There is a pain in loss that cannot be described in song, poem, art, or written word of any kind really. It is pure unstructured emotion. A feeling beyond sense, beyond reason. Artists of all centuries, eras, genres, and ages have tried and come close. Moreover, they helped humanity find ways to express in order to grieve or cope.
It is a mere start.
A breath to release.
Before the storm.
My storm rolled in at the age of 20. I was in Anchorage, AK and had been for a few months. I was newly married to my high school sweetheart, and he had just been deployed to Afghanistan. I was alone in our quaint townhome we just purchased, and I was doubled over in pain. I don't remember how I ended up on the floor beside my bed, I just knew I was crawling to the bathroom to attempt to use it. This was a feat I did not expect would be so rigorous at my age and my good health.
Don't worry for my bladder, I made it. Scarcely, but I made it.
I had called out of work earlier that day, again, and this was the first time I had made it out of the bed. I didn't much care for the experience, so I crawled my way back to bed. Assuming sleep and rest was what I needed as I was merely experiencing menstrual pains, obviously.
Later that week I was on a Skype call with my husband at the time. It was the first time in about a week he had been able to connect with me since he had been out on missions. He was making me laugh and the next thing I knew I was screaming and crying. I wish I could tell you it was because he was just so funny, but alas, it was an excruciating pinch of pain.
We got off the call with my promise to him to head straight to the ER. I drove myself onto Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson and headed straight for the hospital.
Long story short, I was young, they didn't want to expose me to "unnecessary radiation" for testing, and thus the doctor sent me home with Army Candy, 800mg of Ibuprofen, and told to rest. Yeah, sure buddy, rest is what I did. Not even close. I was hurting so bad.
Fast forward about one month when my parents came out to visit me. I had told my mom about my interaction with the ER, leading her to keep an even closer eye on me beyond the typical mom radar honed in at all times. This led her to lovingly demand that I see my doctor the day after I collapsed on the stairs toward the end of their month visit.
So as not to make this recap too long for you, let me bullet point the next few weeks following:
Doctor visit ended with me having a shot in my butt to treat an assumed, but not yet tested, sexually transmitted disease. Additionally, labs were put in for me to actually be tested for any of these possible diseases along with a few other ideas the doctor had.
Was told results would be in 72hours at the latest.
Went a week and a half with no word from the doctor and the pain beginning to centralize to the right side of my pelvis.
Called the doctor and demanded an appointment after this horrifically painful week and a half.
Went in for the visit.
Now rejoin me in my story as I set the stage. My mother sitting in the metal and plastic four-legged chair in the corner. Me, curled up on my right side in the fetal position on the raised bed in the center of the white walled room. The doctor walking in chipper as can be, slapping my left hip and sharing his glad tidings that he was just about to call me and tell me all the tests came back negative. Internally, I am screaming as the pain from the slap radiated through my pelvic floor and settled into the right side. That was the physical pain, the emotional was about to be let loose.
The doctor stated these words "I am not sure where to go from here..." I shot up from the bed and cut him off with these words "You are going to sit down, shut up, and listen. It is Wednesday afternoon. By Friday afternoon I WILL have an ultrasound scheduled and the results will be presented to me by Monday." He was shell shocked. I don't blame him. I was fed up.
Still frozen with mouth agape he stared at me. I questioned him sarcastically and asked him why he sat there when he knew what to do and had an appointment to go make.
Without much conversation after that, he left and came back with an appointment for me that coming Friday afternoon.
Between this boisterous appointment and the nearing ultrasound, my parents had hopped on a flight back to Washington state.
Friday afternoon came and brought with it the vast amount of water I had to drink to bring my bladder to the point of pain in order to help figure out why the other pain was existing. Fascinating stuff, this medical field.
During the ultrasound the technician could only repeat "This is really going to help the doctors." While I sat pondering these words all that came to mind was "I damn well hope so!" Followed closely by "Please let me pee!!"
I left the appointment and stopped off at the nearby market to use their restroom as I was still so full, I could not make it home. I awarded myself with some cake and walked with lighter bladder back to my car. I opened the door, reached to answer my ringing phone, and then my cake dropped.
I don't recall much of what my doctor was spewing as his voice rattled in my ear through the phone. I heard broken sentences and then one rang clear "We found a nine-and-a-half-centimeter mass on your right ovary." Before he could say much more, my emergency awareness training from my military safety officer father kicked in. "Doc... Doc..DOC. I am going to cut you off to ask that you give me five minutes. In five minutes, you are going to call my mother. I give you full permission to share all information with her. I need to drive home and cannot talk right now. Understood?"
