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 |
No comments:
Post a Comment