By Nancy Morgan
Baltimore traffic was a snarl. I promised to arrive before surgery, but they wheeled Jay in before I got there. The waiting room was a narrow, cheerless space off the main hallway, dingy orange upholstered chairs arranged in clusters and singles. Knee-high maple tables were buried in coverless magazines, tattered with helplessness. Friends offered to come along. No need to take up anyone’s time. I would read and wait for the nurse to tell me the outcome like everyone else.
The surgery was exploratory. There were suspicions. A tumor-like mass was spotted in the gastrointestinal area; they would have to go in and see for sure. If it was cancer, and blood tests suggested it was, he had the best surgeon in the country. The only doctor with a track record in this delicate procedure was flown in from his Midwest practice to perform the operation. Jay liked him immediately and felt confident that he would get the job done. The doctor would remove and replace affected sections of his organs with healthy tissue from his intestine. There would be a colostomy for a time, but all should be standard procedure and Jay could expect a full recovery.
We were not used to seeing each other often, having separated after a traumatic struggle first to save the marriage, then to part for the sake of our children. The diagnosis added a new layer of chaos to an emotionally-charged chapter in our lives. Jay was determined to restore our marriage but deep wounds from a conflict with his sisters and mother continued to fester. His simmering rage exploded in relentless attacks on me and the children that threatened to break our spirits. Family life turned loveless, humorless. We cowered under the lash of his tirades. I feared for our safety and finally found the courage to take action. Revisiting his dark world was frightening. I would simply do what needed to be done, keeping feelings in check.
The day dragged on with clusters of families settling in, jumping up when a nurse arrived with news. Each in turn gathered belongings and grabbed children’s hands, faces smiling or wet with tears. No one approached me. I began to regret not bringing a friend. Vivian would be waiting for me afterward. She and her husband opened their home to me. I looked forward to spending the night in that bright, cheerful space, refuge from this morbid waiting area.
The moon traded places with the sun, darkening the room. I was the only one remaining. A young woman walked in and sat down next to me. My anguish cracked open with her kind question.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“My husband has been in surgery since seven this morning.” I said. “They think it’s cancer. I haven’t heard anything. We are separated. I am so afraid of him, I don’t know how to manage this!”
She let the silence settle around us.
“I have been in your shoes,” she said quietly.
“My husband was abusive to me and my son. I couldn’t take it and we left him. Soon after he was diagnosed with leukemia. He begged me to let him come back but I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t. We suffered too long. Turns out, it was the best thing I could have done. He recovered and became a better father to our son. It was a hard decision but I know I made the right one.”
I looked at her incredulously.
“How did you find me? How could you have suffered a nearly identical fate?” I asked.
“I am the social worker here,” she said.
“Your story gives me hope,” I said. “I love my husband but I’m frightened of the man he has become. You have helped me understand what I must do.”
“I’m glad my story gives you comfort,” she said. “I hope you won’t have to wait much longer.”
She was a crossroads person, a perfect stranger who appears at a pivotal moment and says exactly what is needed to bring calm and make the right choice. She disappeared as quickly as she came.
Suddenly the door flew open and the doctor stumbled into the room like a man who had run a marathon. His ashen face was twisted in anguish.
“Your husband- it is cancer, it’s everywhere. I tried, couldn’t get it all. He is so young. This is tragic. I am sorry.”
He turned and staggered out the door before I could speak. I looked around. No one. His words slowly found their mark. Cancer. Tragic. Sorry. I stood immobilized, shocked by his grim pronouncement, my lungs barely functioning.
Call. I have to let people know. Jay would be in intensive care at least overnight. Have to call. I slipped into the phone booth, pulled out a list of numbers, dialed with numb fingers. “Yes, surgery is done. It’s cancer. Couldn’t get it all. Not good.” His sisters, my family, his boss, my voice lifeless. Nothing more could be done that night.
Nurses let me see Jay briefly in intensive care. He was nearly upright like a mummy on display, tubes entering every part of his body, face bluish white, eyelids slightly parted. Machines beeping.
“Hang in there,” I said. “See you in the morning.”
Vivian greeted me with her warm smile and a big hug. I nearly fell into her arms, letting the weight of exhaustion overtake me. She listened as I reported the outcome, the painful ordeal of waiting, the doctor’s abrupt appearance and agonized pronouncement. He, too, was young. Perhaps this verdict for a man in his prime was a first for him. Fighting for 12 hours to save a life had taken its toll. He was defeated and could not conceal it. Now he would be the one to give Jay a prognosis that would set a new course for all of our lives. I could not eat and lost consciousness quickly in her daughter’s darkened bedroom.
It was still dark when Vivian nudged my shoulder. “Time to get up.” she said. “I think you could use a walk before facing this day.”
She swung my legs around, shoved my feet into her daughter’s My Little Pony tennis shoes, and guided me around the neighborhood like a lost sheep. A few spoonfuls of Cheerios, and I was on my way, stopping to fill the gas tank.
“Hi’ya doll,” the attendant said with otherworldly cheerfulness. I managed a smile and headed for the hospital.
Jay was released from intensive care and moved to the post-op recovery wing. His room was pleasant, like a hotel suite with minimal evidence of medical equipment. His head was propped up on pillows. His eyes followed me to the bedside.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“I’ve been better,” he said. “Glad to have it behind me.”
I searched his face for evidence of any knowledge of the outcome. He appeared not to know.
“Has the doctor been by to see you?”
“He is due to come by any time,” he said.
I held tight to my thoughts. It was best to let the doctor tell him in his own words as if we learned the news together. I reported on the children’s school activities. They were in my mother’s care. She was keeping their routine running as smoothly as possible.
The door swung open and in walked the doctor, surrounded by solemn and silent residents.
“Jay, great to see you,” he said. “Mrs. Morgan, how are you today?”
He was radiant, fresh-faced, no hint of the emotional breakdown the night before. I nodded.
“Well, good news, we got it all. You are cancer free….” That was all I heard. My ears started to ring and I felt my hands shake.
“I knew it!” Jay beamed, sitting up, shoulders squared. His eyes shone as he looked over at me.
The two continued to review details of the recovery process while I glanced back and forth between their faces, trying to comprehend what I just heard. The doctor’s stay was brief. He would check back that evening to see how Jay was coming along. Again, an abrupt exit, residents in tow. I looked at Jay.
“I’ll be back in just a minute,” I said to Jay.
I moved quickly out the door and down the hallway to catch up with the doctor. “Doctor, you told me…” He held up his hand to keep me from finishing my sentence.
“Your husband is a smart man,” he said. “He will figure it out soon enough.”
Again, the abrupt turn and he was gone.
I stood in the middle of the hallway, looking first after the doctor, then back at the door to Jay’s room. What just happened? Did I dream what he said last night? I told our family and his colleagues what I was told, that the cancer was everywhere, the prognosis poor. What did he just do to Jay? To our family? Do I tell Jay what the doctor told me? Will the others tell him? Why did he lie? Which was the lie? Do I shatter Jay’s faith in his doctor, or do I collude with him in a cruel deception? How long until Jay finds out and then what? Will he vilify his doctor? Renounce me for betraying his trust?
I hated the doctor for his thoughtless manipulation. It was cowardly, denying Jay the truth that would help him prepare for his future. Did he not want to admit his failure to remove all the cancer? Was his reputation more important than Jay’s dignity?
The answer came when I walked back into Jay’s room and saw him glowing with happiness. He believed he would live. I could not take that from him. And who knows? Jay has a will of iron. Maybe he will live.