On January 8th, 1986 I had an appointment at one of the hospitals in the Texas Medical Center which was officially called the "University of Texas System Cancer Center, M.D. Anderson Hospital and Tumor Institute in Houston Texas". It was a Wednesday and as we walked away from our taxi and stepped through the sliding glass doors we found ourselves in a world we couldn't have imagined only sixteen days ago.
Cancer.
We were speechless, nervous, wide eyed and in awe. This was completely new to us and I paused to reflect on how we got there.
The phone rang about twenty minutes after his receptionist said she'd talk to Dr. McCredie.
"Dr. McCredie will see you."
"Excuse me?"
"I spoke with Dr. McCredie. I relayed everything you told me and he said he will see you."
Speechless.
Take a deep breath.
"He would like you to stop taking your medication immediately."
My mind is racing. This is it. This is what you were hoping for. He said yes.
He. Said. Yes.
So many things to take care of. I can't believe this is happening. I can't stop the mind chatter that is so loud now. What will I tell the kids? What will I do with the kids? I know she's giving me important information. She's sending me forms. Oh crap, what did she say?
Call husband. Exhilaration.
It's all so overwhelming. It's everything I wanted. It's exactly what I'd hoped for.
I had no idea what was going to happen but what I did know was that it was better than the alternative I'd silently been living with every day since Christmas Eve. Day to day activities had been as normal and distracting as I needed them to be.
Take our daughter to her second grade class and admire her from afar. She was an incredible big sister and an amazing mother's helper. She was very serious and determined and sometimes I wondered what was really going on in that seven year old mind of hers.
Take our middle son to pre-school. He was a happy and carefree soul. And chatty, very chatty. I loved the innocence of his smile. It melted my heart.
Hang out with and hang on to our baby boy. He was a handful of out of control energy and I loved his huge "around my neck" hugs. I'd stopped nursing him shortly before I was diagnosed. Knowing full well he didn't understand, sometimes I'd look at him with tears in my eyes and ask, "What are we gonna do, huh?"
Three young lives, each on their own paths. It was all just beginning for them and I knew I had to be there every step of the way. To pick them up if they fell. To hold them if they hurt. To look at the stars with them. To give them butterfly kisses. To laugh with them and cry with them. To comfort them. To just hold their hand. I would do whatever I possibly could to make that happen.
Family came together to help out. Lists were made. Bags were packed. We promised to come back from our "trip" with presents.
Big.
Huge.
Hugs.
And then.
There we were stepping through those sliding glass doors into an unfamiliar world of hope.
