When does it become just a memory?
Sometimes the problems and issues that come our way would smother and suffocate us, leaving us gasping for even just a tiny, small breath. It is those moments that allow us to realize how precious air and oxygen is, how we never really appreciated it until it was threatened to be taken away. Is it too late? By not really giving it much thought, does that mean we were ungrateful? Maybe just really oblivious and ignorant, just a little.
< Tangent > : Chris & John, good wishes and vibes to you every day as you trudge through these next weeks/months. < / tangent >
It was one of those times 8 years ago today. Eight years ago today (Nov 24) was Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. I had spent Thanksgiving day in bed, recovering from the first surgery I’ve ever had. Groggy and still in pain, Hubby and I went to the clinic to see why my shoulder/neck was still numb. It had been much more than 24 hrs since the anesthesia drugs were given, it was suppose to wear off in 24 hrs, and yet I didn’t feel a thing on my clavicle area. Lo and behold, this was minor in comparison to what I was about to hear, sitting by myself in this room, with this woman doctor whom I’ve never met before.
“You have lymphoma,” she said nonchalantly. Still reading the pathology results and not really making eye contact with me.
“What’s that?”
“It’s cancer. In your chest. And your neck. In the lymphatic system.”
All the while keeping her eyes on the paper without looking at me even once.
* * * * * * * *
I will forever remember the way I felt when I was alone in that room with that doctor. I flailed and reached for a gasp of air and weren’t able to get much.
Eight years later, I am breathing normally and enjoying the blue skies and sunshine, the ducks flying in the air, and the Christmas lights that line the rooftops while two little rascals hop and skip on my side.
Thank you for this second chance. I am making the best of it, for me and for others*.
* Benevolence has become my middle name.
November 25th, 2008 at 1:48 am
THAT’s how you were told?! I promise you I will never deliver news of this sort to any patient anywhere like that. EVER.
November 25th, 2008 at 4:46 pm
OMG…I can’t believe that’s how they told you.
I am so glad you got that second chance and we got a chance to be friends.
November 25th, 2008 at 10:19 pm
Oh…thank God for second chances! I love these happy endings.
Walking around in the Cancer Clinic here looks somewhat like a war zone. It is a war zone. Many people here are winning the war. When I look into peoples eyes,I know I am seeing a reflection of what is in our eyes.I want to go around and hug everybody…of coarse I can’t do that but I want too.
Everything is going good. Looks like all systems go! Now they are starting to prep John with some medications. The transplant will probably take place in a couple of weeks.
Why did they tell you that with you being all alone? What a nightmare. I can’t imagine.
I remember when we were told. I wanted to put John in a car and just drive away from it all. Then maybe it all would not be real. Sometimes when I think I just can’t go on…I know I have to and somehow I am able to dig down real deep and I always seem to be able to find strength that I did not know that I had.
Thank you for sharing and for your kind wishes. You are an inspiration to me. Hugs and have a great Thanksgiving. Lots to be thankful for to be sure.
November 26th, 2008 at 1:51 am
Sometimes doctors just don’t think these through. That said, you’re an amazing women and an inspiration to many. Thank you for sharing your story.
December 1st, 2008 at 3:21 pm
you know what is ridiculous… i was diagnosed on the same day as you! a few years later, it appears. but i never really associated the whole ordeal with (American) thanksgiving until your post. and i definitely never noticed that we were receivers of the cancer news around the same time of year! crazy.
i was told i may not be able to have children in a similar fashion. it went along the lines of “you need to go to the chemo clinic now. oh and by the way, you may never be able to have children. the chemo clinic is down the hall to the left.” i know it’s not quite as bad as receiving the cancer news itself in such a callous way…. but damn, it still burns.
here’s to 2009 being the healthiest one yet!
March 2nd, 2010 at 2:28 pm
Hi. Found you through a group in NaBloPoMo. My husband had Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and another blood cancer, MDS. His NHL began 11 years ago, the MDS about 5 years ago. He had a lot of chemo for both and then a bone marrow transplant. He is now in remission for about four and a half years! Just wanted to let you know! Strange how the doctor tells you all the news in such a nonchalant way. But I am glad that both you and my husband John are doing well now. Take care.
krissy knox
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