My words were clear enough and we hung up. I called my mom and gave her a brief synopsis. We hung up and I called a friend of mine. A fellow army spouse. I filled her in on what had occurred and she generously agreed to pack up her little one and come over to spend the night so I would not be alone.
That weekend and the week following is a blur to me. My mom hoped on the next flight back to Anchorage to be there with me for my appointment that was made with an OBGYN the coming Monday. We were on rest duty so as not to find the need to rush me to the hospital as apparently there was a "surgeon on call" who knew of my "condition." All of this information passed from my doctor to my mom, to the lost sound seeking my ears.
To sum up the following week, I was told I would have to get my right ovary removed as the OBGYN truly thought it was an overturned ovary causing my issues. My mom and I began all the necessary steps to prepare for the procedure. Starting with sending a Red Cross message to my husband in Afghanistan as I had not been able to speak with him for about two weeks.
We spent the next week in what seemed to be an attempted uplifting movie montage. Shopping for comfort clothes to prepare for the post procedure healing, binge-watching feel-good shows, eating soul food, girl talk, soaking in baths, massages, the works essentially. Anything to make the time go by.
Procedure day came. August 17th, 2012
"I am ready to get sliced and diced!" I burst through the doors at around six in the morning.
"You are in the right place. We love to do that here!" The laughter that accompanied this call out from the nursing staff was the first real sound to hit my ears in that week. Safe. That is what I felt. My appreciation for nurses spans my lifetime thus far. This moment, and the moments following, deepened that appreciation.
After going through the initial pre-procedure plugins and tests, it was time to meet the drug dealer. The one who would graciously put me to sleep during this ordeal. They explained the nearing steps and just as they were finishing up, it was time.
My mommy held my hand and walked by my side as far as she could while I was transported to the preparation room. Wooden double doors were faced in front of me as I had to let go of her soft and loving hand. Stay strong for her, I repeated to myself, for I knew she was repeating the same phrase to herself. Once those strong doors closed tightly behind me a flood of nurses and doctors came and began prepping me for surgery. As I awaited the arrival of the anesthesiologist, I began to feel emotionless. In my mind I translated this as self-preparation. The moment he pulled back the curtain and introduced himself I knew that I was going to be well taken care of. For not only was he standing there but he had brought a crowd with him. The nurses who were to help attend me while in the operating room were at his heals. He continued to explain the roles that everyone was to play and once he got to mine, I made sure to remain unscarred. My role was easy he said, until recovery of course. He asked if I understood, I nodded. He then asked if I was ready. I allowed a few tears to roll down my cheeks while the word “yes” rolled off my tongue. I was then given my wonderful party hat of light blue mesh, my knockout drug was administered into my bloodstream and I was rolled to the operating room. The last thing I remember of the physical world was the chill of the room and the look of the stainless steel light floating as an orb above me as I was placed on the table.
When I awoke after the procedure, I saw my mom standing next to me and felt her hand lightly brushing my face, her melodic voice coaxing me awake. A few minutes went by and a nurse came into check on me accompanied by another dear friend of mine. We took some time to catch up, her and my mom trying to help me regain consciousness.
The doctor came in and the room began to feel even more somber than when I awoke.
I knew something was not right.
The doctor took a knee by my bedside and began to slowly explain what had happened in the operating room.
Upon slicing me open, she had thrown up her hands and yelled for general surgeons to come in and take over. You see, it wasn't an overturned ovary as we all had thought.
It was a tumor the size of a softball. Completely encasing my right ovary, fallopian tube, attached to my rectum and was winding its way up to my kidney.
"I'm so sorry. It is cancer." She began to cry. My mom and friend were holding each other with tears in their eyes. The nurse in the room seemed to join the tear-filled session as well.
I remember thinking I was the one who was sorry for causing the pain in their eyes.
"Doc. I appreciate you. I cannot imagine how hard this must be for you and am grateful. With all due respect, I need to ask that you all leave the room as I need to rest.... Mom, that means you as well please."
Struck by what seemed to be respectful shock, they all departed.
I waited until they left the room. I looked up toward the ceiling.
I let one tear fall and went to sleep to rest for the journey to come.
With hope,
Anndi
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