This is an exercise from my writing workshop this month: "crossing the threshold," aka responding to a life-changing trigger. A little different than my normal writing style, so it's kind of fun. Enjoy!
White-knuckle driving through a snowfall in my little green car, thinking, "This can't be serious. They just sent a letter. They would call if they really needed a second look." But I don't want to go home to hide from the snowstorm. I'd be forced to reschedule, prolonging this uncertainty.
White, stiff, warm robes over gowns that are nothing more than triangles of fabric. Soothing music, bubbling aquariums, and twenty women, all looking the same, thinking their individual thoughts and considering their private stories. NOT being fooled by the spa-like atmosphere.
Mammogram.
"We'd like to do an ultrasound, too. Please wait here."
Wondering, in this small, quiet, dim room, "Could I possibly still be in the 80% who are called back but ultimately receive 'benign' as their benediction?"
"We'd like to do a biopsy, too. Can you stay until this afternoon?"
I've got nothing on my calendar, just visions of rapidly accumulating snow for my little car to navigate - along with the rest of the city. Well, God will have to take care of getting me home.
Needle biopsy, then a clear, snow-free road home. (Thanks, God!)
Then waiting... Wednesday... Thursday... Friday...
With the weekend looming, I lost patience and called about my results. We were in the truck, on our way to somewhere now forgotten. Over the phone, as we were passing our church, the doctor said, "I'm sorry, it's cancer," dashing my tattered hopes of a cancer-free result. Stunning. Surreal. Incomprehensible.
And yet, almost immediately, we start wondering
what's next?
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