Yesterday

“It’s all so scary isn’t it?” she said.  I was in for another round of tests.  They needed better images, more clarity, better comparisons with the previous scans. I was grateful for the thoroughness, but anxious none-the less.  She and I were the only two waiting in the small room, and my look was unmistakable.  I nodded and responded, “It never gets easier, does it?”  She sighed and said, “I’ve been at it since 8 this morning—almost five hours now— and there’s still more coming.
We both looked out toward a nearby window, our hospital gowns awkwardly wrapped around our bodies.  “They’re looking to see how far the cancer spread,” she volunteered, and continued, “so they need to be sure. Started in my kidney—had part of one removed a few months ago—now, well, they’re checking other parts.”  “Oh, my,” I gasped, my own tests forgotten, “do you have family helping out?” She looked out toward the quickly approaching clouds in the window-framed sky and answered, “My husband died in January.  Sudden.  Massive heart attack.  He was 56, my age, and the love of my life. I was two-weeks post-op and recovering from the surgery and one morning he just didn’t wake up.”  We both looked down.  “How are you able to go through this?” I asked. She stared at her clenched hands and responded, “I don’t know.  I don’t know.  Maybe for my daughter.  She hasn’t been able to sleep unless she’s near me.  She worries so much.” 
Then her eyes met mine, “And you,” she asked, “what are you in for?” Together we laughed at the jail reference just as a third woman joined our waiting station.  Her eyes held all of our terror and quickly my new friend and I explained our laughter.  This newest member of our group sighed and began, “You know, I’m an ultrasound tech in Phili—work in the E.R.  Except for training, I never much had to have any tests.  But now the doctors…” Her voice trailed off into a place only she could hear.  Then she looked at us, “I’m scared. Here I am 60 years-old and I’m just so scared.”  We nodded. 
We reached for the comfort that seemed available to us and wove our individual  stories about children and parents and houses into a blanket enveloping us.  "Sylvia" the technician called out looking from one set of startled eyes to another. The interruption seemed to ricochet loudly off the walls around us.  No one said anything as I stood up.  I walked away, turned, and saw them wave to me, their eyes filled with hope.
The tests continued and were re-done once, twice, three times.  Slowly my inner shaking dissipated.  I was lying down in a dark room behind a fabric screen while the machines hummed around me, the technician absorbed with the job a hand was focused and silent.  It began to feel almost womb-like.  Almost like I was waiting to learn of life—to go from one state of being to another.
The door opened and the radiologist came in, pushing aside the curtain, letting in harsh light, and then did one final test herself.  When she was finished, she sat down across from me and calmly spoke, “Your tests are fine.  We had trouble seeing some of the tissue and it looked a bit concerning but, really, it’s absolutely fine.  We’ve checked fully.  I am so sorry that you had to go through so much.”  I looked at her and said, “I am just very grateful that all of these machines and medicine and health care folks like you are here to take care of us.”  I had noticed a faint Indian accent and lilt in her voice, so I asked her if that was where she was from.  “Yes,” she responded quietly. “Oh, my,” I jumped in, “I’ve been reading about the tragic COVID situation there right now.  Is your family OK?”
At this point she stood on the other side of the thin membrane separating us as we continued talking and I began getting dressed.  “No,” she began, “It’s been so horrible trying to keep them safe.  And we can’t seem to get very good information about how they are doing.  My father is so very stubborn.  He has a cough but will not get it checked out.”  Now I was fully dressed, and we both began to walk out into the hall together.  She stopped and facing me said, “Thank you for asking about my family.”  I could see tears in her eyes.  We walked a bit further and I said, “There’s so much pain in the world, isn’t there?”  Her eyes smiled as she said, “And also so much healing and kindness.”
She signed my discharge papers near the front entrance, and we wished each other well.   As I headed toward the parking lot, I saw both of my new friends, now changed into street clothes, walking out the doors together just ahead of me.  “Hi, you two,” I called out.  They both turned around happily.  “How did it go?”  Both gave thumbs-up and asked about me.  I pointed my own thumb toward the sky.  “Know what?” my first new friend said, “I feel as if I’m seeing the world for the first time, and it looks really good!” And we laughed and twirled around like young girls in ballet class as the heavy, cleansing rain fell on us all.

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