Thursday, November 24
Hora de Madrugada
We barely sleep, taking turns listening to the sound of each other breathing. Although we’re back in the bed where we spent the first 3 months of our life in Brazil, the nighttime sounds of Copacabana are unsettling. I pray in 30 second bursts throughout the night.
7:00 am
I walk to a corner market to buy the massive amounts of Gatorade that Helena’s required to drink before the colonoscopy. We called the office and asked whether she could drink agua de coco instead (coconut water is also packed full of electrolytes), but they insist. Again, I ask myself: “Why are we doing this?”
It’s more information, that’s all.
2:00 pm
We arrive early for the appointment. The nurse tells me that the entire procedure will take about an hour and a half. I kiss Helena and hold her arms before she goes in, wishing her sweet dreams.
I sit down to wait. I ask for guidance for the doctor, calm for Helena, and I pray for the other anxious families, wishing them peace with whatever the results may be.
I look at my watch and only 3 minutes have passed. I jiggle my foot for another minute, then tell the receptionist that I’ll be back.
When I emerge from the cool building I am momentarily stunned by blinding sunlight. I feel the tears well, put on my sunglasses, and continue walking. A corner stand is selling the bitter Italian lemon ice that I loved as a kid, and I give in to the momentary comfort of the familiar flavor. There’s a large park across the street and I walk to the very center, where I sit at the base of a large statue to rest and wait.
That’s when I remember that it’s Thanksgiving Day in the US, and I’ve forgotten to call my parents. The tears come, and I struggle for about 20 seconds before pushing them back. If I let it all go, I’m afraid I won’t stop.
I pray and pray and pray, knowing that I will not make bargains with God. We chose this path— long before we ever met. One day we’ll understand.
I remove my glasses and squint up at the sun, waiting. There will be no answers today.
When I return to the office an hour later, they tell me that Helena is ready. They lead me to a recovery room where I find her looking remarkably radiant. “I finally got some rest!” she laughs. We wait and talk, and then the doctor calls us into his office to review the results.
I can see from his face that the results aren’t good. He is serious but kind as he tells us that the tumor is very large, and most certainly inoperable. I hold Helena’s hand and ask him if it’s spread. He shows us the photos and says, no, he doesn’t think that it’s spread to the intestines.
“So this is good news,” I comment, looking him directly in the eye.
“Yes,” he says, looking down. “It’s very treatable by radiotherapy if it’s contained to the site of the tumor.”
I squeeze Helena’s hand, and in her eyes, I see fear.
“It’s treatable,” I remind her. “This is good news.”
We ask a few more questions, but I can feel that there’s something the doctor isn’t saying.
6:00 pm
We make our way back up the mountain.
Related articles
- Day 1: Diagnosis (liveyourbliss.wordpress.com)
“We chose this path— long before we ever met. One day we’ll understand.”
I totally love you for this!! You and Helena are just so awesome!
And I’d like to know why agua de coco wasn’t good enough.
Just read this comment now…playing catch up! You know, that is a FANTASTIC question. Agua de coco should be more than enough!!!
Hi Gals, just a morning note to let you know we are with you, up here in Philly. I feel your experience, and am sending positive energy for healing and pain free (physical and emotional) transit through this phase of your journey. Love, Fran
Hi Fran, I’m just catching up on comments that I never had a chance to respond to, and I wanted to thank you for this! I KNOW you know this experience, and we really do feel your love and support. Thanks for being a living example of the power of love.
Helena and Leigh … I remember getting the initial info and thinking to myself this was such a cruel thing to be dealing with on the day of Thanks. At the same time, I knew that the two of you could do wonders and had no hesitation in thinking it can and will be cured. Every day when I wake up, the two of you are thought of and in my prayers. I see images of Helena bouncing, smiling, and most recently surrounded by purple light. Thanks for sharing the rest of the story – Love and hugs, Jan
Hi Jan, just catching up on previous comments that I never responded to, and I saw yours. Thank you for the images of Helena bouncing and smiling…it’s working!!!
My gut just clenches as I read what you were going through. So much anxiety and uncertainty … and yet I continue to be so impressed with how well you were already grounding yourselves and holding on to your peaceful centers. Much, much love!!