picturesinthehall2

     It had been three long days of worrying before my appointment with the surgeon arrived. I don't know how I survived. I really don't. I didn't sleep a wink that whole time, and the night grew to be my enemy. I was fearful of those long hours. I didn't trust my mind and the scenarios it came up with.
      I found myself sitting in a slightly larger waiting room than before, surrounded by several other women and one man. The man was a tin soldier. He stood perfectly straight, parallel to the wall with no expression on his face. The women about me were a bunch of cowering ghosts. They were there, but only in body. Their minds were somewhere far away, above the moon and stars. I was a bit of both. I was very scared, and sat motionless and expressionless in my straight-backed maroon chair. But unlike the others in the room, I wasn't expecting my situation to just magically disappear.
      Denial is another very peculiar thing. You can't tell exactly when it begins and by the time you realize what's happening, you can't stop it. You lose total and utter sight of reality, and you fall (slowly at first) downward into a world of regret and angst. Denial only complicates the mind set that one needs to combat things like illness, and pretending nothing's wrong will only perplex one's view of reality.
      I patiently waited my turn in the innocent waiting room, blissfully unaware of what was going on inside the surgeon's room. A young nurse showed me into the empty office of Dr. Davies, and I sat across from his messy desk. He swept inside with one large gust, and took me by surprise. Dr. Davies flopped into his large chair across from me, and gave me a large smile, exposing all of his front teeth. His long neck looked strangely comical upon his scrawny shoulders, but I managed to choke back a chuckle. His large nose caused a small penumbra on his upper lip, and his 5 o'clock shadow was creeping up on him. He was a large Trumpeter Swan. I smiled politely as he cocked his large head, and told me of my choices.
      I was a mannequin during the conversation - I asked him the questions I had to ask, and I heard the answers I didn't want to hear. I couldn't control my actions or what was happening, and it was like I was watching from afar. Of course, they'd have to operate on me to find out what showed up on the mammogram, that part was obvious to me from the beginning. He also explained that if they found cancer, I could have 2 choices: remove just the cancer, or go radical (in which they would remove my whole breast if the cancer had spread). After a lengthy discussion about my options, the consequences, and the survival rates, I decided on going radical.
      Frankly, my decision made me a bit uneasy. I left the office stunned. The appointment for the surgery was scheduled for the next Friday.

      The week went by in a blur. I can vaguely remember going to work, returning and plopping on my bed in a mixture of exhaustion and fear. I literally cried myself to sleep, although I knew I shouldn't have. There was always the risk of waking Kate, but that never happened. She's a heavy sleeper.
      Without grace, the following Friday arrived. I found myself driving my car, the steering wheel forcing me in the direction of the hospital. Inside the hospital, I walked like a zombie, slow and steady, toward the administration office. I was taken to my room, and told to change into their green hospital gown. I wasn't too partial to them, as they reminded me of the one my husband wore right before he passed away.
     While changing, I caught a glimpse of myself in the medium sized mirror above my ivory white sink, and gasped. Had I always been that pale? I hadn't noticed.... But I'm sure my sickly appearance was at least doubled by the fact I was standing, scared to say the least, in my hospital room, 10 minutes away from having surgery. The figure standing before me, with the small lumps under her gown, was barely recognizable, only a small portion of her resembled me. She had the same dark blonde hair, and the same pug nose, but her eyes held fear. I had never known fear. I had liked to think I was fearless. I guess I was wrong.
     I remember wondering to myself if that would be the last time I'd see myself as a whole woman. Silly, I know. A woman doesn't need two breasts to be whole, it's all in your mind. But to me, at that time, it was a big deal. I wondered what it would be like waking up and seeing that I was half of the woman I once was. I wondered how I'd explain it to my friends and family, but worse, to Kate.

     I don't remember going under, but I guess that's typical. I was asked to count down from 100, as slowly as I possibly could. The only worry I had before my eyes closed, was what number came after 99.

     The blackness before my eyes started to fade very slowly. I wanted to wake up, but the sheer terror of actually doing so was pulling me back. The lights were daggers, piercing my eyes and I was forced to close them again. The whirring of the machines around me made me realize that I was back in my own body, back on Earth and ready to face the reality of my surgery. Honestly, I would rather be in the dark hole I had been in, the darkness enveloped me and kept me comfortable. The darkness didn't care what I looked like.
     I opened my dull eyes, full with pain and dread, and looked down upon my chest. Now, I don't know if this is quite appropriate to say, but that was the happiest moment of my life. Sure, my daughter's birth and my wedding were quite high on the list, but this was the happiest moment. It turns out that I did have cancer. They hadn't known until they had removed the lump. Thank God it hadn't spread to my lymph nodes, or they would have gone radical and removed my whole breast.

      My car's small digital clock reads 11:43am as I pull into the hospital parking lot. Good. Almost 15 minutes early for my appointment with Dr. Peters. The large rotating door turns, leaving me standing inside the hospital lobby. The bright lights are like the ones I remember from the hospital when I awoke from surgery - way too bright. Possibly it's an attempt at cheering people up, but who knows. Nothing can get more depressing than a hospital.
       It's my second day in radiation treatment, and I know the way to the room perfectly. It's at the end of a long hall, lined with pictures of the adults and children who had occupied the rooms in the hospital. All had cancer. Many had passed away.
      I had never thought of myself as lucky, not until I walked past the pictures. I had never thought of myself as special. I don't know why my life was saved, instead of the hundreds of other men, women and children that die of the many forms of cancer every year. I really don't. I wish I could tell you why I hadn't woken up with my breast removed, instead of just the lump, but I can't.
     The sign above the door reads "Radiation," and for a moment I just stand there staring at it. What a beautiful sight. I'm nearly in tears, and my knees are starting to buckle. I have found my salvation, and it came to me in the form of one simple room with one machine. It means that much to me: it's the light at the end of the tunnel.