Surfacing

My cell phone rang, jarring me out of a groggy sleep. I looked at my five year old daughter still resting soundly beside me. Not surprising since we had been up until 3 a.m. The day before had been, and still remains, the most excruciating day of my life. Thankfully, our two children were too young to realize the impact of what we had been told.

I answered the phone, and my new boss asked when I would be able to come in to complete some paperwork. Just a few days ago, I had been excited about my new job as a 6th grade teacher. Now it was the furthest thing from my mind.

I told him my two-and-a-half-year-old son had been diagnosed with a brain tumor just the night before, and we were at the hospital. He suggested we talk later. I told him I thought that would be a good idea. And thus went the day, filled with short, plodding sentences as we waited for final confirmation of the diagnosis.

I remembered one of the ER doctors coming in the night before. She sat down on the bed, bending one leg in front of her, as if we were just settling in for a girls’ chat. When a doctor assumes this posture, it’s not a good thing. I was so naive at the time, I didn’t even know what a “lesion” was. I kept thinking “legion” as if there were many of whatever it was in my son’s brain.

“Does this mean there’s a tumor?” I asked.

“Yes, there is a tumor.” She spoke softly, trying to cushion the words, but they fell like the sharpest razors on my heart.

We met with a neurological resident a bit later, who told us the tumor would probably require chemotherapy and radiation.

Soon after, they were wheeling my son up to a room. We were a bit behind, but upon arrival, we saw him surrounded by nurses. It was probably close to 3 am by that time, but Andrew, my son, was sitting up smiling. Even then, he was a ham.

A male nurse with dark brown hair spoke first: “He just looked so cute, we all had to come over and say ‘hi’.” I can tell you there was beauty in this moment for me, but not joy. It is one of many images imprinted on my heart, though.

“The doctor said he’ll need chemo and radiation. Will that get rid of the tumor?” I wanted to know everything I could and grasped at each piece of information like a lifeline. In what seemed to be a never-ending flow of medical professionals, I was already excelling at pinpointing the ones with more wisdom, more authority. I was learning to ask the right questions. This man would have some answers.

“It depends on what type it is.” His gaze didn’t waver. So we weren’t pulling any punches here. In some strange way, I appreciated that, filing that fact away to reflect on later.

That night, my husband stayed in the room with my son, and I took our daughter to one of the sleep rooms. What a blessing that she was with us; I had to keep moving and take care of her needs. No time for break-downs. I still hadn’t cried.

Late the next afternoon, I was alone in the room with Andrew when another doctor came in. This was the one we had been waiting for; he was the final say. All day long, I had pictured a panel of doctors sitting together around a long, oval-shaped table, discussing my son’s fate. I didn’t know if that’s how it worked, but the image played itself over in my mind again and again.

And now the messenger was here, and I was alone. Whatever information he delivered, I would have to absorb, and I would have to keep standing.

I can only guess the doctor saw the expression on my face; I’m sure now it’s one he sees almost daily.

“I think your little boy is going to be just fine. Let’s just get that out of the way right now.” He spoke gently, but authoritatively, and a shaft of joy opened in my heart. With every word he spoke, it grew wider.

It turns out our son has a certain type of tumor that is non-cancerous. While it can’t be removed, it can be monitored for growth and there are measures to take if this happens. Andrew did require surgery and it was a bumpy summer, but he survived it. We all did.

But I had seen the dark underbelly of life. For a short time, I had left the plateau on which I normally lived, thrust into a murky, sunless world. So when I surfaced, the elation thrumming through my soul was the most profound I have ever experienced.