The Wait
Ultrasound of my lump, doubling as a black hole.
For the next two weeks my husband and I held our collective breaths. I had my initial doctor’s appointment on Wednesday, January 6, 2021. After her “hmm… that’s odd” my ultrasound was scheduled for the following Friday, January 15.
That first week I googled everything. Constantly. I’d stay up late at night trying to piece together all my symptoms, never finding a common thread. While we waited for the ultrasound I got bloodwork done. My bloodwork was totally normal. My doctor told me this was reassuring. We tended to agree. I asked her “if my body was trying to kill me, I imagine that would show up in the bloodwork.” To which she said “I can’t say for sure, but it is very reassuring.”
The following week I decided to stop googling and to just breathe. To trust that the bloodwork was good and whatever it was, it was totally out of my control.
In the meantime, I kept seeing Marcelle and would have temporary relief from all the aches and pains that made it harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other. Slowly, I started looking myself in the mirror questioning the face looking back at me. Is my face subtly swollen? Is my whole body a little swollen? Am I imagining things? Why can’t I open and close my hands properly? How come it’s so excruciating to zip the kids’ coats? What in the sweet merciful heavens is happening to my body? This body that danced for 20 years, that practiced yoga and pilates for 10, that carried (as effortlessly as possible) twins to 38 weeks + 1 day (7 lbs 3 oz and 6 lbs 7oz respectively. Yes, I will FOREVER humble brag about this and you can never stop me). Why is it so hard to walk to the mailbox? And am I winded walking up the stairs? Nah, it must be the quarantine pounds I put on interfering with my already defunct bronchial tubes from a lifetime of asthma.
Throughout this process, my husband and I kept a lid on what we were going through. We didn’t want to unnecessarily worry anyone. So, we continued on. We ploughed through booking a cottage for the summer with my parents and my sister’s family. All the while in the back of my head I thought “can we do this if I’m in treatment?” “What if something happens to me, well, they’ll all still need something to look forward to.” I didn’t voice these concerns outside the caverns of my brain. But they were in there. My intuition telling me there is going to be a climb.
On January 21 my doctor called. It was a swollen lymph node. It wasn’t a tumour. To quote one of my favourite people, my ER nurse friend, Vanessa (who had been privy to all the weird health stuff because scientifically, she was as fascinated as I was). “A lymph node doesn’t automatically mean cancer, so that’s good.” I’m into the realist-ness of it all, I want to hear it how it is. No sugar coating please. This is why Vanessa is my favourite person to talk to about ailments. She’s seen everything and then some.
But, it was too big. Measuring about 1.5” at this point, it went well beyond the pea-sized lymph node that it should be. This time when I spoke to my doctor, I told her the swelling and discomfort was bad and getting worse. I was having trouble making it through the day without constant difficulty. So with that, more bloodwork was on the docket and I awaited a call for a biopsy on my lymph node, whom from this point forward I referred to as Lumpy. Lumpy, that prissy little bitch.
I had done my best to hold it together those two weeks of waiting. But I know I was snippier with the kids. There was an edge that was tangible. While in our heads Willis (my husband) and I silently made plans. Thinking about wills. About what would happen if something happened to me. Who would be the primary caregiver. How could that be juggled?
So, I called my sister and wept with a little relief that it was just a lymph node. It’s not automatically cancer. My bloodwork is fine. It’s going to be fine. Right?