A couple of nights ago I was on day four of abdominal pain.  It was getting progressively worse. Every time I ate, the pain increased, so I wasn’t eating.  I was in so much pain that I wasn’t sleeping. I began having gastric juices fill my mouth unexpectedly and my stool began to darken.  Finally, with the fear of having a gallbladder issue or an ulcer that might eventually bleed, I went to the ER.  I sat in the waiting room for hours and then waited another hour or so in the bed before a nurse or doctor checked in on me.  My mother-in-law sat with me, faithfully, as we waited.

Given my symptoms, they also suspected gallbladder or ulcer.  They drew some blood and sent me for an ultrasound.  Having worked in this exact ER for a number of years, I knew the staff.  I knew the ultrasound tech and I knew when the ultrasound was taking longer than normal.  I knew, by her expression, that something was very “off.”  I suspected I might have to have my gallbladder removed, but I did not expect the news that was coming.

I heard several voices in the hallway outside of my room, speaking in hushed, rushed whispers.  Several doctors or nurses were going over my case, comparing notes.  Finally, the nurse practitioner I had seen walked in.  She told me that my gallbladder was normal, but that the ultrasound showed many spots or growths on my liver.  I asked the nurse practitioner what the ultrasound could mean or indicate and she said, “We really don’t know, but it could be cysts or likely cancer.” I confirmed that she said cancer and she really focused on that because the ultrasound was “very clear.”

I began to sob.  Given the fact I hadn’t slept in 48 hours and that I was being given IV narcotics (which tend to make me a bit emotional anyway), I lost it.  I knew I had to wait upon the cat scan results for confirmation of anything, but even just the mere mention of the word “cancer” is absolutely frightening and disheartening.  I tried to pull myself together, but I just couldn’t.  I wept in between phone calls, unable to wrap my mind around the concept.  My mother-in-law spoke softly and kindly to me, which I needed then, more than ever.  She wrapped her arms around me and allowed me to cry.  I needed to release it in order to be rational and logical.  She knew that.  She understood that.  After all, she had been in my shoes before.

During the cat scan I allowed myself to drift to that place between awake and sleep and I saw a huge green field with a hill and children on swing sets and playing, except my view whizzed by as though I were catching glimpses of my surroundings while riding upon a merry-go-round. I immediately felt a calm and a peace come over me.  I let myself fall into a place of serenity, completely unaware of the whirring machine encircling me.  For the first time in days, I felt absolutely nothing.  Nothing physically, nothing emotionally, nothing at all.

I had a million thoughts rush through my mind when I first heard “cancer.” My initial reaction was to sob and get emotional, but after some time alone and prayer/meditation, I just knew that I’d be okay, regardless of the outcome. It definitely put things in perspective and I am far less focused on my future career and I am more focused on myself and my family. Hearing that puts things in perspective on scales I could never imagine.  Suddenly, my career choices don’t carry weight they once did.  In fact, I became more interested in motherhood than developing my career.

After my cat scan, the ultrasound and ct scan techs offered me books of pictures and said, “It could be anything. What she told you is HER interpretation of what the radiologist saw.” Whether they were covering her ass or simply being reassuring, I wasn’t banking on anything until the cat scan results were in.  When the results were in, a doctor and the ARNP walked in, both confused.  “We have your cat scan results.  Both of them.  We can’t explain this, but they’re totally normal and negative for anything.”  Ultrasounds are the least reliable method and this whole ordeal could easily be explained away by rational arguments, but part of me wondered if this whole thing wasn’t just short of miraculous.  It certainly felt miraculous.

I truly believe everything happens for a reason.  Whether this was a fluke, a miracle, or shoddy communication of a nurse practitioner, something in me changed through this process. Having felt very unsure of my next steps for my life, especially after walking away from my doctoral program, this was ensuring and eye-opening.  It made me realize that I want my legacy to be my future children and not in some thankless career.  This process showed me that I have nothing to prove because I am good, solid, and strong, just as I am.  I don’t need upper level college education (although I am still pursuing my Master’s while I get my body healthy enough to carry children), but that no longer defines me.  People won’t remember me for being well-educated.  They’re remember me for being me.  I think who I become is so much important than what I become, in some aspects.  It took a cancer scare to awaken that realization within me.

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