Terry Bezelj, OWP 1998

 

After a routine exam with my OB/GYN, I expected to hear her say, "Everything looks fine. I'll see you in a year." Instead, I couldn't believe I heard the words, "I would like you to come in for a sonagram next week just to make sure everything is O.K."

A week later, I was in her office for the sonagram. I continued to stay calm even though my husband was alarmed and insistent upon coming with me for the office visit. I thought that what the doctor had detected during the pelvic exam was just fibrous tumors--something my mom had dealt with when she was my age.

The lab technician was friendly and administered the sonagram only engaging in polite conversation unrelated to possible findings. After the examination was over, the technician had my doctor come into the examining room to look at the results. They asked me to get dressed and both left the room.

After I had gotten dressed, my doctor came back in and asked if my husband and I could return in an hour to discuss the results. I felt my heart beating a little faster, but I still continued to be positive, not realizing the intensity of emotions that I would be feeling in just one short hour.

When my husband and I returned to the doctor's office, the waiting room was completely empty because she had asked me to come back during her lunch hour. My doctor hastened to tell us that she had found a large mass approximately 6 cm in diameter on my right ovary. She suggested that I have major surgery as soon as possible to remove the mass. Suddenly, I did not feel so calm, but still did not truly feel the impact of what was going to happen to me. I was sent home with literature about ovarian cancer and hysterectomies. It wasn't until I started reading the literature, that I realized I could be facing something I had never anticipated.

My husband and I sat in our hot tub that night holding each other, examining our life together and sobbing at times uncontrollably. The findings of my surgery could prove to be cancerous, and the rest of my life could be cut much shorter than I had ever expected. I was hit with the reality that I might not be able to do all of the things I had wanted to do in my life. I might never travel to Italy. I might never have time to read all of the Hemingway books which were waiting for me on the bookshelf. I might never be able to attend another Bach concert, see my grandchildren be born, spend quality time with my sons, or have the time to develop hobbies and interests that I hadn't had time for because I was too busy with a career and family.

Now, I felt a sudden panic. It seemed so unfair. Was this it? Would my life be over at 46? There might not be much time left for many more of life's experiences. I felt so cheated. I regretted not having taken the time to do the things I had wanted to accomplish. At that moment, I felt that time was moving at an uncontrollably rapid pace.

Within the next two days before my surgery, there were many plans to make as I was due to return to a teaching assignment the day my surgery was scheduled. During this time, my husband and I had numerous in depth conversations related to possible scenarios regarding the outcome of my surgery. We talked about what we would do if I did have cancer and how our lives would drastically change. We even discussed my possible death. Deep sadness, depression, and fear set in.

We spent the next two days talking with my principal, selecting a substitute teacher for my classroom, and taking care of details for my surgery and hospital stay. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare. I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to eat. Oddly, I didn't want my friends, family or colleagues at work to know what was happening to me. Only my sons and a few people at work were told that I would be having major surgery. I didn't want to talk to anyone except my boys and my husband. For some unexplainable reason, I didn't even want to tell my own mother.

The morning of surgery came. I arrived at the hospital just after dawn with an empty stomach and a duffel bag packed with a new nightgown and robe. This was my first surgery and my only hospital visit other than the two times I went through childbirth. I began to cry when they put the I.V. in my arm. The uncertainty of the outcome of my surgery was overwhelming and so scary!

Time seemed to be moving so quickly now and my pulse seemed to race as the time grew closer for me to go into surgery. My doctor came to visit me, and I knew that soon I would be wheeled into the O.R. My husband and I shared tears, kisses and vows of love, and then it was time for me to go.

The operating room was tiled, brightly illuminated and very sterile looking. There wasn't time to do much observing, however, as the anesthesia took effect very quickly.

My next memory is of waking up and having my doctor say, "It was a teratoma, and it was not cancerous." As I was rolled out of the operating room, the first person I saw was my son, Mathew. He had the biggest smile on his face and was holding a large, blue, glass vase full of beautiful flowers for me. I was so happy to see that smile on his face. And, at the moment, I realized that I had been granted the second chance. I would be fortunate to have the valuable time needed to achieve my desires and goals in life.