Backstory: Hearing the words - 10/17/05

I was on call as a hospice chaplain when my life took an unexpected turn. I’d had a baseline colonoscopy at age 50 and it was clear. Now, at 53, I found myself having another rather hastily-scheduled colonoscopy due to the presence of blood.

After the procedure, the surgeon told me he had biopsied a small but suspicious mass in the sigmoid colon. He scheduled me for surgery in three days.

On the day of surgery, I wasn’t nervous and was in good spirits. Although I had received no medication yet, I was blissfully oblivious and in a nice, self-protective state of denial. When the hour drew near, I was wheeled into a holding area immediately outside the operating room.

The surgeon came in, and my husband moved to the foot of the bed to make room for several medical staff. The surgeon sat down beside me and said gently, “The path labs are back, and I’m very sorry to tell you that you have cancer.”

I was stunned. I had done some chaplain work in a hospital, and I felt for him, having to give me this news.

It’s all right,” I said. “It’s okay.” Then I stopped myself. My first reaction as a caretaker was to take care of the surgeon, but even I knew that I did not need to be comforting the doctor.

I asked the surgeon what stage the cancer was.

He said, “We won’t know until Thursday, when we get the path report after surgery.”

My eyes sought my husband of many years, who is the love of my life. He was too far away to hold my hand, so we could only share a gaze. I realized that I might be leaving him and our children.

The wall behind him began to tilt, the room to spin slowly. It was strange to see it and know that my brain was creating this slow whirlwind to protect me from the impact of the devastating news.

I spoke up to no one in particular, “Now would be a good time for some of that medicine that relaxes you before surgery.”

I didn’t realize that a nurse was standing at the head of my bed, with my IV line in one hand and a syringe in the other. Within seconds, my surroundings seemed to swim and melt together. I was immediately wheeled into the operating room, transferred to a table with an enormous overhead lamp, and put under.