Even though my sister had been updating me about her doctor’s visits and CT scans, I didn’t have an inkling of what was to come . The likelihood that lung nodules was cancerous for an active/non-smoking woman under 35 was less than 1% and I took comfort in that statistic.
I still remember the day the pulmonologist told my sister the news very clearly. He called her up and said “I have the news from your biopsy. I don’t want to go over this over the phone, but please come in right away. Also, please bring in a friend for support”. At the time, I met my sister every day for lunch at the 42nd St. main branch Public Library. When it was warm we ate outside and when it was cold, we sat on the marble benches under the giant vaulted walls in the vestibule of the library and chatted away. It was our little daily ritual that we adhered to, rain or shine.
The doctor’s appointment was at 1:00 and we met inside the library at 12:00. My sister thought he was going to tell her she had rheumatoid arthritis and she wondered how this was going to affect her life. She had butterflies in her stomach. I didn’t eat lunch that day and neither did she. I tried to calm her fears and at 12:30 we met up with our close friend and went to the doctor’s office together. We sat in his office waiting for him and chatted away trying to relieve tension. There was almost no one at the office except for the secretary.
The doc didn’t keep us waiting for long. He came in, pull up a chair next to her, held her hand and said, “I am very sorry to tell you this, but you have cancer.” I was floored. Shocked. And kept fighting back tears. We asked about the details of the cancer, what stage was it in and whether it was operable. The news wasn’t good on all fronts. He held her hand throughout and patiently answered our questions. Despite the incredibly devastating news what had impressed on me the most was what didn’t happen. My sister did tear up, but she didn’t ball uncontrollably. She didn’t ask if this was some terrible mistake. She didn’t ask if this was a horrible dream. After the doctor had left to leave us to absorb the news, the first thing my sister said was, “I want to go to work tomorrow and talk to my co-worker. She has cancer, and is raising kids. She is spirited and active and I want to learn how to be like her.”
My sister has the uncanny ability to find light in the darkest nights. In the coming weeks bad news followed more bad news. But when confronted with doom and gloom, she neither shrinks, nor sob, nor crumble, nor blame, nor freeze. She roars. Beli roars.
NYPL
Roar with her!
ReplyDelete