I needed a release more than I knew. I realized it today in a small 4′ x 4′ dressing room on the second floor of the hospital, where my trembling arms cinched the ties of a deep pink hospital shirt, the color of hope. The color of strength. The color of fear.
My shaking hand signed the paperwork minutes before. My stint in the waiting room wasn’t long enough, much preferring to be there over learning of any new news back in the exam room. Older women sitting around me complained of their grown children’s entitlement at holidays, but all I could hear was their bitterness. I wondered if this was how they avoided bigger worries, the sort that brought them to this particular waiting room on the second floor of the hospital, here in the cancer center.
Someone outside my dressing room talked about her breast cancer diagnosis at 35. A concerned nurse asked me if my doctor talked to me about early mammograms. I wondered if she knew something I didn’t, if her question was actually a suggestion, though my insurance policy doesn’t agree.
“Hop up on the stretcher here,” the tech instructed as we entered the tiny exam room. Her tone was warm. I recognized her from every other time I’ve been here and was relieved that I wouldn’t be going through this ultrasound alone.
Lying on my back, I breathed slowly and methodically. In this supine position, the tears could only pool unless I allowed myself to release them. I counted tiles– six across, six down. Another square room, this whole place just a grid within the hospital, with all news delivered in the style of Russian roulette.
The news came quickly. The tumor had disappeared in a year’s time. At the sight of my tears, my tech was quick to reassure me that although it might have just shrunk, it would never turn into cancer. She didn’t actually use that formidable word, she strategically used the word “anything.” I knew what she implied. She made a few jokes trying to ease the burden of my spilling tears. She assumed they came from a place of relief for the good news, and I suppose they did. I had kept them at bay, all the worry I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on in the midst of holiday busyness, work obligations, and all that accompanies motherhood. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about it for 367 days, the span since the last time I was here.
But this release would have come regardless of whether the news was good or bad. All the worry my body had been carrying gave way in the knowing. This news meant that I could still nurse my baby, that my own body had not betrayed me. In those short moments before the doctor walked in, I had finally allowed myself to consider every possible scenario, and I was scared.
I looked at the ultrasound and thought what a slap in the face it is that ultrasounds can be used to deliver both good news and heartache. It was an ultrasound that first informed me that I had lost my first pregnancy. Other ultrasounds allowed me to see healthy, growing baby boys. And this very wand would detect a tumor and then, a year later, lose track of it.
“One act of thanksgiving made when things go wrong is worth a thousand when things go well.” – John the Cross as quoted by Madeleine L’Engle in “Walking on Water,” 156.
Back in my car, my head throbbed. My heart ached despite the best news I could have gotten today, and for that news, I am so thankful. I’m grateful for my doctor and tech with wonderful bedside manner. I can only imagine them having to sit alongside women going through so much more than I’ve had to go through, reassuring women with much bigger fears and problems than I have. But they also made me feel as if my concern was not insignificant. It wasn’t unnoticed. And it was unfair and worrisome. It’s my burden to deal with, but ultimately it’s not my burden to carry.
It has always, always been God’s burden. It was there in God’s hands before I ever noticed it. and He will keep his hand on it even when technology can’t find it.
In an hour, it was all over. Suddenly, I’m desperate to get home to coffee and warmth and to get out of this cold December rain. Carrying an umbrella through the cancer center parking lot on the way in felt ridiculous; raindrops were the least of my concerns. But gripping that umbrella was within the realm of my control when everything else was not.
Today I expected to wake up and wrap presents all day. Instead, I spent the morning in much-needed prayer, filled with both worship and worry. I overheard my six-year-old explaining to my four-year-old why I had to go to the hospital this morning, that I have bumps near my milk that I have to get checked. That was the best way I could explain it to him so that he wouldn’t worry but also know that this was something important for mommy to get checked out, so that one day when he’s a dad, he can support his wife if she ever has to go through this. Or hold his own daughter’s hand and let her know that she’s not alone even when it feels that way. That God is always with her and that she is always, always prayed over. God will hold onto our worries until we are ready to release them completely.