The Diagnosis in Cursive

When the doctor's assistant called to schedule the follow-up to my spinal tap, I knew that she knew.  Her positive tone actually made me suspicious.  My mother and husband both wanted to go to the appointment with me.  I knew that my mom really wanted to be there to support me and I hated to have Jack miss another day of work.  I also felt that by not having Jack go, I was proving that I was hoping for the best.

The doctor came in and sat across from me at a close, yet comfortable distance for a nice long chat.  My mom sat to my right with pen and paper propped up on her purse to take notes.  My chart was opened and she proceeded to tell me that my tests for cancers and then bla, bla, bla (it's all a blur)...came back "negative".  It all looked good...."BUT"...(a Pee-Wee Herman quote came to my mind for comic relief)...I did test positive for M.S. I don't remember the doctor's exact words.  All I can remember is that on a small folded piece of scratch paper, my mom wrote, "does have M.S."  That's the one thing I remember most from that day.  When I close my eyes, I can still see her cursive hand-writing across the page.  My heart sank for just a brief moment but strangely lifted at the realization that I was not really just going crazy.  I resolved to soak up all the information that the doctor was trying to impart. In an effort to avoid overwhelming me with too much, she pulled a book down from her shelf, M.S. for Dummies.  I chuckled at the thought that maybe there was a copy of M.S. for Smarties in her collection but she chose the former.  We sat and talked for a few more minutes, my mother taking careful notes. The doctor allowed a few weeks until my next appointment so that I could consider my treatment options.  Which meant: shot A, shot B, shot C, shot D, shot E or shot F.  Some had risks, some were inter-muscular, some were steroids, some once a day, others once a week or month, etc.  But none were a cure.

All I wanted to do was get to Jack.  We drove just a block across the street to his office where I immediately met him in the hallway.  I told him the news without any show of emotion because I knew that he would feel bad about not being there with me during the appointment and even worse that he still had a whole day of work ahead.  I told him that we could talk later, enjoyed a long hug, and went home.  Fifteen minutes later, he walked through the door.

The Waiting Room

A doctor's waiting room is like a microcosm of life.  There are people who will make the most of their "pause" by editing their day planners, making a grocery list, or even cleaning out their purse (my personal favorite).  A more relaxed person may casually flip through the magazines while taking note of good recipes or beauty tips, people watch, or phone a friend.  There are even those who foresee and even hope for this waiting and bring along a book or laptop.  On the other hand, there are those who, maybe due to the reason for their visit, are so nervous that all they can do is sit and focus on the waiting.

Sometimes I think that life is about how we live in the waiting.  I suppose in the widest scope, one could just be waiting til their end. But in many ways, we wait.  We wait for birthdays, holidays, to drive, find jobs, buy a home, get a report card,....get a diagnosis.  I wonder what an outsider would have observed about me during my waiting?  Could I be considered a person with faith even though I followed through with occasional impulses to research every positive outcome?  Or was I just being a responsible, educated patient?  Was it ok that I sometimes looked for blogs and comments of people with M.S...looking for clues, allowing my emotions to ride up and down?  I can't decide if I spent my waiting time productively or psychotically- but, regardless- a month seemed like an eternity.  Thankfully, in eternity, there will be no more waiting.