The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 23 - Waiting

It has been a very long three weeks and I feel like I'm nearing the end of my tether. My right foot is twitching uncontrollably as I sit in the brilliant white waiting area trying to block out the tantalizing violins that are racing circles in my brain.

Millie flips through an old copy of Vogue, seemingly impervious to the debilitating tunes. I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall. I don't think I can bear waiting in this room for another minute. I need something to happen. The nurse to call us in or send us home or wake me up to tell me this is all a freakish nightmare.

I feel the critical eyes of the receptionist on me and my squeaking chair. She probably thinks I'm the patient and Millie is the one here for support. I don't blame her. I've seen people waiting in line at the post office who, at first glance, look edgier than her.

But I know better. I know that Millie's eyes have been fixed on the same spot, on the same page, for five minutes now. I hear the pages fluttering between her trembling fingers. I feel her sigh quietly beside me, trying to pull more oxygen into her lungs. I turn to the print of the Maltese capital, trying to ignore the exhaustion from the events of the past few days.

Four days after our appointment with Dr Debattista, we met with Ms Marjorie Atkins, Millie's gynaecologist, a warm-natured woman with lush, amber locks. Millie told her the whole story and showed her the ultrasound report and blood results. Ms Marjorie, who Millie has been seeing for the past twenty-three-odd years, seemed genuinely concerned. She did a pelvic exam and a PAP smear for her and confirmed that she could feel a lump that coincided with the findings of the ultrasound. She then confirmed that she would probably need a hysterectomy. 

The following Thursday we had the CT scan. The radiographer was a tall, roundish lady named Antida. She was very gentle and patient. She explained every step of the procedure, painlessly inserted a needle into Nanna's arm and injected what she described as a contrast dye through it. Millie had to drink a solution called Gastrograffin after being starved for four hours. When they were ready to start, Antida asked me to wait outside, which I did, for thirty long minutes. As soon as the door opened, I jumped on her and asked if the cancer had spread to anywhere else but she said she was not in a position to say. The radiologist still had to see and report the scan. Before I could ask her how long that will take, she went on to say that the radiologist will send the report directly to Dr Debattista and he will discuss it with us himself at our next appointment.

I wanted to scream. Our next appointment was more than two weeks away. Luckily, Millie came out at that moment and dragged me away before I could make a fool of myself.

The hysteroscopy was done on Friday. We were at the hospital at six in the morning. I felt like someone had transformed my insides into a ton of wriggling worms overnight. Millie, on the other hand, was incredibly brave and calm. She was thoroughly checked by a stern-looking Eastern-European nurse. Then after a few minutes in the quiet cubicle, Ms Marjorie walked in and introduced the anaesthetist who was going to sedate her.

The procedure was ready in twenty minutes, during which I made myself dizzy pacing in circles outside the theatre doors. My fingers were raw from wringing them so hard but they could have been bleeding and skinned to the bone and I would not have noticed.

Finally, the swinging doors opened and Millie was wheeled out of the theatre on a stretcher. She was still high on the sedative but she was completely pain-free and comfortable and we were able to go home an hour and a half later.

Then came the worst and most exhausting part. The waiting. Two whole weeks of waiting, of not doing anything but distracting each other from wondering about the results. 

But we don't have to wait much longer now. That's what I've been telling myself for the past few hours. The nurse will soon call us in. We will soon see Dr Debattista. He will soon give us his verdict. We will soon have a plan. Soon. Soon. Soon.