I see the tag on the neighbor’s newly planted bush, which remains after its transplant into the ground from the nursery only weeks earlier. As we round the corner into the driveway, small talk exits our mouths between sips of warm cappuccino. Our behavior is predictable to any other day, hardly evident of extreme reaction from the abrupt turn in the landscape of our future.
The diagnosis was spot-on to an episode on television. “The doctor would like to speak with you both. “ the nurse stoically exclaims. After entirely too brief pleasantries, the doctor throws into the air the word that creates heaviness heavier than humidity:
As I fidget around the house, I decide to sit and project my thoughts. Tears attempt to enter; still I refuse them access to go beyond the sockets, and down the cheeks.
Wrap that present, yes, that’s what I’ll do. I know if I don’t get it out today, then I will be late yet again for my friend’s birthday. Since this is her 50th, I will make sure it arrives on time.
I cannot seem to get the gnawing feeling in my gut to settle down. That feeling, which is similar to when I stand in line at an amusement park for a roller coaster ride I dread with each step.
I don’t know why I should feel exempt from cancer, but I do. Cancer only happens to others—not the one I pledged to live with until death do us part.
What if he dies? I cannot go there.
I pleaded with God on my morning run similar words, “God, he can’t die–I can’t live without him.”
I know. Not at all the right reaction of a dedicated Christian.
The thought is crippling though.
Fast-forward twelve hours and I sit here waiting for the biopsy to confirm the conclusion we were already given, even though I am not convinced of its accuracy, when I hear faint breathing–
I break out in a slight giggle as I hear the man next to me break into full-out snore. The same kind of noise that accompanies me to bed most nights—yet, coming from another male.
Funny, only moments earlier, this same man fidgeted in his seat awaiting results from his wife’s surgery. After the doctor spoke a positive diagnosis (I am guessing here by his emerging broad grin), he made his way back to the vinyl seat and fell immediately into this high decibel slumber.
His loud breathing was like a sigh of relief.
Rest from his weariness.
Reminding me that the Author of Life places each breath of our existence into our lungs until HE decides our final breath.
The Spirit of God has made me; the breath of the Almighty gives me life. Job 33:4
The results are in—
An internal rush attempts to steal my breath as the doctor draws near. Apparently there was an issue that kept him from performing the procedure. Instead, they placed a stent in place and will attempt confirmation again on Monday.
Trying not to cry at the thought of waiting another three days.