This day has not happened. I didn't wake up. How could I? I don't remember my alarm sounding.
And yet, there I was, running late this morning, half dressed, taking long, rushed strides, from my bathroom to my bedroom. Then, there was blood. A nosebleed. A curse under my breath. I don't have time for this.
Dressed now, with a tissue held to my nose. Phone in hand to call my dentist to say I'd be late. Before I dialed, the phone rang. Lori. For a split second, I didn't answer. I looked at the clock. I don't have time for this.
"Good morning?" Hi? "What's up?" There's blood in my stool. "I think you should go to the emergency room." How? Where? "Do you want me to go with you?"
There was a cab with a driver--I'm sure there was a driver. Right? Because then, we were at the emergency room.
7:35. Blood in vials. Urine sample. A rectal exam. A pelvic exam. There was movement to a closed-room door.
"Do you want me to stay?" I don't mind if you don't mind.
I stood a bit behind her, to the left, I think. I need to leave. I stayed. The floor swayed below me. I couldn't breathe in that room. Blood and mucus and lubricant. Stirrups. I can't leave. I can't move.
Movement, again--back to the curtained alcove.
Hours passed according to the clocks on the walls, and I read Kafka aloud. Kafka. Aloud in the emergency room. After ten pages, both of our minds had wandered.
Had the CAT scan come before or after reading Kafka? Barium solution that smelled like orange cream-sicles. I read Kafka to myself in an empty alcove, with the curtain open.
We had begun to speak and plan the afternoon.
"If we're out of here by -:--, then we can put on our pajamas for the afternoon and watch Xena and Buffy episodes." I don't know what episodes I'd want you to watch. "One serious, one comical."
The CAT scan must have happened, because the doctors came back. Maybe while I was reading Kafka. God, I know that look. That look.
They drew the curtain. There were two of them: a student, a mentor.
I stood in the back, against the wall, to the left.
There's a large growth on one of your ovaries. A growth. A growth..
(That was not real. It was a scene on stage, in a play. The actors were center stage and no one existed but them. And time? Time fell away. All the clocks, in all the alcoves, on all the walls broke.)
I've asked the ob/gyn surgeon to speak with you, to look at the CAT scan. What can you tell us right now?
Do you have any questions? Cancer? Is it? Could it be? What, what, what now?
Well, is it cancer? That is a possibility, but certainly, your age is on your side. You're only 25. Yes, she's only 25.
The student and the mentor left, closing the curtain behind them.
(There were no actors center stage.) Only us, center stage, and the broken clocks were our hearts.
The rest of the afternoon was disjointed phrases.
It looks like my worse fear has been realized. "I don't know what to say. What to do." I want to say that I need to leave. I need to cry.
At some point the oncologist surgeon came. Best case: We'll remove the tumor is it cancerous? is it cancerous? is it cancerous?, one ovary, and your appendix. Worse case: We'll remove the tumor, both ovaries, and your uterus. Even if it is cancerous, cancer at 25 is much different from cancer at 52. And: you need a blood transfusion, because you're severely anemic, which could be because blood is filling the growth. We're admitting you for the weekend and scheduling surgery for Monday.
I'm dying. "The surgeon said your worst case scenario is a complete hysterectomy not death. You are not dying." What if...what if...what if...what if... "I cannot lose someone else...don't I deserve a few years...at least five...between losing people." Could you wait to leave. I'm going to lose it. "What are you feeling? Where are you, Lori?" I have to tell my father. I have so many people I need to call. "Everything will be. Well, it'll be. I don't know if it'll be okay, so I won't say that. It'll be. What else is there?" I know. I know.
I'm not certain if it had been hours or days or seconds that passed.
I don't feel like there's something wrong. I thought it was food poisoning. "I wish it had been. I don't know what to say, Lori, or how to act. I'm not trying to make this about me, but I'm scared. Please don't think I'm being selfish. I love you, you know." I know. I know. I don't think that at all. I understand.
I'm not certain if it had been hours or days or seconds that passed.
There was a room. More saline drip. Somehow, it had become dark outside. Zach, Lori's roommate came. Bruce came. The three of us, center stage, in a room around her bed.
There was laughter. Our company was good. Is this real?
By the time I left, someone had mended some of the clocks on the walls. Somehow, without the day happening, my heart had lost 13 hours.