The Agony of Waiting to Learn Your Prognosis

I spent the day at the hospital. Have you ever kept something from loved ones because you knew that they would just worry needlessly? You didn't say anything, not wanting them to panic at the phrase "additional testing". First, you need to find out for yourself what that ambiguous statement means before you tell your family. Is it a breast lump? Cancer? Or, maybe it's just some anomaly that is unique to your body.

Men can't fully comprehend the feeling we women get when we receive that call. A polite voice stating, "We found something on your test and need you to come in." Sure, they say it's probably nothing, but inside you can't help but wonder.

Sitting here in the waiting room at the Avon Center for mammography in Mass General Hospital, I watch the eight other robe-clad women. Concern, boredom and worry play across their faces. They flip through magazines, not seeing what's in front of them. Silent; no one speaks. No one makes eye contact. They all know that for some the news won't be good, but for others it will be a stay of execution. I wait.

My testing is finished...maybe. I have been poked and prodded. My anatomy has been stretched and flattened until it aches. I wait.

I have seen the x-rays. An odd, brilliant blot on the film marked the problem spot. What was it a mass, a tumor? I wait.

I am lying to my mom on the phone, now; not outright, but by omission. "I'm still at the hospital for physical therapy. Everything's fine. I'll be home soon, but I have some stops to make first." At seventy-six mom is still a worrier. I don't want to aggravate her heart condition. I wait.

I didn't tell Jay about the appointment. He lost two loves to cancer before me. I can't tell him yet. I tell myself, "Let's wait until there is something to tell him." I wait.

I've been called in for another round of testing. The radiologist isn't happy. Is there something wrong? I wait.

The technician reappears, summoning me from the waiting room. "You're all set for now. We think that this is just a peculiarity with your body, but we want to watch you. You will need to come back in six months just to make sure."

And, so I wait. My answer is not 100%, but at least for today it's not cancer.

As I dress another women, a fellow photographer, is called in. She had been there all day and they were now going to give her the results of her biopsy. Her news is definite and not good. I walk out of the center feeling okay, knowing that I'm still waiting.