October 20, 2011.
After lunch. I was in the hallway where I work and my cell phone rang. “Private Number.” Uh-oh.
“Katy, it’s Adrienne,” my gyno said. Without any shilly-shallying or “are you sitting down” kind of nonsense, for which I will always be grateful, she said, “It’s cancer.”
I gasped. I couldn’t breathe. I had to sit down. I cried.
“I’ll be right over,” she said. Her office is in the next building.
Knowing I was shattered, my doctor hugged me as if she could squeeze the pieces back together herself. She sat on the visitor’s chair in my office while I called Jerry and put him on speaker. She explained to us, together, what she knew from the preliminary pathology report. Jerry and I heard “small,” and “early,” and “lumpectomy.” But the word CANCER had been spoken, and it draped itself around our heads and crept into our hearts and scared the snot out of us.
And Pandora’s box, that held all the challenge and pain and tears that this past year has brought, swung open. But don’t forget what was at the bottom of the box.
It was hope.
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” Matthew 6: 25-27