The Night Before

This is the Night Before It Gets Real. Tomorrow, at 2:30 I meet with the surgeon.

 It had started innocently enough, with one of those silly facebook status update games for Breast Cancer Awareness. I have always rolled my eyes at them, wondering how on earth that was supposed to help. But this time, instead of playing along, I simply promised to go have my mammogram. I was a year and two months overdue. It was time.

The mammogram appointment was quick and painless. I arrived home in record time, resumed my day getting ready for our long-awaited vacation. Gave it not a second thought.

 

Vacation was glorious at the beach. My husband and I enjoyed brisk morning walks around the resort, relaxing floats around the lazy river, leisurely lunches on the balcony. We were out on that balcony when I missed the call. Radiologist. She left a message. Call me back, she said.

 

I called back and left a message on the voice mail which informed me that all calls would be returned after 4:00, and that there was no need for multiple calls to that number. It was 1:53.

 

Some hours are longer than others. The afternoon had turned sweltering, so we had decided on a quiet indoor time. And there we sat; he, watching a replay of a football game on his laptop, blissfully unaware of the call, and I, researching and writing for an upcoming women’s retreat, reading scripture after scripture about seasons and cycles of life, alternately calm and churning.

 

4:56. The return call came. I was being called back in for a second look. Don’t worry, she said. It is common to come back in. When can you get here?

 

We scheduled for the earliest time on my first day back. And all the rest of the week, I saw pink ribbons in the souvenir shops and on the tailgates of cars and in the hot pink bikinis at the pool. I moved my own pink shirt to the bottom of the drawer.

 

The appointment came and I once again subjected myself to the Pancake Machine. Extra views. More extra views, with magnification. Technician left and returned with a doctor. Calcium deposits, she said. No need to worry, it’s a very small area. But you will need a biopsy. Just to be sure. When can you get there?

 

I left with a pink folder and an appointment for the afternoon at the Breast Center. Next to Day Surgery. At the hospital downtown, the big one with all the latest and greatest technology. And my bewildered husband drove us and we circled around and around under the low ceilings of the parking garage and the biopsy was done and they said expect a call by Thursday and we went home and ate soup and went to bed early with ice packs and Tylenol and prayers.

 

At 10:54 on Wednesday morning, the radiologist called. It’s not malignant, she said. But there are two types of atypical cells and we need to schedule a consultation with a surgeon. What? Ok. She said the surgical office would call me directly to schedule. Ok.

 

What next? Sit and wait? No, the fridge is empty because I cleaned it out before vacation and there’s nothing in there and the cats need litter and it is grocery day, like every Monday. Wait. It isn’t Monday, it’s Wednesday. Somehow I missed grocery day. The schedule must be upheld. Order must be maintained. Grocery store, it is.

 

And at 2:08, as I stood in the middle of the meat aisle, between the chicken breasts and the gluten-free nuggets, next to the sign that announced the 25% off sale, my phone rang.  Do you have a preference for a surgeon, she asked. Is there a day that’s best? Monday, I said. Monday. And as my phone chimed its battery warning, she gave me a date. And I fumbled in my purse for my notebook but came up with my sketchbook instead and wrote in pencil on the back of the cloud study. And suddenly, my stomach complained about the smell of the butcher counter and the red slabs of meat and I needed to find a neutral aisle, with orderly boxes and cans and no people.

 

And now, it is The Night Before.

 

And I haven’t even done the paperwork. And the appointment is still written in pencil in the sketchbook behind the clouds, as if putting it in ink somewhere gives it power.

 

So now the rubber meets the road and I have to decide, again, like every day, multiple times, for the past two and a half weeks, if I am going to worry or if I am going to trust. And I will choose to trust. Because God has been whispering through scripture and through the hugs and prayers of friends and the songs at church and the card from my Nancy and the soft, strong hands of my husband clasping mine. I know Who goes before me and Who stands behind. My God carries me. Whom and what shall I fear?

 

I get out the ink pen and start the paperwork.