That’s not a bruise
on my forehead
Five years ago, on Fat
Tuesday, a Florida doctor
who was not particularly
good and not particularly
nice saved my life.
Whether through an
abundance of caution or an
abundance of pressure to
schedule pricey procedures
(I know — that kind of
thing NEVER happens), he
had looked at my history of
childhood kidney troubles
and ordered a CT scan just
to be sure my UTI wasn’t
significant of something
more ominous.
On Mardi Gras, as the
costumed revelers were
gathering in bourbonsoaked
living rooms across
town to prepare for the evenings
festivities, I sat in his
office as he read the results,
which described a grapefruit-
sized mass in the general
area where my right
ovary should have been.
``What is it?’’ I asked.
He looked at me as
though I were an idiot,
``Well I can’t tell you
THAT.’’
``How will I know?’’
``Obviously you have to
have surgery as soon as
possible.’’
It’s funny, but I do not
remember this story in
terms of calendar dates,
but rather the dates of the
church calendar.
I got my test results on
Mardi Gras, I had my surgery
the day after the fifth
Sunday in Lent. I left the
hospital on Palm Sunday.
My mother died on Maundy
Thursday. It was the worst
Good Friday I had ever experienced
(with apologies
to everyone who went
through, you know, THE
FIRST Good Friday).
On Easter, my house
was full of mourners.
It is impossible for me to
resist the urge to observe
this season as anything but
a prayer of gratitude for the
wilderness I had the good
fortune to traverse then.
To be sure, I was not
grateful at the time. When
you are 34 and hearing that
you may have metastatic
ovarian cancer (not the
most sunny diagnosis), but
that you’ll have to wait until
surgery to know for sure,
every moment that ticks by
is crushing.
Knowing that you are
fighting for your life is hard.
The next hardest thing is
waiting to find out whether
you’re fighting for your life.
For me, it lasted a little
shy of 40 days and 40
nights.
The days were filled
with insulting, dehumanizing
and sometimes humiliating
tests. They were filled
with friends who cheered
me by saying ``I have a good
feeling.’’
And by friends who said,
``No matter what happens,
you’re strong enough to
handle anything.’’
And by friends who committed
to stick with me
through whatever revealed
itself.
The nights were filled
with nervous prayer, fitful
sleep and many, many
hours of numb, sleepless silence.
One afternoon, while sitting
on my porch giving the
latest update to a good
friend who also happens to
be a priest, I said, ``If I just
knew what I’m facing. If I
just knew, it would be so
much easier.’’
She sort of laughed, softly.
``These are wilderness
times,’’ she said. ``We don’t
have the luxury of knowing
how they’ll turn out.’’
Five years away from
that conversation, I do
know how that particular
thing worked out, and I’m
grateful for it. But I am
even more grateful for the
weeks spent in the wilderness.
That time was an incredible
gift that changed me in
ways I would never want to
lose.
Life is full of long walks
through the wilderness. Financial
hardships, health
crises, job woes, heartbreak,
grief and loss.
Rather than entering
this season with a spirit of
self-denial and flagellation,
I am going to enter it with a
quiet spirit of gratitude for
all the past, present and future
hours spent in the wilderness
and the irreplaceable
things learned there.
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
came from dust and to
dust she shall return. You
can connect with her on her
website at www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.com,
or email her at
VillageWordsmith@gmail.
com.
This Wonderful Life
February 26, 2009
This Wonderful Life
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- This Wonderful Life: I can say No, but I prefer Yes If popular culture is any indication, it seems women suffer from an epidemic inability to refuse additional responsibilities. Magazines, self-help books and therapists nationwide offer heaps of advice on how to assert oneself, draw boundaries and generally say No when asked to sign on for those things for which we have little time and less interest.
- This Wonderful Life: I wish someone had told me Disclaimer: Because my son more or less demanded that I stop using him and his life as material for my column back when he was 12 or 13, I want to make it perfectly clear to all my readers (and any legal professionals who are now retained or may be retained at some future time by aforementioned son) that this column is not about him. It’s about me. The fact that he happened to turn 21 on Saturday is mere coincidence. So help me God.
- This Wonderful Life: A view through bare branches Every morning, Bee and I stand at the end of the driveway waiting for her bus and we look up into the branches of the elm tree that arches over the drive.
- This Wonderful Life: To Posey on her fourth So here we are, on the other side of 3-years-old, and it seems we both survived it intact. It wasn’t easy, but perhaps it made us both stronger.
- This Wonderful Life: A Posey by any other name... A few weeks ago, Posey gave us all new names. Or, to be more accurate, Posey gave us all one new name. Rose.
- This Wonderful Life: Are pork chops really that good? If it seems unlikely for a vegetarian (that would be me) to own a couple of table- bound pigs, it probably seems downright absurd that their names should be Tender and Delicious.
- This Wonderful Life: I sssssseeeeeee you there The first thing you should know is that I used to suffer from a snake phobia. The operative word there is phobia. It wasn’t just a matter of disliking snakes. It wasn’t a fear of being bitten. It wasn’t a simple reluctance to touch their impossibly dry, nimble bodies.
- This Wonderful Life: What’s so funny? My kids, I hope In my experience as a three-time parent, there is something absolutely, spiritually magical about the first time your child cracks a joke.
- This Wonderful Life: Who are these little girls? There are two children in my house who bear a striking resemblance to my daughters. They are adorable, smart and energetic.
- This Wonderful Life: A harvest that’s good for the soul Signs of harvest are all around. The afternoon sun glows amber over the fields and the farm stands are filled to overflowing with vegetables and fruit. We’re lucky to live in a place where we can have such an immediate connection to the food we eat.
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