If the only prayer you ever say is “thank you,” that would suffice.
My oncologist called yesterday afternoon with the test results: I do not have cancer. I do have gi-normus bilateral implant ruptures, which need surgery. David and I saw the MRI results at the oncology office. The ruptures are so huge that the woman who used the word “explode” was actually right. The oncologist validates that my symptoms could definitely be the result of a spontaneous rupture this big. I’m waiting for the scheduler from the plastic surgeon’s office to call.
David was out on a bike ride when the oncologist called. I emailed all my family and friends with the good news before he came home, so he was the last to know. The expressions that flashed across his face when I told him I had the results went from tension, to fear, to joy in the span of a moment. I didn’t cry then, but tears are in my eyes as I write this post. I could see how worried he was, and I felt bad about being the cause of his concern. A part of the worry about recurrence is fear of becoming a burden to this man I love so much. I’m not the only cancer survivor I know who asked herself before she married if it is a fair thing to do to to someone you love. I counsel others that “cancer people need love too,” but I know how they feel.
When I went through surgery and chemotherapy twelve years ago, I made two wishes. I wished to become an artist, and I wished to fall deeply in love and be loved deeply back.
David and I worked together as pharmacist and nurse for ten years before we dated. I didn’t know him personally until I was working light duty during my cancer recovery. During that time, we sat on committees together, and developed a friendship. He knew about my treatment, all my coworkers did. He saw me lose my hair, saw me bald, and saw my hair grow back. Somewhere through all of that, he fell in love with me. I didn’t realize it at first. I mean, we’d worked together for ten years. What kind of man falls in love with a bald, breastless nurse? A damn fine man. The best person I have ever met, and that’s saying a lot, because I know lots of really good people.
We started dating a year after my recovery, and married three years later.
Two weeks ago, while we sat in the waiting room before my MRI, I took off my wedding ring for David to hold while I had the test. Out of his jacket pocket, he pulled the original cardboard box that held the small, velvet jewelry box our wedding rings came in. His ring was already inside the box. “They need to stay together,” he told me. If the tech hadn’t come to get me that moment, I would have cried. In fact, I did cry a little on the MRI table thinking about how good my life is, and how much would be lost if the cancer had recurred.
I don’t know why I am a lucky one. I’ve stopped wondering why I’ve been blessed with such a positive outcome when so many others are not. I am no more special than any of my patients or friends who have succumbed. Most of the time it feels like a poker game and all any of us can do is pick up the cards we are dealt. Maybe it is that random, I don’t know. But if it’s not, Thank You.