Today, the man wears purple scrubs. This particular set means something special to me, as one of the previously initiated. They scream “surgical scrubs”. I don’t believe this doctor performs surgery, he probably pilfered them long ago, and it’s just easier to wear scrubs every day, rather than deciding which professional attire matches wholly enough to earn people’s trust.
He is wearing an N95, the threads looped through his blanched white hair. It reminds me of Santa Claus. But, this man is thin, and tall, and the words he has for me are not jolly. I put all my force of focus on the worn brown Vans tucked under the table he is typing at. He writes his notes furiously, his back turned to us. The vans must be 5 years past their prime. Not professional attire. But, I don’t mind, because it makes the man human.
I wonder about the type of father he is, perhaps a grandfather? Does he make the same ridiculous mouth sounds at his grandchildren that he uses with my son now? He burrs and squawks, trying to maintain my son’s line of sight on the bright flashing light he’s swirling around the room. He wears the same metal contraption on his head as the last appointment, but this time, he seems less certain about the effect of the light.
Doubt starts to gnaw at me. Last time, he was so very certain. Last time, he was almost dismissive. Today, he shoves purple gloved fingers into the folds of my son’s fat little neck. Today, he holds my son’s head still, as he looks, and looks again, as if his eyes may have deceived him. I was expecting an “all clear”, but now, I know what he’s going to say next.
He tells us his gut says this is benign. But. But, he can’t be sure. He rattles off impressive words about the level of his experience, how rarely he has witnessed this occurring. I believe him.
He orders three MRI scans that my small (large) baby, who has newly met the world, will need to be sedated for. Scans that will help rule out neuroblastoma. Cancer.
He says it all so very tacitly, almost reassuringly. That an ENT will just cut the cancer right out, or maybe it’s just a cyst, or maybe it’s all nothing, and the universe has just put me face to face with the very scare I never wanted. Right now, I’m breathing. I have to. My son is having the time of his life. He is cooing and laughing at all the fancy metal ophthalmology equipment around him; all the contrasts of light and dark that are so appealing to babies. He’s full of joy, full of life, at a contrast that is symbolic for something I struggle to accept. You can’t have light without darkness. There isn’t love without pain.
I’ve drowned out what the doctor is telling us. It isn’t new information. My own husband wants to become a physician, and is working towards applying for medical school. I may myself choose to become a practitioner at some point. We’re adept at looking at available research, and understanding what practice decisions mean. But, knowledge of rarity is not a bed of comfort. I hear his words break through “…run the scans so we can all sleep better at night.”
I nod my head. “Okay, thank you.” I reply. My husband is silent in the seat next to me. He hands us a print out of the scan orders, and tells us to call the number listed. We have to figure out getting these scans done within our network, but the idea of figuring that out right now overwhelms me.
We walk down and out of the building. I’m relaying to my husband the difference in mannerisms and confidence between this visit and the last, of the fear that has been struck in me. He asks me what the details of the orders list. There, in black and white are the words that threaten to overcome me. I read them aloud, and choke on tears, ripping my mask off my face as we hit the outside world, gasping for some fresh air. “Rule out neuroblastoma.”
Again, he is quiet. Tears stream down my face, and I’m thankful for my sunglasses hiding what I know are brightly reddened eyes, from those who are walking past us. My heart aches. I am scared. He reminds me that knowing will be good for us all, so we can take the right next steps. I’m hoping there are no other steps to take, but enjoying and loving my boy, and all of my people.
But first, I have to breathe.
Jess and The Fiat 