by Dr. Christina
It’s almost 1am on Friday. I’m sitting here in a Lazy-Boy recliner thanking the hospital gods for wireless. Shannon is next to me, sleeping. There are tubes and wires connected to machines that remind us she is ok. Seeing her open her eyes a few hours ago, and smile, well, suffice it to say I cried. A lot. And she giggled a smidgen through the grogginess… as she always does at my frequent teary-eyes.
Her surgery lasted almost 5 hours. They found the presence of cancer in her other ovary, so both were removed. They also took samples of lymph nodes and removed some lining from her intestine to test further to get more clarity. It seems this journey has been filled with bits of truth, here and there, and we’re still waiting for that moment where everything just makes sense. That moment where the questions are all answered, and we can find our way to the other side.
But life doesn’t work that way – even in the simplest times. Questions bring answers, and answers open the doorway to more questions, and clarity becomes fog. And so we’ll find our way through the darkness, making our own Light along the way.
Shannon and I share a language of the heart with one main tenet: Truth. No sugarcoating. No BS. Just truth, in its purest form. And we share truth, and we give each other truth, no matter what. We share that type of connection that is outside this realm, but peers into it, to help each other as best we can become that person we dream to be. I know when she’s in pain, she knows when I’m in pain. She knows when I’m sad, and knows just the words to say to help me through any cracks of my heart. I know when she is sad, and why, and how to help her mend what aches. We see the palate of each other’s lives, with clarity our own eyes don’t give us. I see vibrant colors on her path, when she sees shades of gray. She sees pathways, when I see detours. It’s a beautiful medallion of each other’s soul that we both carry. I imagine we’ve carried it in other lives, and will through the end of our days, and to the stars.
This experience with the “C” word has been filled with lessons after lessons… after lessons. We have cried together, googled till we pretty much fell asleep in our respective laptop keyboards… laughed at the very likely possibility she will say “I will beat your ass” to a nurse that won’t allow her to smuggle Starbucks… (I have already informed them to anticipate such contraband only upon their approval). We have just tried to bottom line everything to get to the truth. And we’re getting there. We’ll get there.
In case anyone might be wondering, I’m not really Shannon’s doctor. I just pretend to be one here in this blog, the kind of doctor without a medical degree, that doesn’t practice or diagnose anything, well, except for sporks. That’s my speciality. If you know anyone who may have a spork lodged somewhere it shouldn’t be, call me. Unfortunately, it’s a tough economy, and not many people have issues with sporks. So business is rather slow. Rest assured, even if I do get my first official patient (besides Shannon) I’ll be sure to keep you all posted on how she is.
Shannon is my best friend. She is my sister, not by blood, but of the heart. I love her, Jason, their boys, and their family, with all of my soul. And as I watch her sleep… I have tears, yet again. It’s that connectivity we share. Sometimes we cry the tears the other can’t find. I cry because I am so proud of her, for all that she has survived in her journey, and for facing this with grace (I probably should delete that word before she reads it, as she doesn’t want to ruin her tough-as-nails reputation)… that one can kick some ass, take some names, but her soul is of love. And her spirit is of the marathon kind. Give her a wall – she’ll chisel through it. Give her a door, and she’ll stare at the space between the window and the door, and wonder why the hell not at least try?
I love you Shan. More than words could ever say. Goodnight my bestest friend. I promise you I’ll be here when you wake up, and right beside you, always, no matter what.
