Why?

We often use this question in reference to negative happenings in our lives. “Why did that happen to me?” is most often a question in response to something bad that has happened to us. I find myself asking “why” for the opposite reason. Here’s my story:

I’m not a good sick person. I’ll be the first to admit I can’t take pain. Case in point, I told my OB/GYN I wanted an epidural at seven months pregnant with my first child. He said it was a little early for that, but I wanted to make sure I got that request in on time! So maybe the answer to my “why” lies in my inability to take pain.

Pain – severe stomach pain – sent me to the local hospital emergency room on the evening of May 25th. By the afternoon of May 26th, after several tests, scans and examinations by various doctors ending with the nurse practitioner at my OB/GYN’s office, it was determined I had a possible infection, should be treated with a strong antibiotic, and come back in two weeks for a full exam, including an ultrasound.

Those two weeks were relatively worry free – no more pain and no “why.” That question popped up on June 14 when I went back to the OB/GYN’s or the ultrasound and exam.

Ultrasounds – I’m sure if you’ve given birth in the last 15 to 20 years this word brings to mind grainy, alien-like images of your babies. Well, this ultrasound was not about finding out the details of my little bundle of joy; although, there was a little bundle in there. It was just in the form of a complex mass on my left ovary. Hmmm, what is a complex mass, you might ask, as did I. It was explained to me as something that is filled with both solids and liquids with a possible blood flow through it. Procedure for these, I quickly found out, was NOTHING, for at least six weeks. In many women, the mass simply goes away with no other complications. My little bundle was about four by five centimeters and oblong – how sweet, like a little egg. During my wait, I did hear from several women who had these, and they did go away. A couple of others had them removed. But this one was in MY body, and MY mind couldn’t help but let the “whys” and worries begin.

In six weeks time, I had convinced myself all was find and all would be lost on several occasions depending on my mood. Outwardly, I gave all appearances that everything was perfectly fine. Inside, “why” plagued my mind. I detest drama and certainly didn’t like the attention this little bundle brought to me in a small town. However, I could not resist asking for prayers from those I consider family and friends. Prayer is a powerful tool, I believe. During this time, God and I both were pretty quite with each other. While I had complete faith in Him, my mind couldn’t help but wonder at times to “why” as well as “what if.” Maybe there’s an answer to the “why” – my faith.

The morning of the follow up appointment, I wasn’t very nervous. I actually felt a little silly. I had mixed up my appointment time resulting in an extra hour and a half wait. Plus, I was feeling silly that my husband had come with me. I knew it would just make his work day harder and longer when we found out my bundle was gone. Silliness soon turned to concern. The dang bundle was still there – no bigger, but more complex. My doctor wanted to remove the mass but first needed to decide the best approach to do so. The doctor felt I should have a CA-125 blood test, and based on those results, he would decide how to best remove it. I was very aware of that particular blood test and had had it twice before. You see, I know exactly what stage four ovarian cancer looks like. My maternal grandmother was diagnosed with this in May 2003 and died after an agonizing, painful, sad two months in the hospital. She was home for only hours (with Hospice) before she died in July 2003. She had very few, vague symptoms leading up to her diagnosis.

So again, “why” sprang to my mind. Two days later, my doctor called. Yes, my numbers were slightly elevated. He felt it would be best to send me to a gynecological oncologist. Wow, 35 years old and an appointment with an oncologist. My husband by any means isn’t perfect, but he acted perfectly that day. He left work and came home after I called him. I hadn’t asked him to. I didn’t cry or get upset but I needed to see his face. He and I and our girls played card games of rummy and didn’t talk about my upcoming surgery. It was exactly what I needed.

My appointment with my new doctor – oncologist (gulp!) – was the afternoon of the following Tuesday, August 3. He was a very nice man with lots of compassion and honesty (much like my regular gynecologist). He walked us through the best-case scenario but must share with us all the possibilities just in case I’m that one out of 15 women with the dreaded “c-word” of the ovaries. If you’ve ever heard the words “if this is the case, chemotherapy will follow,” you know there are no words to describe how you feel. Surgery was set for Monday, August 9. My surgery would consist of using the Da Vinci robotics machine at Baptist Hospital. After removal of my mass, left ovary and left tube, pathologists would diagnose them. The result of this would determine if surgery was over or if a full hysterectomy and samples from around my abdomen would be taken to test for possible spreading. Well all righty then, we’re going to stay positive and hope for that short surgery. However, you can imagine my “why” at this point.

The day of the surgery arrived. The “why” was still there but perhaps not as strong. Maybe 4:30 a.m. is just too early for me to worry much, and I really did feel good about everything. During my time in the pre-surgery room, I was blessed to be in a bed beside a woman named Beatrice Taylor – like Aunt Bea from Andy Griffith! She was too, too funny. She asked her anesthesiologist and doctor both if they got a good night’s sleep. She told them she wanted to make sure they hadn’t been out all night. She also asked everyone’s names so she could pray for them and then hummed gospel songs. The thought that kept running through my head was that I really hope I’m like her when I’m old, with “when I’m old” being the important phrase here. My husband, mama and daddy were allowed to come back and see me before surgery. I think hospitals do this for the sole purpose of leaving the family happy because they’ve been so entertained by the patient who has already received a nice cocktail. I stayed awake all the way to the space ship – oops, I mean operating room, although it did put me in mind of Star Wars. I’m pretty sure the robotics machine is really a huge version of R2D2.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up feeling of my stomach, checking for either small incisions or a huge one. The recovery nurse was the only one throughout my whole ordeal that I didn’t care for. Now I’m not cut out to be a nurse, and I appreciate those that are and no offense is intended as everyone else the whole time was great. This lady just rubbed me the wrong way. As I’m feeling my stomach, she sneered, “were you worried?” Still pretty out of it, no quick-witted reply followed, and I’m pretty sure I just went back to sleep. Although since then, I’ve thought of a few, not-so-nice replies to that comment. Well to her dismay (I must have totally screwed up her lunch date or something) my bladder was even harder to wake up than I was. She finally enlisted the help of my husband. Well, he knows I’m a bad patient and was in no hurry to take over my care. He was the one who finally told me what had happened during surgery. My mass, left ovary and left tube were removed. After removal, during the diagnosis, it was discovered I had a tumor in my left ovary that had been totally undetected. The doctor stated that it was completely contained inside the ovary. The mass, by the way, was benign with no signs of cancer at all. My husband and parents were giddy, to say the least. I was in quite a bit of pain, ironically on the right side, so my giddiness was still a couple days away. I asked the nurse (that I didn’t like) why my right side hurt so much. She replied that if she gave me anymore pain medicine I would quit breathing. I think I would call that a communication problem, because I didn’t ask for more medicine, just why it hurt. Apparently, she could be nice to someone (just not me) because she told my husband and parents that was very normal. See, I told you all I wasn’t a good sick person right at the beginning.

The doctor called me a couple days later and in the conversation, he again commented (as he had to my husband and parents the day of the surgery) how odd it was that the outside mass had led to the discovery of a much more serious issue. Five years down the road could have been a repeat of my grandmother’s story for me. What a true blessing in disguise this has all been!

Probably due to the effect of surgery, pain medicine and just plain shock, it was a few days before the “why” jumped back in. But now the question was – “why me?” Why had I been so blessed? Why did God send the pain in May that led to the more serious discovery? Why did I not have to go through this horrible thing called cancer? Why did my life not get put on a time table as so many do? I don’t have an answer, and I probably never will. As a person who likes to be in control, it is so hard for me not to question God. I may die tomorrow; we all may, only God knows. What I do know is that I have been blessed with not knowing when it will be.