I noticed that I’d lost the pendant on the necklace I was wearing. One of my favorites, it’s about three inches long — not too big, not too small — and is set with an unusual combination of glittering, multi-shaped amethyst, garnet, and peridot stones surrounding a white mabe pearl center, with a rectangular, colored Biwa pearl right above it. The filigree arched bail is as pretty as the piece it holds, with intricate carvings and a delicate balance of silver and space; it slides along the thin silver collar I wear around my neck.
Somewhere along the way from the house to the hospital, the pendant must have slipped off. I retraced my steps from the building’s entrance to the waiting room to try and find it. It wasn’t there. I figured someone else will enjoy it as much as I did… that losing it was a diversion, taking my mind away from what was really happening.
But it didn’t — it just helped me sort a lot of things through. The timing of the biopsy took longer than three hours and that’s a lot of hospital-gowned empty time to think.
It’s a good thing I know Tefillas Haderech by heart; you cannot imagine the places my mind continues to wander.
Mostly it wanders to all of you. I wasn’t sure what to tell you, and, more importantly, when and how to tell you.
The waiting is hard and so is putting all of this into words.
The only one I’ve shared this with has been Daddy, and I only told him after the first week. It took that long for me to wrap my brain around “this.” I didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily. He didn’t say anything at first — the look in his eyes said it all. And it is enough.
Here’s the thing. I would like some privacy. I’m not quite ready to share this with anyone else yet. If I need something, I’ll let you know. Daddy and I are in this together, and we are okay. Really.
One of the only reasons I’m sharing as much as I am with you now is that, unfortunately, this is something you have to be aware of as part of your family’s medical history. Of the many things I wanted to leave as a legacy, I was hoping this medical reality would not be one of them.
Oh, and as I got back into the car after the biopsy, guess what was sparkling in the light, peeking out at me from the floorboard where it must have fallen off as I was getting out.
I guess G-d is winking at me, and I sure hope it’s a good sign.
