opposite day

traffic slowed to a crawl on 76. the directions had said to get off at the south street exit. i began to wonder whether we could take a different exit and get there any faster. the ramp to south street was backed up all the way to the left hand lane of traffic. the light turned green, two or three cars would go through, and then it would turn red. repeat. repeat. repeat. the hospital loomed right there, right up the embankment from the highway. it seemed impossibly big. my stomach fell harder every time i looked out the window. what the hell was i doing there. one, two, three cars. there were probably six more in front of us. three more lights. we were already running late. my stress level was at an all-time high. there, i looked out the window again. enormous hospital looming. all i could think was that hospitals like this are for really, really sick people. people go there to die. and people go there to do research. and that was about it. so what was i doing there, really?

making sure to hold onto the parking ticket we left the car in the ramp and followed signs to the hospital. if the level says lobby then why can't we walk across to the hospital from this level? what do they mean, bridge? oh, i see, you have to walk across the bridge to get to where we need to go. oh, look, there are some quaint ivy-league looking buildings nestled among the buildings of this looming hospital. was it really that long ago that i was in school? how can i possibly be here, at this hospital, where people come to be very sick and possibly die? i am young. college was just seconds ago. seconds.

the fourth floor waiting room wasn't so full of people. maybe there aren't that many sick people today. maybe they're all having horrible surgeries. there's been a terrible mistake, and i am not really supposed to be here. no surgery for me. just a consultation about my asthma. that's all. i filled out the forms, hand shaking as i list my first surgery, the bronchoscopy from a week earlier. i want to go back to that hospital. it is small, familiar, it in no way shape or form looms. there isn't an exit ramp to contend with. people don't go there to die. they are moderately sick. none of this looming important doctor researcher stuff going on.

i stepped on the scale and already i am five pounds lighter than just a month earlier. i haven't been eating because i've been nervous. and i don't want to gain weight, since i'm not exercising. it all makes perfectly good sense to me. no fever, good blood pressure, do i have my scans with me, the doctor will want to see them, put on this horribly embarrassing paper gown, opening in the back, he'll be in shortly. we made small talk. i remember that i chose a nicer outfit for the occassion. nice because the researching doctor would have thought i was a lazy slob if i just wore a hoody and old jeans. i am looking good in my brown v-neck sweater. i found a hole in the sleeve. i'm glad my danskos aren't showing their age. people come here because they're very sick. i am the picture of health. this is some mistake.

the white jacket walks in, a tall one, slim, with glasses. scrubs. scrubs? don't doctors wear ties? he's seen the scans. he doesn't make light of anything.

i think this is cancer.

he grimaces. as though he really doesn't want to say it. he makes this face often, it is one of his faces. when he says things you really don't want to hear. but he has to say them anyway. it is his job and he is a cut-to-the-chaser.

in my stomach, i have vultures. no butterflies any more. no benign hardness. vultures. they are suddenly circling. there is something on the way for them. and they know it. they know it.

had i been near the mississippi river valley lately? two months ago i was swimming in the lake, at our cabin. ok, well, we'll do some tests to rule out anything fungal.

but she was in chile a year ago. could it be anything from down there? no, no, that was a long time ago. again.

i.

think.

this.

is.

cancer.

of course we will have to perform some surgery to make sure. it will be a mediastinoscopy. can you spell that? what is that? will i have to be in the hospital? the one where VERY SICK people go? are you doing the surgery? you just take some samples, that's it? and then you know?

i started crying at some point. big scared sobs. the white jacket takes a seat in front of me. he kindly puts a hand on my leg. he probably didn't want to see this chicken of a girl crying like this. he says things and i think he is speaking another language. he starts drawing a picture. was mom crying? probably not. she is tougher than me. i am crying. this isn't happening. i think i am outside my body, looking down. the big hands draw my lungs, and draw their three lobes, and draw the arteries and tubes going into them. and here is where the nodule is. and here is where something else is. and i think i will be able to tell what it is. but maybe not. and if not, well, i open you up and take it out. all of it.

all.

of.

it?

more crying, the sobs are more convincing now. much more terrified. another cringe or two and some words i can't remember. the nurse will be in to have me sign the forms. we're going to schedule it for as soon as possible. this really cannot wait.

i lied on the too-small exam table in the too-small room in my nice sweater and nice jeans and i cried. what else was there to do? a nurse came in with a cooler full of injectible materials. insult to injury. i am terrified of needles. four shots? in my arm? and they are going to hurt? he thinks i have cancer. he is cutting out my lung. am i going to die? how long do i have? cancer? people die from cancer. she shoots me with the first one, a fungus, maybe. ouch. the next one, the fungus that causes athlete's foot. do you really think i have athlete's foot in my LUNG? that one really hurts. i sob. i don't even apologize for it. another one, TB this time. gaddam, that hurts. finally, tetnus, four and done.

another white jacket, the nurse this time. also tall. friendly. i could be her friend. we must be the same age. sign here. sign here. these are the risks. pneumonia, pneumothorax, stroke, heart attack. death. wtf. i sign. i sign. i sign. she takes my hand. he is one of the best. you are in good hands. we are going to do this and we are going to take care of you and it is going to be ok and if you need anything call.

the door to the tiny room shuts and i feel as tiny and confused as an ant let loose in antarctica, because it was just freezing in there. we got up, we walked out, and we harbored some hope that maybe it was some kind of mistake. of course it is fungus. of course. oh, wait, my scans, he still has them. can i have them? he needs them for the surgery. yes, but can't i bring them back, you see, i like how they feel under my arm as i walk through this hospital. the one that is sudenly not the place where people die. because i am not dying. i will bring them next week. you can count on me.

i'm sure we took the elevator downstairs after talking to the secretary of the white coats. i drank some water. was it all really happening? i'm sure we walked back across the bridge, paid for the parking, and walked to the car. the rest of the day disappears into the unknown.

that was one year ago tomorrow.

i gave myself a nice run after work today. i felt the sun on my face and a few tears of joy leaked out. i have come so far.

he was right all along.

but i am the toughest patient he's ever had, and i've bounced back and here i am, so happy to be here, to feel the sun and hear the cars, and feel my breathing, every single inhalation and exhalation. every single one. on my run today i was happy to count my breaths and hear my steps and be glad that no matter what tomorrow brings, i am ready for it. tomorrow i don't think anyone will tell me they think i have cancer and that they are going to cut me open. what a difference a year makes. thank goodness for opposite days.