workshop 
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in issue five
Scintillations
My Final Phone Call
Master Of My Fate
Almost Famous Photographers
Bugs
Cubicle Hell
Breaking Out Of My Cocoon
Letters To My Younger Self 
Boundaries & Walls
Surviving Today
Adventures In Chalking
Books That Changed My Life
Declare What You Are
My Most Brave Moment
Masks of Bravery  
Love And God
Moody Girl

poetry
Vocalizing
Bravery
The Imaginary "You"

afterthoughts
comments from our readers

contributors

take me back
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future issues
Issue Six: Friendship
Issue Seven: Trust

previous issues
Issue One: Change
Issue Two: Balance
Issue Three: Spring
Issue Four: Goddess

I sat in the waiting room at the hospital.  Waiting for them to tell me if my husband was out of surgery.  Waiting for them to tell me if they thought they got all the cancer out.  Waiting for them to tell me he was going to be okay.  I waited. 

I waited with my mother and his mother.  Both of them talking, chatting, blabbing, gabbing.  Mouths making noise.  The television mounted in the corner of that room blared, too.  I sat in my own vast silence with my eyes focused on the doorway.  The doctor would walk through that door and tell me something.  Anything. 

Throughout the day I had worn a brave face.  They wheeled my husband away around 9 in the morning.  The doctor had told me that my husband would be out of surgery by 1 o’clock in the afternoon.  I hadn’t realized it was going to take that long.  I was not completely surprised, though.  During the weeks of diagnoses and tests, the doctor had rarely given us information to mentally prepare us nor comfort us.  He stayed close to the facts and left us to deal with our own fragile emotions on our own time. 

The doctor told me that I should go home and come back at one.  I reluctantly did as told.  

I remember being in a daze as us three women, the two elder and I, left the hospital a little bit after 9 without my husband.  We left him there in the care of surgeons and scrub nurses and anesthesiologists. 

We stopped by several stores buying particular groceries and special bread and soup ingredients and juices.  All the details seemed so very important, anything to fill up the time and keep from thinking. 

Back at home, I remember pushing the key into the lock of my own front door and how odd my arm felt, like it wasn’t really there. 

At lunch the two mothers continued to talk and all I remember was chewing food and smiling and drinking my water and wiping my mouth with my napkin.  My muscles couldn’t feel anything.   I remember swallowing and how the food fell and fell and never landed in my stomach.  I remember not being able to listen to what was being said around me.  I knew it was past time for us to leave, but they were eating more slowly because they chatted between bites. Lunch was finally declared over and we returned to the hospital.

We arrived a few minutes after one.   I raced ahead of them and checked in with the nurse at the waiting room desk.  How could I let my husband come out of this ordeal alone?  How could I allow myself to miss seeing the doctor walk through that door?  Why did I leave and go on ridiculous pointless errands?   The nurse phoned upstairs and cheerfully turned to me and told me my husband was still in surgery.   “Don’t worry, the doctor will come talk to you as soon as he is done.”  I relaxed somewhat.  I hadn’t missed the crucial moment. 

Now my mother, mother-in-law and I were back in the same three chairs in the waiting room.  The conversations of the other two women continued and my eyes darted between the clock and the doorway. 

After another hour and no word, I was panicking.  I tried to remain outwardly calm.  Where was the doctor?   What could be taking so long?  How could the doctor misjudge his operating time by so much?  Was something wrong?  I started to worry that the doctor would be coming through the doorway and telling me the worst of all possible news. 

I tried to make myself not think the worst.  I tried to focus on what my mother-in-law was talking about at that moment.  I couldn’t.   I smiled and nodded and my mind raced uncontrollably.

At 2:30 I bothered the nurse again.  Could she please check?   I knew the doctor would come talk to me, but he was scheduled to be done at one, after all.  She was very kind.  She happily phoned upstairs.  The call didn’t connect.   I smiled nervously as she punched in the extension number again.  This time she got through. 

“Yes, I’m checking on patient Carlisle, is he out of surgery yet?” 

A pause. 

An eternity. 

“Oh”, she said solemnly into the phone.  “When did you find out?”

I stood there frozen with the same polite smile on my face.  Oh my God!  Did they tell  her that he died?  I felt faint and nauseous.  My eyes swirled in my head.  My breath stopped.  This was the worst moment of my life. 

I suspected that none of the nurses wanted the job of telling me.  They would let the doctor deliver the bad news.  I stared at the back of the nurse’s head and dreaded her hanging up the phone and turning to me with a short rehearsed “The doctor will be right down.” 

In the next few terribly long seconds while I waited for the telephone conversation to be over, I could hear the animated voices of the two mothers.  I would have to tell them.  I would have to interrupt them with something so awful I could not bear it. 

The nurse hung up and I girded myself for her words.  She turned to me, with the same friendly voice as before, and told me that he was “still in surgery” and smiled warmly right into my eyes.   I let out a breath of relief.  Then I wondered if she was being honest with me.  Is she just a good actress?  Is this her standard response?   I thanked her and returned to my seat.  I calmly told my mother and his mother “he’s still in surgery.”  They once more started to rattle on about recipes and this and that.  I waited for the doctor to walk through the door and to be able to breathe normally again.

While I waited I kept telling myself to not panic and not let myself believe anything horrible had happened until I heard the doctor say it.  Over and over again I reminded myself,  “Don’t pay attention to his facial expression.”   The doctor had a notoriously dour manner.  If he walked through the door with a somber face, I told myself to not jump to conclusions but to stay calm and listen to what he had to say.   I stared at the doorway and waited. 

Another hour passed.  It was now more than two and a half hours after he was supposed to be out of surgery. 

A man appeared in the doorway.  It was the doctor.  He motioned to me to come to the hallway.  I stood up, left the now quieted mothers behind me, and walked up to him avoiding looking into his grim countenance.  My mind shrieked “IS HE ALRIGHT?  IS HE OKAY?  DID HE MAKE IT?  WERE THERE COMPLICATIONS?  WHY DID IT TAKE SO LONG?” but I maintained my brave disposition. 

He sighed.  My heart sank.  He thoughtfully began to speak, “Well, we think we got it all.”  IS HE ALIVE???!!!!!!  He answered my unspoken question finally, “He is in recovery.  The surgery went well.”  He gave me more details about the procedure and what they had removed, but I only cared that he left me with a living breathing husband.

I had to wait another couple of hours until he got out of recovery and was wheeled up to his room before I could see him.   This was the easiest of the waiting time.  I  knew he was okay.  The worst was behind us.  I even joined in some of the waiting room conversations about movies and game shows and other family members getting bumps and bruises and stitches. 

A few months have passed since the day of the surgery and he is doing well.  He is back to his old wonderful self.   My worries have lessened, but have not gone away completely.  As far as all tests and check-ups can tell, my husband is fine.  We continue to hope for his good health and for the courage to fully live our lives.  I continue to pray for the bravery to bear anything else that life may throw my way. 

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