Unwanted News

I met my children one night. They were standing before me. I had twin sons and one daughter. Their father remained a mystery, but they were mine. I could sense intensity building from her, and I wondered if my fragmented relationship with my mother would be the same fate waiting for us. My boys shined with promise, and I reached for them. But in a blink of an eye, they were gone.

Sunlight slithered into a spacious office. The leather seat beneath me promised comfort, but I sat rigid. Decorative awards and photographs depicted a well-established physician, and I knew my trust was not misplaced. But a knot still tightened in my belly. Why was I called back? What did they find? Should I ask for my father to come in and take the news with me, but I wasn't a child. I was a grown woman, and my knees were shaking.

She walked into the room and closed the office door. A gentle smile touched her lips, and then it was gone. Her fingers curled around my medical folder, and her body gracefully slid into the seat before me. Her hands folded together, and she fixed me with a stare. And I could see the seriousness of what was coming shine in her eyes.

"I don't want you to panic, but the cat scan did find something." She cleared her throat. "It's benign, but..."

"It's a tumor."

"Yes, but in most cases, they're benign." She sat back in her seat. "It's called a dermoid tumor."

She went on to explain what that meant exactly, but her words fell on deaf ears. Cancer or even the thought of it struck the very pit of my stomach. It ran too close in my bloodline. My grandmother had breast cancer, and thank God, she survived. But just the mention of finding a tumor in my body made me go cold. What if it wasn't benign? I thought I was going to be sick, and it took every ounce of my strength to not let the tears flow.

"We can remove it." Her words gave me no hope. "The tumor is located on your right ovary." She hesitated. Not a good sign. "There is a chance that we may have to remove the ovary, but right now, the tumor is still small."

"Can I have kids?" I tried to swallow, but my mouth was like a desert. "Will I be able to have them, if you remove the ovary?"

I should have called my father in. I was never the emotional type, and I never needed anyone to be there for me. But with something like this, I did need someone, and I was grateful that he came with me. He had a feeling to accompany me, but my mother should have been the one sitting beside me. But she was busy struggling through her own demons, and here I sat, alone and feeling the weight of the world.

"You can have kids." I didn't like her tone. "It could be difficult, but you can still have them."

"Do you have to remove it?"

"We might." Another hesitation. "I won't be doing the surgery, though. I don't do surgeries."

For the last two years, I've entrusted this physician with my well-being. I never thought that we would ever have this kind of conversation. She knew my situation. I was never active, and I despised her poking and prodding once a year. But once it was done, I was able to walk away and not worry about things like this. But her ultrasound revealed a swollen kidney, and a few tests later, here we were only to learn now that she doesn't do surgeries. And the knot in my belly tightened again.

"My partner will do the surgery." Her voice tried to be reassuring. "We'll get you in as soon as we can, and before you know it, this whole thing will be behind you."

My attention fell on a picture on the wall. It was of two boys and one girl. It reminded me of my dream. Would I ever see my children again? Were they gone for good, and what about their father? Would I ever meet him, and how would I explain to him that I lost our children, if I can't have them?

I was freaking out. It was understandable. Who would be happy to learn that they had a tumor? How would anyone react to this kind of news, and she was waiting for my reaction. But I sat quietly in my seat, trying to comprehend what just took place. My brain felt like oatmeal, and I licked my lips. But no words touched them, and silence took me by hand.

"Do you have any questions?" I shook my head. "Okay. My nurse will call you with the details of the surgery." She rose from her seat, my cue to go. "If you want to talk, I'm here."

"Thank you." It sounded like someone else answered for me. "When will your nurse call me?"

"If you don't hear from her in a week, call my office." She opened the door. "It'll be okay." She gingerly patted me on the back. "You'll see."

Sunlight streamed in through hallway windows. People strolled by, lost in their own train of thought. Music drifted across the air from a radio parked by the reception desk. Voices gently rose and fell along names being called, and footsteps danced around where I now stood. And the world went on by without a second thought, but the woman that had been called back was gone. And I was the stranger walking back into her life, but where do I go from here? How do I silence the fear that everything has changed and I would now have to worry about myself? How can I just put this behind me? I've had my brushes with death, but this struck home. And that dream that I had so long ago was now a faint whisper, and I felt helpless, vulnerable. And I hate feeling like that, but I can't give up.

My father rose to greet me. He could tell by my expression that it wasn't good news, but I told him not to worry. I would be fine, and I believed my lie. Why shouldn't I? Once the tumor was removed, I should be fine, but would a conversation such as this meet me later in life? This is a thought that I rather not have, but it walks beside me. And the nights to follow would be spent tossing and turning, but I have to stay strong. I can't let this break me apart. I have to hope. I have to believe that one day, I will find myself standing before my children and with a man, who will finally love me. This gives me hope.