A few years later we moved to the Denver area to be close to family. One Saturday in early spring all of the family, including the kids, decided to go for a bike ride. The weather was typical Colorado—gorgeous and sunny with a slight warm breeze lifting the leaves. A perfect day.
As we prepared to start out a wave of pain engulfed me. I gripped my middle and knew I couldn’t pedal a bike anywhere. Concerned, my daughter tried to make me comfortable on their bed then they left for their ride as I urged them to go on. Soon I sat up feeling better and wishing I’d gone with them. I puttered around the house for a bit then, like a wave, the pain attacked me again. It came in waves and this felt worse than the first bout. I literally rolled on the floor clutching my middle. It eased up—for a period of time—then hit me, again. It probably wasn’t as bad as the pain of childbirth but a close second.
After the family arrived back at the house, my husband and I went home and on Monday I made an appointment to see a doctor. Strangely the rest of the weekend I’d been spared the rolling waves of pain. When I described what I’d been through she determined it was my gall bladder and recommended removing it since if we left things as they were, I would have more attacks. “Best to take care of it now,” she said.
I agreed, not wanting to endure another round of such excruciating pain. She referred me to a surgeon, Dr. Sally, and before I knew what hit me I was in the hospital, under the knife, as they say.
The operation went well and the doctor pronounced it successful predicting I’d not have to go through that particular pain again. But one fine day while I was recuperating in the hospital, Dr. Sally entered my room followed by my entire family including my brother but minus the grandchildren.
They all eyed me a little strangely I thought and I wondered what was up. Quite solemnly the doctor said to me, “I wanted your family here when I told you what we found. After we removed the diseased gall bladder we discovered small growths on your liver. We had them biopsied and I’m sorry but they are cancer. I have an oncologist I want you to see after you’re home and recovered from the surgery.”
I looked around at the solemn faces on my dear family and thought, so? I said to the gathered assemblage, “I was diagnosed with cancer when you were born,” indicating my daughter. “No one thought then that I would live to raise my two babies but here I am. I raised my kids, which was all I asked of God back then. But now I’ve even seen my grandsons. God has been good to me all this time. It’s okay. The rest is in His hands.”
I don’t know what anyone thought of my short speech but I’d rehearsed it in my head many times in case this day ever arrived and I meant every word. If the cancer had returned I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
When I saw the oncologist, he confirmed to me that the biopsy revealed the cancer was the primary cancer, ovarian. I was surprised after all the years that had passed but thankful that God had spared me through all those thirty years.
What would come next, I had no clue.
No comments:
Post a Comment