Of Jeter and Pathology Reports and Miracles

I was lying in a bed in Newport, Rhode Island, flipping between a Yankees game and HGTV, while occasionally glancing out the window at the night sky, the moon, and the river running under the Newport Bridge.  It was close to midnight, and the family vacation to Jamestown and Newport was off to a brilliant start, with a condo on the water, views every morning while we ate waffles on the deck, and adventures galore.  The kids were content, there was a lot of laughter, and life was good.  I had my hand on my abdomen, and was rubbing about two inches below my belly button, where I had been sore for part of the day, when I felt the lump.

It was about an inch wide, and two inches long.

I have scar tissue from two c-sections, but those are around my scar, where my children were delivered.  This was higher, different- it felt rounder and disconnected.  In the dark, my husband sleeping soundly beside me, my children sharing a room down the hall, I had a moment of cold fear panic.

I've had those icicles before.  That stomach drops out, tingly lightheadedness.  I paused mid-breath.

I felt again.  It was there.

In the coming weeks, I would be diagnosed with a possible hernia, possible hematoma (bad bruise), and told to wait a month and come back for a check up.  My first question was are you sure?  Is there any chance it could be anything else- a tumor, something bad?   I didn't know this doctor, and he said "anything is possible, but it's unlikely.  It's like seeing a horse in the US.  You wouldn't assume it's a zebra, you would assume it's a horse because of where we are."  I immediately thought of Madagascar and zoos, but nodded my head, looked around (glimpsing at Sports Illustrated with Jeter's smiling face behind the doctor and the blinds on the windows), and agreed to come back in a few weeks.

The lump didn't go away, just got more sore, a little larger, and upon my return, I was then told potential endometriosis, and did I want to try a different form of birth control to see if it just went away on its own?  This came with the stipulation that if I did wait and see, that I would have a biopsy performed in office, "just to be safe".  With that or surgery as the only real options to definitively determine what was growing inside me, I went to my OB for a second opinion, and was told if it was an endometrioma (endometrial tissue growing outside the uterus), it was high for that, and it was possibly a fatty tumor instead.

At this point, the option of surgery seemed like the better option.  I have an aunt who survived endometrial cancer earlier this year, because she caught it early.  Her mother in law had ignored warning signs for close to a year, and passed a week after my aunt's hysterectomy.

I have two good friends who opted for mastectomies because of the gene for cancer and their personal family losses.  I know how important early intervention is if something is wrong, and how devastating it can be for misdiagnoses to float around for months (we still wonder if my aunt would be around had they immediately diagnosed lung cancer, instead of misdiagnosing various upper respiratory illnesses like bronchitis and pneumonia for six months).

I have two little girls. All I ever wanted was to be a mom, and be here for them as they grow up.  There's a lot that one wants in life, but I realized as I started to take everything into account against sobering reality that I need to simply be here, with them.  They are my life.  As I have spent the last several days recovering from surgery, they've alternated asking me "mommy, how's your belly?" and giving "gentle hugs".  The almost-four year old wants to be on my lap, so she climbs onto the bed first, then gingerly slides onto my legs, careful to avoid the pillow that is protecting my latest scar.  They are crazy little lunatics, with fits of giggles, emotions that run the gamut, and a particular affinity for drawing on the walls and floors with all things Crayola.  But they are mine, and I love them.  I want to see them get taller and discover sports. I want to see Riley dance in her first Irish Dancing competition, and Ella score a goal on the soccer field.  I want to read the first stories that they write, hold their hands through their first loves, take photos at their proms and graduations.  I want to be there when they have their own children.  I want to be there, period.

Waiting for pathology reports is terrifying.  The words "tumor" and "pathology" conjure up images that have become all too commonplace on television and in films.  I've lost people close to me to big words that I couldn't bring myself to say, but had running through my head for much of the last week.  Before I hit the recovery room, my doctor had told me "It was an endometrioma.  We'll go over the pathology results when I see you next week".

I was too nauseated from the anesthesia, too sore from the surgery, to do anything but moan in agreement.  But in my head, I was conscious enough to calculate that if I didn't hear from him before my office follow up, that was a bad thing.

