For a month the date looms as we keep ourselves busy, prevent our thoughts from turning to the inevitable which will bring the unknown into focus. Appointments with specialists. Coordinating treatments. Wondering what will be the result for My Girl.
No life-threatening illness, this (Thank You Jesus), but a presence in bone which has no claim there, returned 18 months after an earlier attempt by the same surgeon to reclaim that region.
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Tears roll down a pale cheek as My Girl drifts into an unnatural sleep, me squeezing her hand, whispering prayers, Dear Man at the door, watching, praying. Invisible prayers of family and friends surround her, lift her, carry her into that unknown place where answers will be found.
We sit in the near-empty waiting room trying to pass the time. Impossibly soon, the green-garbed surgeon stands before us, telling us what we have hoped not to hear: "more aggressive", "significantly larger than in the x-ray of a month ago", "took more extreme measures"...
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My Girl grieves silently, mourning a loss that she doesn't quite understand. Pain, both physical and emotional, drains her of her sparkle, her appetite, her voice. As day rolls into day of unlifting cloud and the fear in me mounts: when will she rise again?
Laughter and play return slowly, but they come, with this daughter once again glowing and light.
A cycle of fittings, appointments, re-checks, assessments. And finally the last step is reached. Now the dam of emotion is breached and My Girl cries for the first time. Two weeks after the surgery. Six weeks after the disappointing news of recurrence. Five days after the sunniness returned the clouds are back. The holding back is over; the time for being strong is done.
Now the true healing will begin.
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