“It’s cancer.”
Dr. Dobson’s eyes said it before her mask-covered mouth could say the words. Even in my post-biopsy-operative anesthesia haze, the words still hit me like a ton of bricks.
The bright side is, the Dr. explained, my children are safe, this cancer was not hereditary. No, this one was all my doing. A silver lining, however tiny, indeed.
What the doctor could not tell me, and nobody could at that moment, is what the actual F to do with this information??? My sore throat finally had a diagnosis, but what did this mean?
Is this cancer going to kill me? Is it treatable? Am I going to be disabled? Will I get to see my kids graduate? Am I going to lose my ability to speak/eat/drink?
All the doctor could say was that the diagnosis and pathology reports would be sent to the oncologists, and they would be in contact to setup my next round of appointments.
Now comes the hardest part. The waiting.