The nurse, when I was being discharged, told me that the test results would be done in two or three days, by Thursday or Friday, and that the doctor was usually good about calling if that was the case.  Again, I calculated.

So I spent much of Thursday on pins and needles, my cell phone next to me as I lay in bed, unable to really hold a computer or focus on anything more than the chatter on the television.  I slept on and off, ate meekly, and tried to walk around to ease some of the soreness.  As night descended, I started tearing up whenever one of my daughters would come over to me, thinking "Please.  please.  I need to be here for them."   I stroked the little one's hair out of her face, held the big one's hand while we watched Despicable Me 2.

Derek Jeter was playing in his final home stand at Yankee Stadium.  The Giants were about to start a heated battle with the Washington Redskins to get out of the bottom of the NFC East.  I situated myself on the couch, under a blanket, while the kids ran around the downstairs in a big circular loop.  Peeking at my phone for the inevitable Facebook updates, I saw a mail alert that I had a message from my OB.

I let out a breath.  I looked around, at the clock on the mantle with the roman numerals, which dictated that it was quarter of eight; at the little face laughing as she lapped the fireplace and the sleeping dogs; at the crowd on the television chanting a baseball god's name.  I struggled to lift myself up off the leather, careful to use my arms and my legs, and avoid my core muscles.  Despite my efforts, I could still feel the tugging and soreness, especially where the incision was.  I hunched over as I shuffled across the floor, neanderthal in my motions, as I knew standing upright would increase the pain level.  Reaching the front hallway, I gingerly lowered myself to the steps, and dialed for the message, praying on a loop please let me be okay…please let me be okay.

 "Hello Kristen, it's Dr. _______.  We got the results of the pathology test, and it was endometriosis, so I'm glad you had it taken out.  If you have any questions…"

A wave of relief rushed my body.  If he was leaving a message, this was good.  In the morning, I would call the office, and officially speak to someone who confirmed that, yes, it was only endometriosis.  I choked up when I tried to say "thank you", and she kindly told me she understood, and was happy for me.  When you've lost people close to you, you don't discuss the possibilities until after you know you are okay, after you know the results are in your favor.  Only then can you let the tears flow, and the what-if's be spoken.  If you speak them too soon, you are afraid they may go from hypothetical to real.

Waddling back to the couch, I told my husband the news, while he squeezed my hand.  Giving my little ones kisses and hugs, I could breath again.  I remembered my angels in heaven, Dad, who had taken me to my first Yankee's game, who had sat next to me in Box 39, Row 8, when the Yankees outlasted the Braves in Game 6 of the 1996 world series.  I said a silent thank you to him and the higher powers above me for giving me this chance to continue.  On the television, Derek Jeter hit an RBI fielder's choice and we readied the kids for bed.  I gave each an extra squeeze, told them I loved them, while Jeff herded them up the stairs, while their stuffed lambs and feety pajamas skimmed the carpet.

I dialed my mom, told her the news.  Said I would call in the morning after officially talking to the doctor, but all looked good.  I also asked if she was watching the Yankees, and she said no, Grey's Anatomy.  I asked how we were related, and she chuckled.

Above my head, I could hear the little ones running around, pattering against the carpet instead of remaining tucked in their beds.  On the screen, I was riveted with every other baseball fan by Jeter's last stand.  In the midst of sport and the end of an era, I was gently remembering that I can continue.  When Robinson blew the save, and I realized Jeter would receive one final at bat, I turned to my husband and said "I hope this is karma for him being a good person.  That, or someone in the Yankees sold their soul for this one."

I leaned back, knowing what was coming.  This is the night of new beginnings, the night I'll remember for knowing I was going to be allowed to stay in the game, and the night Jeter did the only imaginable thing he could, and pulled one more miracle out of his #2 hat.  In the midst of the eruption of joy on the screen, the cheering in my living room with my husband, I was simply glad to be a part of it.  Walt Whitman once said "Happiness, not in another place, but this place, not for another hour, but this hour."      It's simply to live, to breath, to be that is the goal.  Happiness is recognizing it.

