The Day of Reckoning...and we wait

March 17, 2011: I have slept pretty well. No nervous tummy like two weeks ago and the biopsy surgery. Weird how time has been altered. It feels like a hundred days instead of fourteen. I take my sweet girl to school and we kiss goodbye and good luck. We're both wearing lucky green. She gets to roller blade today...I get to have my neck cut open. I come home and clean the bathroom and start laundry. Mom jokes that I'm "nesting". If only.

11:45 AM - Mom, Linds, and I arrive at LDS Hospital. Below my name on the check-in form are the words, "malignant melanoma". My heart races. I am shaky filling out each paper they thrust at me. Along with everything else, will my signature ever look normal again? I tell the nurse who weighs me that this is a test - according to my scales at home, I've lost 14 lbs. since the biopsy surgery. This time, I've only lost 5 lbs. Sorry, Deaner, I think - our scales really are 10 lbs. off. Maybe I just won't tell him. This nurse takes me to a regular hospital room and tells me to change into the adorable generic gown and fashionable drawstring pants. Now, I look like everyone else. She also gives me the news that my surgery is slated for 1:10 PM.

1:00 PM - A former pediatric nurse, Bobbi, comes in to take my vitals and put in my IV. We joke about getting it in the first time in my left hand, but it doesn't happen. She sees the big vein in my right hand - and away we go. She looks at my chart and delivers the delightful (and never heard before) news that my surgery is supposed to last FIVE HOURS. Where did I hear two hours? Did I dream it? Five hours sounds like a lifetime, a marathon. My blood pressure soars and we laugh nervously. We start to pray for three hours. Certainly that is long enough to kill the giant. Bobbi also tells us that now we're slated for 2:00 PM.

2:30 PM - Another nurse, Ashley, arrives bearing bad news. It will be at least another hour. The three of us moan and groan. Mom and Linds are starving. Ashley brings them food vouchers for the cafeteria, but they don't want to leave me. Mom brings out a bag of chocolate, but even the smell doesn't faze me. My stomach hurts with anxiety. Ashley brings in another IV bag and heated blankets out of the blanket oven. It feels like the air-conditioning is on. I'm so grateful for Mom and Linds. We laugh and talk like we're waiting for the bus to take us to the mall. Linds has us laughing hysterically over a blog post from her friend, Becca, who is turning 30 on March 31 and is dating 30 different men in 30 days. I laugh and laugh and it feels so good. We also laugh at Linds, who wheels & deals with T-Mobile for more minutes and text messaging like a pro. She tells them she has a "family emergency" and will need to use her phone more. I love her. I wish I wasn't the "family emergency". Mom remains my faithful secretary, fielding calls and answering questions. I love her, too, so much.

3:30 PM - My door remains wide open and we watch as orderlies come to collect their patients around me. How trusting we all are. I wonder if anyone has ever said, "No, never mind. I think I'll pass today." Of course not. We've come this far, we have to continue and move forward. Inside, we're balking and planting our feet, but ultimately, we climb on that gurney and go for the long ride. Another nurse comes in and says she'll call the OR and get an ETA. The news is not good - another hour and a half. I hear myself say, "Are you kidding?" The surgery before mine has run into serious complications. Poor, poor Dr. Bradley. Mom says, "We wanted him fresh," and the nurse says, "Look at it this way - now, he'll be warmed up."

4:00 PM - My sweet Chels calls from St. George. She had a doctor's appointment today. She's dilated to a 2, 60% effaced. But in her dear, positive voice, she says, "Don't worry, Mom. I still don't feel like he'll come soon. I know he's waiting for you." She was hoping we'd both be done by now. Me too. We call Dean, tell him to wait at home. He would be a basket case here. At least at home, he has his comfy recliner and the remote to keep him sane. Janessa has walked to Aaron's office after school and is happily using his laptop to write her stories. Everything and everyone is on hold. It feels endless.

4:30 PM - "Within the hour," says the nurse, "and I'm being conservative." I've begun to lose hope that we'll get in today. She tells us doctors are trained to go all night. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. She asks what we're doing to pass the time. We've exhausted the magazines. We've tried the TV, but it's annoying. I can't read. I'm getting loopy with nerves and an empty stomach. I worry for Mom and Linds. Luckily, they've found a soda machine nearby with Coke and pebble ice. Can we call that a tender mercy? At this point, yes. Family and friends are calling, thinking we've been done for hours and haven't notified them as promised. Repeating the bad news is depressing. We want to be finished and we haven't even begun. The nurse leaves and calls out from the hall, "Thanks for your patience." Mom replies, "We have none left." A high-school-looking orderly arrives and our hearts beat a bit faster, but he says, "We're not ready for you yet, but we wanted you to know that your sister has called the recovery room four times, asking about you." We roar with laughter and wonder which sweet sister it is. Turns out it was my sweet sister, Laura, frantic with worry. I feel so sorry.

5:50 PM - Dr. Bradley appears like an apparition in the doorway. He is exhausted, starved, and looks even younger in his scrubs and blue hair hat. Mom offers him Reese's peanut butter cups and he devours two or three as he gives us the news. I tell him, "Please go get some dinner. I can wait for you." He says he will. He tells us why we've been kept waiting all day. The surgery before me was more exploratory than mine, and when they got inside this poor man, it was everywhere, "sticking to everything," Dr. Bradley says with a grimace. "I hate cancer," he says. We nod our heads numbly. Then, he tells me more than I really want to know about my own ordeal. The five hour expected duration is real - 2 1/2 hours for the removal of my paratid gland (salivary), 2 1/2 hours for the neck dissection. Oh boy. There's that giant beast again, looming before little ol' me. But I'm armed with my slingshot and all the little stones I've been gathering over the past two weeks: prayer, blessings, miracles, and hope. I'm going in swinging.

6:05 PM - I'm scared. Shaky. Nothing feels real. Tears are coming. We hear the gurney coming down the hall. Mom and Linds - who have been with me the ENTIRE DAY - gather up my belongings for the transfer to the waiting area. I get on the gurney, crying, but Mom and Linds are keeping up the mantra - Miracles and Hope, Miracles and Hope. I watch the world go by under the bright ceiling lights, and then, we arrive. Funny how this ordinary room, with all the people doing what they've been trained to do for countless people, can change lives. I am strapped in, burrito-style, like a little baby. I am happy to know that the catheter will be put in after I'm asleep because that's one of the worst parts for me. I take one more look around the room, and then I close my eyes.

2:00 AM - March 18, 2011: Blurry. Fuzzy. I'm back in my room. My family is there. I ask if BYU won their first tournament game. YES! I have survived a 6 1/2 hour surgery. How does anyone do that? I only want to sleep. I feel nothing. It's a blessing.