April 9, 2012 8:35 AM
HeathEast Hospital, Maplewood Mn. Breast Care Unit Test Lab

Breast Care Unit test lab. A week ago, seven, eight days what ever, Debbie’s mammogram @ Woodwinds Hospital show’d some spots in one of those lovely breast. We are here today @ HeathEast Hospital Breast Care Unit to trust. To trust that the Lord show’d those spots for a reason, to trust that we trust. Perhaps that’s what all this is all bout, trust, if so, let it be.

In trust we must extend that trust to the pro’s behind those double paneled wooden doors, ominous as the curtain before the throne of Oz. To trust that the great Ozet’s know what they are doing and how to do it and that they will do it well. Our trust in the Lord is an end all but really gang, it goes out and beyond the meditative space of our faith.

This amateur poet struggles with these words to confront an entirely new situation. My wife of 26 years never, if ever, goes to the doctor let alone to a hospital. Yet, here, in a hospital we are, in the breast care unit no less.

Debbie always seems to have a touch of anxiety about her. Debbie is always buzzing like a bee and flying from place to place, store to store, relative to relative like a humming-bird. This morning, over coffee at a Caribou on White Bear Ave. in Maplewood Debbie showed me a trace of apprehension within some new lines I’ve never noticed in her face before today.

Debbie knows what’s going on. She knows about the test, the procedure, the table, the gown, but, in our human frailty the thoughts of ‘oh really, like I need this’? those thoughts plant themselves like a bad seeds in her mind. Is that what this is all about? A bad seed?

Debbie has said several times over the past week that she’s thought about it and she’s quite sure no one in her family has ever had a bout of cancer. No history of that disease that she can see or remember. Plenty of others but not the ‘C’.

 

Switch gears here with me for the simple reason that I am loosing my hyperfocus and needing a break:

On and on it goes this perpetual remodeling of St. Johns hospital. The place with the reputation as the place not to go if you have heart problems. This is the place to be if birthing is the situation. My children, as well as my grandchildren were all born here in St. Johns. It was the astute care and dedication to excellence in the birthing crew when Regina was born who decided there was a little something abnormal w/her heart beat and maybe a trip down town to Children’s Hospital would reveal, uncover, repair that concern the morning of Dec. 11, 1987. This discovery, as difficult as it was and the final outcome was a blessing. I have to believe that the 22 months we had with Regina were 22 months more because of that above mentioned tuning into excellence, and to know, absolutely know, beyond any frail human doubt, that Regina is with Jesus in heaven, a place and God I truly believe now, more than I did then.

Fate, trust, hope, love, patience, devotion, why search for more words as I sit in this waiting place waiting for the woman I love to come out, in what I was told would be about an hour, hour and a half with some sore breasts and perhaps a heightened fear or strengthened faith in God and the gods and minions of modern medicine.

Too much has been written about women/wives/mothers who have or have had breast cancer.  When it comes to ones own, the ones we love, mine!!! can there ever be too much to say.

 

How about this 90º hair pin turn in the highway of life we’ve been speeding down at 63/64 years old. I’m stumped. I’m sitting—I’m waiting. I’m trying to make my waiting something more than picking up excessively handled magazines and read the daily tragedies in the local press.

But that’s for another story Elizabeth.

In this place, St. Johns HeathEast Hospital Breast Care Unit the women come in one after the other. An endless flow of female humans, wanting to know, fearing to know. These are people with breasts that may or may not contain something that may or may not forever change their future. Something in there might kill them unless science, tests, machines, experts reading data and interpreting stuff that at this moment means nothing to me because I am just a man sitting in a waiting room listening to overly friendly receptionist answering phones, give directions, talk about yesterdays Easter dinners and who was there and what they had to eat.

These are the things and this is the way that I deal with my fear of the unknown, oh yeah, and with a deep desire to keep speaking His name, Jesus, the master of this game.

OMG!!!, my love just came out them doors, smiling and walking like she’s in a straight jacket (which, come to find out, is what that ace bandage feels like) and she’s ready to go. It could not have been an hour or hours at all, or has it been? It has? it’s been an hour and ten?

As we leave I smile and say to the keepers of the keys and the guards to the gate of women’s best breast fates, ‘thanks girls, hope to never see you again.’

My silent prayer is much more respectful and sincere: ‘Thank you Jesus.’

April 10, 2012 5:50 PM

UPDATE:

Nurse called to confirm the test was a success, not a worry, not a mass, not a trace, but left in place is our choice to call on Him when fear strikes a resounding chord in our life song.

Amen

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