CHRIS PEDOTA/STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER

http://www.northjersey.com/sports/klapisch-derek-jeter-a-hero-to-the-end-1.1096807

Some things about that day- memories of 9/11

Some things about that day…
The carpet was worn.  It was the same one that had been on the floor since I was a student at Ramapo High School.  The desks were newer, a blend of metal and hard plastic, but the one at the front, that I was prepared to sit at, on and off, for the next several hours, was wooden and old.  There were scratch marks on it, pencil lines and designs, even initials carved here and there from who I presume was an ambitious substitute like myself, or a bored student.  The doors were the same.  My boyfriend used to break pencils in the doorknob lock of this one, forcing Mrs. Solomon, his AP Calc teacher, to call the janitor to come down and remove the doors from their frames so that class could begin (usually at least ten minutes late).  I plopped my bag, withdrawing the lesson of the day to hand out to the students.

A girl rushed in, her backpack smacking her back in rhythm with her steps.  She had long hair, as teenage girls do, and was a little out of breath.  "Can we turn on the tv?" she asked excitedly.

I looked at her and smiled, mildly amused.  "I know I'm a substitute, but I can't just let you guys watch tv," I responded patiently.

"No- it's the Twin Towers," she paused for effect.  "One of the towers just exploded!"

I didn't wait for anything more.  At the time, I thought one of my close friends was working on a lower floor (I didn't know until hours later that she had changed her shift from Tuesdays to Thursdays).  I rooted around in the desk, my fingers sifting through loose leaf paper and wayward staples.  Grabbing the plastic remote control, I pointed it at the heavy television in the corner of the room, while students shuffled past me, talking in frantic tones.  Their history teacher had been showing a clip on CNN when the first tower was hit, and word has spread through the building quickly.

There was a click of power, and the screen slowly burned from black to white to images as I hit the buttons to find CNN.  There was blue in the corners, that bright blue that only happens in New York in the fall, the kind that makes you want to traipse through Central Park, or hike around Washington Square Park and listen to guitar players and throw coins in the fountain.

But this blue was just a frame.  It wasn't inviting, but rather was in the process of being blocked out, because front and center were the Towers.  The one on the right had black smoke fuming out of it, as though some angry dragon had opened its mouth.  The talking in the room grew louder.  Across the bottom of the screen scrawled the closed caption note that a plane had struck one of the towers.  I hit the volume up button, and the hyper speech of a commentator rose above the din of teenage gossip.

Within seconds, we saw an explosion.  I looked at the clock above the door.  It read 9:03 AM.  The newscaster seemed flustered.  The kids started asking to run down the hall to the pay phone, wanting to call to check on their parents in the city.  I sat down on the desk, the clicker in my hand, and tried to speak.  Words were failing me, and I nodded my head.

We still thought it was just a fire.  We believed, as a generation that grew up after Vietnam, after WWI and WWII, that attacks were things that happened to other countries.  I went into autopilot, handed out the dittos left by the regular teacher, something about Algebra I've long since forgotten.  I walked to the doorway, conversing briefly with the teacher who, at one point, had to remove her door due to pencil graphite breaking the locks.  She didn't know who I was dating.

I walked back to the desk, and was leaning against it when the first tower collapsed in a plume of smoke, obscuring our view of the blue sky completely.  There was a collective gasp in the room, followed quickly by frantic gesturing and panicked speech.

I pulled out my rudimentary cell phone, calling my mother to make sure she knew what was happening.  A few minutes later, a call came in from my sister, checking that I was not in the city that day.  She was sitting in a dorm in North Hampton, Massachussetts.  She was safe.  I called my boyfriend's roommate (his didn't have a phone), and left a message that the towers were on fire, that one had collapsed, to have Jeff call me.  I still have that number memorized.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania, another plane went down.  I can remember turning to the class, and saying, quite certain, "In a few hours, we're going to find out there were heroes on that plane that prevented a tragedy."  I could feel my voice getting hoarse as I said it, that throaty feeling when you are trying not to cry, when you have to get the words out.

