If anyone is reading this blog you probably by now know that I am a part-time college student. I recently had the assignment of writing a narrative of 500 words or so. I would have to say this is my first actual college essay. I chose to write about a true-life event, which is as follows:
“Diagnosis: Cancer”
Gradually I come to, becoming aware of my surroundings. The room is bright and everything in it is white. The smell of clean cotton sheets, antiseptic cleanser and metal awakens me. I feel the pinch of an intravenous needle in my right arm. I begin to remember why I’m here. I have just had surgery to remove what the surgeon assured me was an aspirated bean in my left lung. I am not afraid, just curious to find out what it is that has made me cough nearly non-stop for a month. I am ready to feel better and my young children are ready to have their mommy back. As I look around, I notice the faces looking at me are not smiling. I begin to worry.
My husband, Tim, is holding firmly to my left hand. There is a doctor I don’t recognize standing to the right of my hospital bed. As the new doctor approaches the bed, Tim introduces him as Dr. Moore, a medical oncologist. The doctor carefully slips his hand into my right hand as the recognition of the word oncologist hits me. I am familiar with medical terms and I know oncology means cancer. My mouth goes dry and my heart beats rapidly. I begin to shiver. I am having a reaction either to the anesthesia I’m still coming out of or to the news that I know I am about to hear. Images of my children flash into my mind and I wonder if I will get to see them start Kindergarten.
Dr. Moore gently reveals to me that I have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a form of lymph node cancer the surgeon discovered encasing my left lung. My mind races as my husband’s grip tightens around my hand. I take a moment to absorb what I’ve heard and then I want to know what can be done. Dr. Moore tells me I will be receiving nine months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments, during which I will be sick often. He assures me he will do his best to control my nausea. I take in a deep, painful breath and let it out slowly, feeling the burden of the months ahead of me.
Dr. Moore’s voice is confidant as he assures me he has treated many patients with the same diagnosis successfully. I assume this means many are still alive, but I’m afraid to ask. He elaborates on the side effects. I am doing my best to listen but words are swirling around in my head, confusing and exhausting me. Suddenly I hear the words “...your hair will fall out.” I begin to sob. The curly brown hair that flows half way down my back will disappear. It is the first and last time I cry during my struggle with cancer.
This type of cancer grows rapidly and must be slowed down as soon as possible. It is recommended that I begin chemotherapy before I leave the hospital, giving my surgery wounds little time to heal. I agree to this plan and begin to prepare mentally and spiritually for the months ahead. At 26 years old I am about to face the fight of my life.
By the way, I got an A.
