Personal Reflections Before My Cancer Surgery; Chapter One; Coco's Journey

by Larry Puls, @larrypulsauthor

Personal Reflections Before My Cancer Surgery

Unsympathetically, the alarm clock blares. I wake, perplexed. How early is it? Studying the face of the clock, nothing registers. I rub my eyes... Three fifteen am. Then unexpectedly, fear sweeps in and pervades me. Reasons for the early morning hour come flooding into my head. Surgery is only five hours away.

Stubbing a toe on my way downstairs, I catch myself before falling. My legs wax unsteady. Rounding the corner to the kitchen, I turn on the lights and see my note. There is no coffee in the maker and I cannot have a cup today. Grrr. My shoulders shrug. I have nowhere else to go but to the kitchen table, where I sit. There in the window is a reflection of a woman who doesn’t really look like me—and yet I know that it is. How did I get here, in this place, in this predicament? I arrive at no answers.

Thinking back to two months ago, it started with a dull ache, maybe a fullness. My mind is uncertain. Then it grew, maybe even transformed. The dull ache became a painful discomfort, and the discomfort became consuming. At least that’s how I remember it. Imagine that, not wanting to eat. It didn’t make sense then, but it makes a lot more sense now.

A visit to my doctor. A CT scan and blood testing. Now I’m getting ready for surgery. They haven’t even figured out what’s wrong yet, except that there is a mass. I try to recall what my surgeon said about the mass. Why didn’t he just tell me what it was? Or did he? I suddenly think I am going insane from the lack of answers.

My head lowers and then I reach down and touch my abdomen. It feels hard. My head shakes and I am overwhelmed. Fear overtakes me. A tear falls from my eye. I am scared my mind will wander to bad places if I don’t get up and do something else, so I stand. 

My husband suddenly strolls in. He should be asleep, but at times, he doesn't listen to me. I love him anyway. I cannot hide my emotions from this dear man as he knows me too well. No words are exchanged. Without asking, he walks up and his strong arms encircle me. Though he doesn’t know it, that is just what I was hoping for, and what I needed. Or maybe he did know. His loving hug reminds me of my situation, of what I am trying to forget, that I am actually in need of help. After two minutes and twenty tears, he lets go, raises his hand up and wipes away the moisture from my eyes. His head now bends down and kisses me on the forehead. Those blue eyes of his look bloodshot. Still no words are exchanged.

I head up to the bathroom for a shower, where I drop my robe. There in the mirror is the belly that at one time was flat, but now reveals whatever is mysteriously growing inside of me. I want it out of there so badly. What is that mass? Why won’t they tell me exactly what it is? Are they hiding something or do they really not know what it is? Those same questions keep haunting me. I cannot figure it all out right now.

After getting dressed, we climb into the car and ride with a few token words. Fear is mounting in me as we close in on the hospital. Yes, I want whatever is in there out. And yet strangely, I don’t really want to know what it is. But if they take it out, I will know. And then I wonder if I will be able to handle the diagnosis. Can I face the realities? There is so much confusion swirling about. Going to the hospital is harder than I thought it would be.

Arriving, I change into the gown and the anesthetist walks in and starts my IV. My best friend and my pastor both show up to pray with me. But for some odd reason I cannot hear the words they are uttering. My mind is singularly focused on what will happen in the next hour, not on the prayer. What did they pray? And maybe more importantly, how will God answer those prayers?

Eventually I end up in the operating room, that place that I have longed for, and yet that place I have feared. The moment is upon me. They ask me my name for the thousandth time, before placing something over my nose that smells of plastic. My head is not clear from the cocktail they injected into my veins. Yet, I am actually thankful for that, so I don't get sick. Finally, they ask me if I have any other questions and I shake my head no. One final tear makes its way down my cheek. The anesthetist wants me to count.

One. Two. Three. Four… Fiveeee….. Sixxxxxx……… Seve   

Personal Reflections Before My Cancer Surgery, Larry Puls, (Click to tweet)