Christmas is over. Another year has come and gone. This
season is such a startling reminder of the passage of time. It always has been for
me, but this year I seemed to notice it even more. I often caught myself
thinking, Last year at this time . . .
Next year at this time . . . ?
Our tree this year seemed the most beautiful one yet. We cut
it ourselves, as usual, and found one that reached to the ceiling. We finished
decorating it after dark; the tiny white lights were dazzling. “The tree seems
more sparkly this year,” I commented as I gave it a drink of water before bed. Then,
jokingly, “Maybe that’s because I’m
more sparkly.” Pause. “I mean, maybe I’m more aware.”
“I think we all are,” Greg replied.
Startled, I asked what he meant. “I think we’ve all realized
that we need to cherish the moments,” he said. He mentioned the way that our
kids had all embraced the decorating this year ~ more than normal. Come to
think of it, I had noticed it, too.
For me, the awareness began last year. After my mammogram, I
was called back for a follow-up sonogram as the technician had warned. Greg
offered to go with me that night, December 20, but I assured him I’d be fine. “It’s
just a sonogram,” I said. “I’ve been through this before.”
But as the technician began the test, I knew instantly that
she had seen something. She was very
quiet throughout most of the procedure; when she did ask me questions, they
seemed to be either leading or deceptively unrelated. There was much clicking
and measuring on her part, even up into the lymph nodes under my arm. I couldn’t
see the sonogram screen, and I grew more and more unnerved. After what seemed like
an eternity, she told me she was going to go ask the radiologist if he wanted
to come in and take a look.
She left me lying on the table in the dim cubicle, separated
by a dingy curtain from the other exam areas. I could overhear other conversations,
and I began to shake. Trembling uncontrollably, I tried to read the magazine I’d
brought along. I could barely hold my hands (or my mind) still enough to focus
on the words.
My cell phone began to ring. Dare I get up to answer it? No. The ringing stopped. Then a few minutes
later, it began again. It must be my
family trying to reach me. After the
ringing had stopped a second time, I scooted to get my phone from my purse and
dialed home. The answering machine picked up. I tried to keep my voice light as
I left a message that I wasn’t quite finished, that it would still be a while before
they could come and get me.
I don’t know how much time passed ~ 10 minutes? 15? ~ before
the technician came back and said that everything was all set and I was free to
go. I fumbled a question or two to try to gain control: “Who would be calling me with the results?” How
difficult to walk out without any answers, to sit trying to knit while I waited for my ride, to get into the car with my husband and pre-teen daughter and try
to calmly voice my concerns over the procedure I had just been through. “I’m
sure everything will be fine,” my daughter comforted me. I desperately wanted
to believe her words!
Our son returned from college that night ~ our first time to
welcome a child back home for Christmas break. It was wonderful ~ and
awful. How cold I felt, how detached
from my family as I pondered the big “what if . . . ?”
The next day I tried to carry on with Christmas preparations
as usual . . . baking . . . wrapping gifts . . . all the while waiting for my
doctor to call. She didn’t ~ not that day nor the next ~ and I was plunged into
the reality of dealing with illness during the holidays. What do people do when
faced with tragedy in the days just before Christmas, especially when a weekend
shortens office hours? Do the hospitals carry on as usual? I had never pondered
this before, but suddenly I knew ~ death and disease do not take a break just
because our calendars register a holiday.
The worst part of waiting was that now I could feel a lump. I
hadn’t been able to before ~ not even right after my mammogram. But now there
was clearly something there. My fear
burrowed deeper and threatened to paralyze me.
Then Sunday came. Friends gathered for house-church, and my
teenage daughter and a friend sang “One Small Child” by David Meece. It was a
spontaneous move ~ we’d barely even practiced ~ but I love that song, and I
reveled in the fact that we were doing it this
year, not waiting for next.
We went out for Chinese after church. While we were
finishing our lunch together, my husband’s cell phone rang. He answered it,
then in surprise handed it to me. It was
my doctor.
Heart pounding, I took the call outside. My doctor explained
that what they had found was a complex cyst. It looked like there was some
blood inside; had I injured myself recently?
Not that I could remember, though I racked my brain. My family was
watching me through the restaurant window. I didn’t realize the suspense they
were in ‘til they came through the door, takeout containers in hand, looking to
me for answers.
On the way home, I explained with relief that it was just a complex
cyst. My doctor said we’d wait six weeks and do another sonogram to see if
anything had changed. I went home and surfed the web for more info, then called
my parents and my sister with the results.
My sister’s question caught me off guard: “How do you feel?” I . . . wasn’t sure.
The next day was Christmas Eve . . . then Christmas. I moved
in a daze, and yet with heightened senses. I felt like I was standing outside
myself, watching events take place. Did
I feel relieved? Nervous? New traditions seemed to materialize on their own ~
my husband and daughter watching a Christmas movie together before the other
kids woke up . . . Christmas crackers (which my Canadian and British friends
will understand) on the breakfast plates. I adored the coordinated color scheme
of the table that just came together with paper plates and napkins. I began to be thankful for every little
thing.
beautiful Anne...So true death and disease (and bad car accidents for me) do not take a break just because our calendars register a Holiday
ReplyDeleteThanks, Anne, for sharing your story. What a journey you've had . . . May God pepper 2014 with grace and special memories.
ReplyDeleteAnne, I'm waking up on this cold, snowy afternoon and catching up on posts and correspondence online. Love reading your posts and now your blog entry. Blessed by reading your thoughts of your experience. Any journey God allows us to go through is not wasted. God shows us new truths through things we would never choose to experience in life. I see in my own life and in the lives of many I meet as they lay looking up because their health has placed them on their back and vulnerable. I share private moments of their fears and thoughts. Facing cancer, loss, living with pain both physical and emotional helps us look at life from such a different perspective. I pray it will make me more forgiving, more real, more compassionate and caring. Human relationships are what make our lives have such meaning. Every breath of life is such a gift from God! You radiate Grace and God's live and joy even through your written words, Anne. When I haven't physically seen your beautiful face in years, yet it seems like you are sitting right here talking to me! I love that you have shared this! You are precious to me. So is your family! Some days I wish we all could go back...but we can't. We must move forward. God has a special plan for our futures just as He promised us in Jeremiah. Keep sharing your life, sister. I learn from you still! I'm encouraged and inspired by you! Be blessed!♥
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