May 22, 2020

Friday morning I woke up in the hospital, fingers and toes crossed that my biopsy would happen. Thursday had been a day of indulgent mental bingo. And a tad bit of gluttony. Hospital room service. I didn’t particularly have an appetite. But how can one pass up choosing an item from each category. Spring rolls? No sodium restrictions here, baby! What’s that you say, TWO dessert selections? Don’t mind if I do!

Back to the bingo. Trying my best to read, I looked up and realized that I had consumed the same paragraph three times yet didn’t remember any of it. I flipped on the TV and tried to remember what shows were on each channel. The enticement of finding your favorite movie beyond the next click. Hospital TV’s do not have a ‘Guide’. I need a guide in most aspects of my life. So this was actually quite humorous. Channel 63 – Dirty Dancing. Wait was it 36? Or maybe 64? I remember a shopping channel and a court show and then. Commercials on 64. Should I go back to 36? Well shitballs! I’m back at Channel 2 again. Wasted a good hour or more scrolling channels and never settled in on anything to watch. A little cancer worm had started to burrow in my brain.

My phone was sitting next to me. Somehow staring at me. I felt a nudge to share my chirping box of cicadas. My immediate family knew. I should let my friends know. I am in the hospital. I have cancer. No, Rachel, there is still a possibility that the watermelon seed you ate as a kid actually grew into a melon. Pick up the phone. I am not a phone talker. Ok, text message it is! You can’t send this news out over text message! Uh, yes you can, and you will do it with a flourish of positive emojis! The cancer worm in my brain then took a big satisfying poo, found a blanket and said, ‘I will be staying a while.’

I sent out a few text messages. To the friends that I knew would be outside my hospital window in an hour dressed in gorilla and banana suits. The ones that would find a way to smuggle in a Costco size box of CheezIts. The ones that would buckle in and not complain about the bumpy ride. The Lady Tribe, the Boca Babes, the BBQ Broads, the Southsiders. Looking back, how poignant was it to be reading Glennon Doyle’s remarkable book ‘Untamed’ when this grenade landed in my lap. My girl Glennon writes (we are down like two flat tires, ya know) “What the world needs is more women who have quit fearing themselves and started trusting themselves. What the world needs is masses of women who are entirely out of control.” Yes! Yes! All the yes. I have a pack of goddamn cheetahs.

I was wheeled into the biopsy room under the security of a thin hospital blanket. The fuzzy blanket that Nurse Jackie gifted me was instantly more special. Interventional Radiology. Sounded more like I was going in on a 72 hour mental hold with a broken leg. No, no, silly girl – a straightjacket is not necessary attire! We’re just going to bop a turkey baster sized needle into your chest and see what this melon is made of.

Again I found myself looking up into fluorescent hospital lights. This time there was no art on the ceiling. There was no small talk from the doctor. The room itself, without hesitation, said, ‘If you’re here, you got something, sweetheart.’ The procedure was actually quite unremarkable. I had plenty of anesthesia. But the cancer worm in my head was watching Jerry Springer. In my slippers. Asking for a Diet Pepsi. On ice. Make yourself at home. Squatter’s rights.

I was ready to go home. My ‘rule out the big stuff’ doctors appointment on Wednesday checked me into the hospital, and now it was Friday. I missed my bed. My pillows. Joel. JoJo. Going home would make things normal again. But they weren’t. Had they ever been? Normal is something that had come and gone.

My nurse Alex came in the room with a big grin on her face. She said that if they monitored me for a few hours for turkey baster complications, and if I ate something, and didn’t hurl, I could go home. She knew how badly I wanted this. Alex, the menu please! Room 331! Oncology! Ballas Burgers are on me!

My biopsy was performed on the Friday of a long holiday weekend. Saddled with a side of COVID. My oncologist was pushing to get the results back as soon as possible. His hope was Tuesday. But more likely Wednesday. ‘Don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear from me on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I will let you know as soon as I know.’

I got dressed and packed up my belongings. Do not forget your phone charger. It’s a good one. Why do you always forget your phone charger? Then you’ll buy the cheap gas station replacement. It will work for a month. It will tell you it is unsupported. You’ll tell it you support it. Then you’ll unplug and plug it in ten times. Then you’ll blow on it. Wipe it. Curse it. It still won’t work. You’ll remember leaving the good charger in the hospital room. You will lament your own forgetfulness. And then you’ll buy another charger.

Alex asked me if I wanted a wheelchair ride out of the hospital. Oh gosh no, I can walk! Wheelchair? I have cancer, not a broken leg. I strapped on my new backpack bag from Nurse Jackie, and hoisted my overnight bag over my shoulder. And I stepped out the door to freedom. But my breathing was labored. On impeccable cue, the cancer worm shouted from the den WHAT IS FOR DINNER! ‘Alex, I think I will need that wheelchair.’ The porter came in shortly after, and the gravity of my reality sunk in. The foreseeable future was going to be very different. And I was rolling right into it.