The bell rang, the classes switched.  The tv stayed on as I left, knowing I had a period free to run home.  I took the hallway past the poles we once pretended led to the "Bat Cave" in a French video.   I thought of my friends, and prayed they were safe.  My high heels tapped the floor outside the child development room and the culinary arts room, and stopped outside the theatre, where the TV sat over the payphone.  The line to use it ran all the way down the hall, past the glassed in courtyard, to the nurse's office by the front entrance.  It would grow larger over the next hour.

One of the students I knew, in tears, asked if she could use my phone to try to call her dad.  I handed it over.  She got a busy signal.  Another one saw this transpire, and asked if she could try her parents.  I obliged.  We stood there, me handing my phone off to student after student, all of us watching the screen and the smoke and the teens ducking into the glassed in booth to stab at the silver buttons with trembling fingers.

The second tower fell.  Someone in the hallway screamed.  I grabbed my phone, apologizing as I ran towards the exit.  I pushed open the heavy metal doors, my pupils constricting as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights of outside.  There were goosebumps on my arms despite the warm autumn air.  I dialed numbers on my phone with my left hand as I hit the keyless entry with my right, trying in vain to reach my friends.  All cell service seemed to be busy.

At home, I can remember rushing up the stairs, sitting down at the computer that looked out at Cedar Hill Ave., and turning on AOL.  There were images that would become way too familiar over the next few days filling the screen.  I opened the AOL Instant Messenger, and for the next twenty minutes, proceeded to message every person whose screen name I knew.  I emailed others, and was grateful for a flurry of replies.  The phones may not work, but the internet is functioning as usual, I thought.

I grabbed a snack bar as I rushed out of the house back to Ramapo, breaking some speed records to ensure that I would arrive before my next class started.  By now, the Pentagon had been hit.  The principal came around, calling Mrs. Solomon and myself out into the hallway, explaining that the school's official stance was that all televisions should be turned off, but that if students needed to leave, they could go to the office and sign themselves out.  Otherwise, to try to teach, and try to maintain normalcy.  We both looked at him as though he had three heads.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I whispered, "Is he serious?!"

She shook her head. "I don't care what he says.  I've been here for 25 years, and I'm not turning off a historical event."  We agreed that the televisions stayed on, and she said I could blame her if anyone said anything.  They didn't.

I don't remember much about the rest of the day.  My boyfriend woke up to my IM message: "Twin towers hit by planes.  Pentagon hit.  NYC seems to be under attack.  Call me.  I love you."  I remember sitting in front of the television with my mom, on the old white couch with the different colored threads running through it, while we watched the newscasters try to make sense of the mess.  I remember parking at "S Hill" in Ridgewood, and sitting on the rock wall with the other suburbanites, quietly gazing east towards the city.   I remember days later, standing in a line on my front porch with high school friends as we participated in the nationwide candlelight vigil, my red hair a stark contrast to the blue sweatshirt I wore to keep out the cold night air.  I remember climbing up to the top of a mountain in North Haledon with Jeff, staring out at the mutilated skyline and the smoke that still rose from the ashes.

I remember crying every time I read the newspaper, heard another story, scanned the names of the missing in the church bulletin.  I found out one friend had lost her brother-in-law, who ran to the roof while on the phone with his mom, before the line went out, and she watched in horror as his building collapsed.  I discovered a high school friend, who I had just seen the week before, had escaped the second tower, fleeing from the bathroom with a coworker, despite orders to stay put, down 82 flights of stairs minutes before the building shattered.  I remember the destruction, and also the pride in the compassion of humanity in the face of tragedy.  And I remember the world around me trying to return to "normal"- Mike Piazza hitting a home run, and weeks later, the Yankees blowing a World Series.

I remember, now, years later, that I'm lucky.  I was 25 miles from the tragedy, close enough to see it, close enough to smell the burning sky, but far enough away to be "safe".  I remembered it then, and I remember now, how precious each moment is. 13 years, and that lesson still hits close to home.

I use this as a writing prompt for my students, and I've had this nagging feeling I was going to eventually be overwhelmed by the need to use it myself.  So here it is, in honor 9/11/01, my memories of that day.