A Follow Up With Oncology
It all seemed to happen through a haze. First, the lower gastric pain. Then the ER visits. Several white coats swished in and out of the doorway, spouting words of potential diagnoses and treatments. The room seemed tilted off its axis, and everything was a bit fuzzy. There was something about a tumor. A tumor the size of a small soft ball. And something about an ovary?
It was around this time last year — my mother’s birthday — when my family got the news. There was a tumor, the size of a small soft ball, on my mom’s ovary. While having faced hard times before, I don’t think anything could have prepared me for that suffocating moment…till date, the scariest words I have ever heard in my life remain — “follow up with oncology.”
The way life changed after that comes to memory in a blur. Interview prep was replaced with reading up on tumor removal surgery. Job search was replaced with visits to the oncologist’s office. The atmosphere for family dinners changed drastically…to say the least. Everyone fearing the worst case scenario. Everyone too scared to say a word.
The days leading up to the procedure steepened, inexorably drawing us to the moment when the bottom threatened to drop out entirely. The day of the surgery seemed like an endless cycle of hell, with the first layer beginning when we awoke at 4:00 AM to take mom to the hospital.
The four of us sat in the drab pre-op room laughing about meaningless things. Slowly, different medical staff began to filter into our room…all in matching light-blue outfits. The PA had her hair in a bun. The head nurse had pink sneakers. I remember glaring at all of them, hoping they understood that I would hunt each and every one of them down if they messed up anything during her surgery.
Now that I think back to it, though, I was definitely crying — so I probably looked far from menacing…maybe I just looked terrified; and my eyes, instead of glaring, were pleading with the staff to do everything in their power to ensure a positive outcome. I even remember pestering the anesthesiologist with a million questions about the sedatives and paralytics that would be used during the operation, until my sister gently pulled me from the conversation. We kissed goodbye, my mom told us she loved us, and they wheeled her away — her gurney receding down the hallway. Then the wretched waiting period began.
The waiting area was a spacious room with squashy couches and magazines littered on wooden coffee tables at every corner. There was an Indian woman in a sari passing out water bottles to different families. My dad sat across from my sister, his face drained of all color. My sister’s brows were tightly furrowed, making it impossible for us to guess her thoughts. My boyfriend, along with my uncle and aunt’s family, all arrived at the hospital shortly after. Attempts to start a light conversation proved futile, and silence soon drenched the already tense air of the waiting room.
The surgery, we were told, should have lasted only around 75 minutes or so. But somehow, it was two hours in, and still we had no news. The ticking of the clock grew deafening.
While not a stranger to stress episodes, the worst panic attack of my life came right around the two hour mark. Fleeing the confines of the unbearable waiting room, I collapsed in the hallway outside, the walls crashing down around me. A nurse came running with a wheelchair. Furious and embarrassed at myself, I managed to shake away her concerned professional attention (with help from my boyfriend — who had promptly caught me as I fell to the ground). I don’t remember too much more — just that it was hard to breathe, my legs felt weak, the room was spinning, and somehow Walker and I were both sitting on the floor.
A few minutes later, Walker was half-carrying/half-dragging me back into the waiting room, when we saw the scene had changed — my dad and sister had apparently been called upstairs by the doctor. I don’t know how or where I mustered the energy, but I pushed Walker roughly aside and began to run. So much for weak legs. Bounding up the stairs two at a time, with both my uncle and Walker sprinting behind me yelling my name, I bulldozed through the door where the doctor would meet us.
Sayali’s brows were still furrowed, and she was listening intently to what the surgeon was saying. But one look at my dad’s face was enough to send a rush of relief through my entire body. The doctor was talking in detail about the procedure and the follow-up period…but I only remember my dad’s face–smiling, fatigued, and peaceful. Till date, the best words I’ve ever heard in my life remain “no malignancy”.
The atmosphere changed dramatically thereafter. Sayali finally smiled, Dad started making phone calls to India, and I realized I was hungry and hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. I remember Walker sternly insisting we take the elevator when I suggested walking to the hospital cafeteria. I locked my fingers with his, and leaned my head against his shoulder as we rode the elevator down together. Everything was going to be alright.
The time following the surgery presented its own challenges, sure. There was pain. There was frustration. But above all, there was gratitude. We were grateful that the tumor was gone and there was no sign of cancer. The oncology follow-ups were not permanent. The universe had ended up dealing us an okay hand.
Apart from feeling grateful, I was feeling…lucky. And for the longest time, I had been feeling like luck and I had parted ways. My academic and professional progress — previously a reliable one-foot-in-front-of-the-other — had started facing disappointment after disappointment when trying to find the next, agreeable step. Simply speaking, my four year plan that I had so cleverly concocted at the beginning of school, fell to absolute shit. Luck, I was sure, had spurned me.
Today, however, as I sit here writing down my memories of that stressful day, I wonder if my perspective on luck may have been wrong all along. Perhaps such a cynical outlook on my level of luck made me miss the broader picture entirely. Her birthday last year, we received an unwanted, uncalled for surprise in the form of a tumor. This was beyond doubt, a gift we wished we could return to sender. However, this birthday — after having faced down twelve more months of struggle and relief — I was able to hug my mom and wish her many happy returns. My life is still a mess, sure, but being able to wake up every day knowing that my mom is currently healthy and happy is nothing short of a blessing. Maybe I am truly lucky after all.
