The Waiting Game

What I remember most about today, in no particular order, and random musings:

The stench of alcohol. The Mississippi River. An old woman with curlers in her hair riding MetroLink. Snow. Numbness. Cold. Stirrups. Pain. Pain. Pain. Blood. Pain. My toenails. Paying $2.25 for a can of soda on Amtrak. My mother’s 80th birthday. The waiting room. Listening to a conversation on Amtrak and learning that Amtrak crosses five different rail lines between Springfield and St. Louis. Pain. Speculum. Cramps. Cramps. Cramps. Ibuprofin. Endometrial biopsy. Testing the tornado sirens.

I’ve had Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” and Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” playing as a soundtrack in my head.

Why is the Department of Gynecologic Oncology located on the 13th floor of the Center for Advanced Medicine? Why does a hospital have a 13th floor?

This morning I understood how a condemned prisoner must feel waking up knowing today is the day he is going to die. I felt like a dead woman walking.

I’m numb. I’m wrapped in a cocoon of numbness. I watch the winter landscape pass by outside and it doesn’t register. All I can think of is today I’m having an endometrial biopsy.

I have been reamed, gutted and scraped raw today. My vagina feels as if someone rubbed it with 30 grit sandpaper.

I’m tired. I’m bleeding. I’m ready to go home.

I’m sitting in the Amtrak station in St. Louis waiting for my 5:30 train. I should get home around 7:30 tonight.

Last night I wanted to go out and get drunk and have raunchy sex with a complete stranger. What stopped me was thinking my gynecologic oncologist would not appreciate me showing up reeking of stale whiskey and sex. Now I imagine I would scream. Sex is the last thing on my mind.

Whiskey would taste awfully good right now. It might dull the pain between my legs. I took four Ibuprofin this morning and it didn’t help.

I was supposed to meet up with a woman I interviewed for my piece on endometrial cancer for spryliving.com but my appointment ran long and we weren’t able to meet. She promised me when I come back for my follow-up in two weeks, she’ll keep the date open and she’ll buy me a drink.

I showed up five minutes late for my appointment because Amtrak was running 20 minutes behind schedule. I was running behind schedule too, despite the fact I was up at 5 a.m. I had planned to take the bus downtown but ended up walking 12 blocks. I was afraid I was going to miss the train because I had to stop at the bank and make a deposit. The teller smiled and said, “Have a great day.” I looked her right in the eye and said “I’m having an endometrial biopsy today. I might have cancer.” and walked out. This is why I hate that banal phrase. You never know the kind of day the other person is having.

I fill out paper work and wait. The waiting rooms are located along a long hallway lined with glass windows that look out over the St. Louis skyline. The waiting room has non-descript carpet on the floor and uncomfortable chairs covered with a leaf motif print. Cheap artwork adorns the walls and easy listening music is playing. The room is designed for functionality, not for comfort.

When my name is called, a nurse leads me back and weighs and measures me and takes my blood pressure and temperature. I weigh 241 pounds and my blood pressure is 162 over 102. She escorts me to the exam room and asks me to undress from the waist down. I get to keep my grey sweatshirt on.

I perch on the exam table with a thin blue cotton sheet over my lap. When she comes back in the room, I hand her my cell phone and ask her to take a selfie. At first she thinks I mean of me lying on the exam table but I tell her I want one of me full frontal. We’re both laughing and I put my feet in the stirrups and get ready for my closeup. I tell her I’ve been in jail and I’ve been strip searched and talked about the experience on stage. Why not? She said I was the first woman who ever wanted her picture taken with her feet in the stirrups.

I told her a survivor said you either curl up in a corner and suck your thumb and cry or you can laugh about it. I’ve chosen to laugh.

The instruments are set up for a Pap smear and are laid out on the counter. There are cotton swabs and a container for the sample and several other instruments. What I particularly notice is the dirty floor. There is a cotton swab lying on the floor in front of the trash can and what looks like a blood spot on the floor.

I immediately like my gynecologic oncologist when he comes in the room. I get into position and he asks me why I’m there. When I tell him I’ve been having unusual uterine bleeding, he switches gears and says I need to have an endometrial biopsy.

I feel it when he inserts the speculum. The stainless steel blades press again the walls of my vaginal canal and it’s all I can do to tell him to take it out. Now. He apologizes for the pain he’s causing and says “Cramp cramp cramp” before the cramps hit me. I’m clutching the sides of the table, eyes clenched shut, trying not to scream, moaning. All I can focus on is the metal speculum jammed inside me. It’s an alien object and doesn’t belong there.

It’s done. It’s such a huge relief when he removes the speculum. My gynecologic oncologist takes my hand and helps me sit up and asks if I’m alright. He and his nurse leave the room so I can clean up and dress. They’re thoughtful enough to leave a pad on the counter for me, even though I had come prepared and brought my own supplies. I’m wet, and not all of it is from blood, and I’m doing a fair amount of bleeding. Why do women self-lubricate in times like this?

This contains a sample of my endometrial lining for biopsy.

He sees me in his office afterwards. He keeps patting me on the shoulder and asking if I’m alright. If I have to fight a cancer battle, I want him on my side.

All I can do now is wait. I will know the results of the biopsy in five to six days. I have a follow-up appointment in two weeks.

I can do this. I’ve survived being hit by lightning. I’ve jumped out of an airplane. I can do this. When I begin to falter, I read a few pages out of “A Teaspoon of Courage” by Bradley Trevor Greive. I need all the courage I can get right now.