The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 24 - Fact Finding

The nurse's voice wakes me from my reverie. Millie places the magazine back onto the coffee table and stands up mechanically. I follow her through the brilliant white corridor and into Dr Debattista's brilliant white office.

"Good afternoon, Emily. Good afternoon, Alison," he greets warmly, extending his hand as we walk in. I shake it anxiously realising that, now that the moment of truth has come, I'm not ready to hear what he has to say. I want to run back through the waiting area, through the glass doors and as far away from here as my legs can take me.

Nanna and I sit on the two chairs that face his desk. My heart is pounding so loud in my throat that I'm almost certain Dr Debattista and Millie can hear it. I look over at Millie. She is completely focused on the doctor's face as he takes off his glasses, sets them on the table and sits down in front of us. I notice a slight tremble in his fingers as he reaches out for a dusky blue file, which I assume holds Millie's notes. He clears his throat loudly, sets both elbows on the table and rests his chin on his thumbs. He draws in a heavy breath and it feels like he's sucked the oxygen from my own lungs.

I close my eyes and say a quick prayer to God. I pray that it is low-grade cancer, that it has not spread to any other organs, that it is still in Stage I. I pray that Dr Debattista will say that it will all be over very soon and that we don't have much to worry about. Please, God, let there not be much to worry about!

"Okay," he says gently, his voice husky. "So, I have the results of the CT scan and the hysteroscopy, which I am sure you are both anxious about but before we get to that tell me, Emily, how are you feeling? Did you experience any new symptoms since I saw you three weeks ago? And have any of the symptoms we talked about worsened or improved?"

Millie swallows patiently before speaking. "No, no. I think the spotting may have decreased slightly, but that's it. The pressure in my navel area gets slightly worse at times, like mild to moderate pain rather than the usual discomfort. But I can't be sure whether this is real or whether I'm just more conscious of it now," she adds with a meek smile.

"I see," Dr Debattista says slowly nodding his head and looking down at the closed file in front of him. A cotton-y ball of panic swells in my stomach and it is making me feel sick. Again, I want to run out of the room, away from whatever it is he is about to say next, but my spine is bolted to the chair. "Well, like I said I have the results."

Another heavy breath.

"The histology report from the biopsy confirmed that the tumour is cancerous. It is what we call a Carcinosarcoma and it is considered to be a rather high-risk type of cancer, a Grade III if you will." He pauses and focuses his thoughtful eyes on Nanna Millie. "This means that the tumour cells can travel to other parts of the body at a considerably fast pace. However, the CT scan does not show any affected areas other than the uterus and the cervix. So, we think it is in Stage II."

He pauses again, puts on his glasses and turns his computer screen towards us to show us a black-and-white image. I stare blankly at it trying to make sense of the abstract blobs in front of me.

"As you can see," he goes on pointing towards a darker asymmetrical circle, "the cancer is still well contained within the uterus so this improves the prognosis greatly."

Another pause.

I try to stay calm. I breathe in and out rhythmically, willing my heart to stop increasing its already fast rate. I try to clear the white noise creeping in around the edges of my field of vision. But the voices are back in my head, getting louder, more distinctive.

I have cancer. High-risk. Grade III.

They multiply and echo the same phrases over and over as Dr Debattista's pen frantically outlines the mangled shape on the screen. I tear my eyes away from it and try to focus on his lips. If I concentrate hard enough I can just make out what he is saying.