A year ago today, on August 31, 2007 I had the colonoscopy that revealed my cancer.  So much of the day is foggy in my memory, and yet strange little details are vivid and fresh.  I remember that they were running late that day, in the endoscopy suite, and there was a lot of waiting involved.  In reality, the waiting was probably minor, but in my state of mind, it loomed up as vast wastelands of sluggishly ticking second hands on the clock.

I remember that one of the nurses was Penny; the other, Sandy.

I remember lying on the bed, listening to my ipod.  The ipod was new, and I had just loaded it with music;  I didn’t know then how it would comfort me in the darkness of so many lonely nights in the hospital and in the cancer clinic.

During that wait, I remember hearing Dr. James talk to patient after patient, all of whom had already had the procedure done.  Each time the exchange went something like this:

“Well, Mr. X everything looks clear.  No polyps.  Nothing to worry about.  No cancer at all.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.”

or

“Well, Mrs. B – we found a few polyps, but we nipped them out.  They don’t look cancerous, so you’ll be just fine,”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

or

“Well. Mr. T – you’re amazing, you are!  Everything is fine.  Nothing to worry about at all.  You just keep going and going.  Good for you.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

 

After listening to several of these conversations, I remember thinking to myself, “There are at least ten people here.  We can’t ALL be well; the odds are against us.  One of us MUST have cancer.  It’s going to be me, I just know it.”

 

And as Penny came to wheel me into the room, I said, “I’m a little scared.”

“What are you scared of?” she asked.

I was scared that I had cancer, of course; but I couldn’t say the word.  It was almost as if I thought that I could speak it into being.  That if I said it out loud, it would be true.

“I’m just scared,” I said.

 

I remember that Dr. Frost said, “Oops,” as he put the needle in my arm, and I said, “Now THAT is a word that should not be heard in an operating room.”

He grinned.

I was serious.

 

Dr. James came in.  He put on some music, and I faded out.

 

I came to as they were wheeling me out of the room.  I was not fully conscious, but I heard people talking about a CT scan.  I somehow knew they were talking about me.

I began to cry.

Dr. James came over.

“Why are you crying?” he said.

“I’m scared.”

“Why are you scared?” he asked.

I was afraid that I had cancer, of course; but again, I couldn’t say the word, so again I just said, “I’m scared.”

He touched my shoulder and said, “Oh, Lovey.  You’re going to be fine.”

I knew that he couldn’t KNOW that I would be fine, but I liked him saying it.  I liked him using the word “Lovey” – it’s the name I have called my children since they were babies, and his use of the word was inexpressibly comforting to me.

I faded out again.

“Oh good,” I heard a nurse say, “here is her husband.”

Dr. James motioned him over, and they spoke; but their words were indistinct to me.

 

Bryan opened the curtain.  I looked at him; his eyes were full of tears.  He stumbled towards me and collapsed into my arms.

“Oh good,” said Penny, “your husband is here.”

“Yes,” I said, “And as you can see, he is being a great help to me.”

She laughed.

 

Later Dr. James came to my bedside.  He sat down, and looked at his hands.

“This is the part of my job that I really hate.”

I thought to myself, “You cannot hate saying it nearly as much as I hate hearing it.”

He told us more.

 

I remember tearing up again, and apologizing: “It’s just that I have two  little kids at home, and they are really young ” I cried.

I saw the nurses across the room look at each other, and start whispering.

 

Dr. James called one of the nurses over, and asked her to tell me about her mother, who had just finished all her treatments for the same kind of cancer.

“She’s doing really well now, isn’t she?” he prompted.

The nurse nodded vigorously and assured me that her mother was feeling great, but that I needed to know that it took a full year for her to really get through it all.

“A year?” I thought.  ”I can’t do it.”

 

I remember that as I was leaving the room to go have my CT scan, Dr. James half turned towards me and said, “My fiance is doing your scan.”  And he smiled a sweet, proud, delighted kind of smile, and I said, “Awww, really?”  It seemed so sweet, and cute, and human for him to tell me that.

And she was so kind, and understanding and calming as she explained the procedure, and did the scan.

 

I remember going back to my room, and finding a flower on my bed.  Penny had left it for me.

I saw her later, in the hall, and she hugged me tight and wished me well.

 

I remember feeling dazed, and exhausted as we left the building, and knowing that it was only going to get worse as we went to tell all the people who love us that I was very sick.  I didn’t want to do it.  I didn’t know how I could do it.  And I don’t think I was able to say the word “cancer.”  I still couldn’t say it.  

 

I remember all my friends: what they did and what they said.  I remember that it broke my heart.  And I knew that it was just the beginning.