I Was Waiting for My Turn and It Almost Killed Me

Nonfiction Home Art by Patrice Sullivan I Was Waiting for My Turn and It Almost Killed Me by Maureen Pendras      Were someone to ask me now, after it all, the feeling of a dying organ, I’d still struggle for words. It might be better represented in sound. Something discordant, soft then growing louder but unnerving. You’d want to get up and move around; walk it off. Even better—a drawing. One panel: a swimmer moves about on the surface while underneath a large, dark shape lurks. Nothing yet has happened—but it will. The large shape kicks closer then recedes, in and out of focus. Impending doom.       I would not be the swimmer, or the shape, or the water itself—but the totality of the thing, all of it together—about to become terrible.        I was doing what they asked of me. Waiting. I didn’t think I should be waiting but what did I know? I was the one in the gown, with the pain, not the one holding the clipboard, making decisions.       Initially, I’d had short, sharp pains in my abdomen—distinct and obvious. I tried to reshuffle the order of my body as I sat in my chair at work: lift up my ribs rather than rest them on my stomach; shift backwards and stretch out the line of my body; pull my head up like it was tied on a string—none of these movements helped. This feeling, like a cord stretched to its limit, would not go away.      I called my doctor’s office to get an appointment that day.      “It’s probably your appendix,” said the one available doctor, noting pain more on my right side.       “Let’s get you downstairs for an ultrasound. They’ll get you in-and-out, then you can come back here, and we’ll go over it.” He nodded reassuringly and I felt some relief with the possible diagnosis.      When I came back though, thirty minutes later, his mood had shifted. He stood at his workstation and there was no avuncular looking it over together. We stood right there in the hallway as he explained: “Call a surgeon,” he said flatly, shaking his head. “You’ve got an eleven-centimeter mass in your abdomen.”       “A surgeon?” I asked. I imagined quiet conversation and time consider options. Mostly I imagined time to think. When I asked him if I’d be able to work the next day, he looked dumbfounded and repeated, “You need a surgeon.” I was thinking about the wrong thing.      Even in this swirl, I noticed a question looming there, just say it, just ask him, “But it’s not cancer?”       Was I even supposed to say the words? Admit its potential in my mind? I was in superstitious territory, maybe this was like the devil, or rain, you speak it and there it is.      I watched him, studied him the way the rabbit studies the hound, alert to every twitch. He shifted his weight backward, away from me and averted his eyes. I thought, I am in trouble. His words were nondescript, something like, “We don’t yet know,” but the body language read, get it together, this is bad.      The chaos in my head made me feel like I had taken off on a merry-go-round, fruitlessly searching for a still point and trying not to throw up.       I was still grappling with his initial directive: call a surgeon. Like there wasn’t even time to go find one, I needed to be talking with one already. And already I was behind.      I did call a surgeon. I remembered I knew one—my OB—I’ll call her Dr. A, someone I’d known since I was eighteen years old. But she had just retired from doing surgery. She set me up with one of her partners—Dr. B—for later that day.       Dr. B looked me over quickly. I told her of the pain and that I was having trouble eating. She felt my pulse, looked at my tongue, checked my chart and said, “Hmm, I’m going to admit you to the hospital. Wait here.”      I waited two hours to be admitted, like waiting for a hotel room to be cleaned and cleared. I sat in Dr. B’s waiting room, eyes closed, willing every part of my body to slow down. I was getting myself to the place I needed to be. Slow, steady breaths, one by one. I could make it; I would make it. When the bed was ready, I walked slowly over to the seventh floor.       Before I went up though, I found the hallway with my dad’s picture in it. It was an old hallway connecting buildings off the beaten path. There—housing the photos of the Chiefs of Staff for the hospital—was my dad. He had died twenty-five years before from a brain tumor. But in this realm—his realm—he sat still and confident. Handsome and familiar. I made a silent plea, help me. I so wanted him looking over my shoulder. Then kept my steady pilgrimage to floor seven.        The nurses seemed surprised to see me. I said, “Hi, I’m being admitted. I’m a patient. My doctor called earlier.” I felt a need to explain myself as they looked doubtful, pursed lips, sharp tilt of the head. I seemed to be doing this all wrong.       But they checked “the board,” and there was my name. I had a place. Their faces eased; I got into a gown and slowly laid back into bed.       I was dehydrated, hungry, and panting to get my breath, butterfly pulse. Once I had an IV and pain meds, Dr. B came in at the end of her day.      “Wow, you look so much better. I thought you were crashing. We’ll get you an MRI, maybe do the surgery tonight. I should get the results around