What's the Word?

Two years ago, I knew this day would come; and the emotions that I have been dealing with for the past 24 hours are the reason why I waited for two years to do anything about it.  My heart sank, and I think I even cried two years ago when I realized what it could possibly be that I was feeling.  And then I told myself that it could be nothing, that I should just wait and see if anything changed.

Part of the reason I decided to wait is because my doctor was leaving on a sabbatical for a year, and I couldn't bear to go to another doctor and relate all of my medical history.  A year later when he returned, nothing had really changed, and I wanted to lose weight and get healthier before going to see him again.  I gave myself six months.  Well, six months turned into twelve, but I knew I needed the appointment, so I finally scheduled it the beginning of January.

When the day came for the appointment, for the first time in all my womanhood, I was not scared.  I was brave, confident.  I had gone over this conversation in my head for two years.  I confidently filled out all of the paperwork and breathed deeply when I got to my biggest concerns, but I only hesitated briefly.

Same doctor, new office = best doctor visit I ever had.  In the end, his nurse put in an order for the test that I knew I needed.  Due to scheduling, I knew my first available would be today, Valentine's Day.  Oh, goodie. . . just what all women want to do on the day of "love."

For two weeks, I've been brave, keeping  a straight face and keeping quiet.  I can count on one hand the number of people I told about this test.  I didn't want to alarm anyone unnecessarily, but I had to tell someone because my therapy is talking out my problems.  So, a few people were told.  I tried to be very nonchalant about it. . . until yesterday.

All day "I'm too young!  I'm too young, I'm only 30," kept playing in my head.  This shouldn't be happening to me at 30.  Prayers and a priesthood blessing calmed me.  I received an answer that I didn't want to question, but that I knew I wouldn't completely understand until after my appointment today.

I cried on the way to the hospital.  I had to let it out.  First of all, I hate that hospital.  The smells, the sounds, everything sends the emotions from Clarissa and Jackson swirling around me.  That hospital doesn't mean hope to me, it means gloom.  Secondly, I think of all the things that scare me in this world (snakes, heights, the dark), and the thing that scares me the absolute most is if the words are "Yes, that's what it is" today.  I don't want to hear the "c" word.  That word terrifies me.  The what-ifs are plaguing me.

I'm there early, and I get in early.  The nurse/technician gives me the robe to put on my upper half and tells me where to wait.  When there's a question of why when I'm only 30 am I here for a routine screening and "it's too high, this machine won't see anything," she leaves me alone in the room with the Machine.  I look at it, ominously humming at me, thinking how painful it can be and yet wondering how in the world it really works.  I think I remember seeing a video online about it somewhere.  Will this Machine give me the answers I'm looking for or will it be something else?  Secretly, I don't want to go anywhere near the machine.

My heart gives a small leap when she returns and tells me that they're going to do an ultrasound instead.  I want to turn around and stick my tongue out at the machine.   I return to the waiting room and sit a while longer for the ultrasound technician to "say" my name (it's more like "attempt to say my name" until I tell them how to pronounce it).

She takes me into a room, and I recognize this machine.  This one doesn't scare me, and I know I can have answers immediately.  I won't have to wait until my doctor calls me, or will I?  Nope, they bring in a radiologist so he can tell me before I leave.  I look on the screen, and I like to think I can understand what I'm seeing after several prenatal ultrasounds and seeing ultrasounds on Jackson.

The radiologist speaks, "It's not cancer.  There's nothing there and nothing to worry about."  Inwardly, I relax, but I listen intently as he explains further and tells me what to look for later on if I ever wonder again what it is I'm really feeling.  (Turns out it's just tissue that's developed differently on one side than the other.)

I wait to cry relief when I get to the car.  I text Matt and meet him outside of his building to give him the good news.  I think of all the tests I won't have to endure or the explanations I'd have to give Jackson or the bills I won't have to pay.  I thank the Lord the entire way home and shed some more tears, and I completely understand the meaning of, "The Lord has other things in store for you,"  and I'm thankful that "other things" don't include cancer.