Take Your Choice

Last we left The Old Girl she had something inside her bum that had to be reckoned with… something, uh, what my small children would call “omnious.”

Monday July 8th there was to be an in-and-out procedure to cadge a bit for detective work…

Well, dear ones, did that.

But first all day Sunday, to prepare, my diet was strictly clear* liquids—with a supper of lemon Jello. Signal event was that at noon I drank a pint bottle from the pharmacy of a crystalline liquid that for the next six-seven hours took a broom and swept clean my innards. Boy did it ever.

Oh, but at this point I must interject something I did to balance the indignity of my supper: I took myself to the manicure parlor and got a manicure and pedicure. No polish. Just scrubbed and ladylike (stark contrast to my customary Gardener’s muckage). Turned out I was sent into the procedure room in slippers that covered my pedicure—small disappointment—but at least when the nurses saw my feet, they could think, “She’s a clean old girl…”

I was to be at Dominican Hospital at 7:00 a.m., so grandson William kindly drove Bill and me there. Registering Lady Sarah walked us to the back of the hospital where we were greeted by a nurse who took us into a room. Lovely Nurse Teresa and Bill chatted. They got on the subject of religion (a favorite topic of my husband’s) and when I was all warm and swaddled and ready to go for the procedure, Teresa wanted to say a prayer for me. How good that made me feel. So the three of us joined hands and asked for a blessing for The Old Girl.

Off we went down the hospital corridors. Have you recently been propped up in a big bed and wheeled along on what feels like a loopy outing–except for what you can’t help but fear might be happening soon–I found the ride a delight-and-a-half. I mean you’re snug in bed (there was even a huge warm pillow against my side blowing hot air every few minutes ensuring my warmth). It was like The Joker’s idea of an amusement park ride.

We arrived at a door labeled something like “Scope Room,” and that made me laugh.

Bill was given directions to the cafeteria so he could get breakfast. Gave me big kisses.

The door opened, I was wheeled into a small chamber lined ceiling to floor with shiny machinery of every description…tall pipes, round wheels, broad numbered metering boxes, one surgery bed in the center, a big white screen by the bed.

Then a handsome twenty-something fellow came up to me, said, “Hi, Sylvia, I’m Jake, your nurse.” Well, thinks I to myself, has to have a good outcome if your nurse is a Jake…Then up came pretty young nurse Dottie—more reassurance. The surgeon quietly appeared. I’d never met Dr. E. but knew he was very highly regarded. He was slight, dark hair, high cheekbones, broad smile, radiated warmth and assurance.

“Hi, Sylvia, nice to meet you.”

Yep, all was as good as it gets.

But I had something urgent to say: “No anesthetic, please, doctor” (the IV assemblage in my right arm was ready to go). “I’ve had four babies with natural childbirth, and I’ve even had teeth drilled without Novocain, NO ANESTHETIC PLEASE!” A known fact: Old people don’t do well with anesthetic.

“Okay, Sylvia, no problem…now just roll over on your left side…”

I did. “Will I be able to see what’s happening?”

“Just look there—” and the enormous screen was suddenly alive with an image.

Ohmygosh, I did a double take—there was a fanny–it was my bare behind! I’d never seen my bare behind. At that moment, I must admit, I thought it looked rather swell—I mean, it wasn’t fat or sloppy, it was neat and tidy. So far so good. What was I worried about?

“Here comes the camera,” said Jake.

I felt a nub of something going in…

“Oh, wow!” Now the screen was filled with what appeared almost as sculpture…glistening walls and whorls, sweeps and curves…all I could think of was that it looked like the inside of a cream-colored chambered seashell.**

As the camera moved here and there, up and down, around and back for probably ten minutes, “I don’t see anything,” said Jake again and again.

“No, I don’t either,” agreed the surgeon.

“You mean it’s gone?” I asked.

“There’s nothing to biopsy,” Dottie said.

Finally the camera was removed.

“Doctor, can you tell me what’s happened? Why there’s nothing there?”

“It was probably a bad CT scan…”

I warmly thanked everyone. Jake rolled me back down the corridors to Recovery where I gratefully received a cup of coffee, my first nourishment for twenty-four hours.

Back home, I melted slices of Tillamook Cheddar on Companion Bakeshop Local bread. We called family and friends with the amazing news.

When I called my children in Santa Monica, my son-in-law Jim said, “Amanda said it would be that way.” Prayers had gone up from them.

When I called my children in Tel Aviv, my son Benjamin said, “Apparently, prayer works.”

My beloved Bill includes many in his daily round of prayers, certainly I was on his list. More family and friends prayed for me… Mustn’t forget Nurse Teresa…

The CT scan described a “2.8 cm. mass.”

Bill asks: A bad CT scan or a miracle?

Take your choice.

*I could have coffee and tea but no milk…and nothing colored red, blue, or purple…
**The illustration (the inside of a Chambered Nautilus) is too rosy and walls are too tight but it gives you a sense of what it was like…