Friday, October 17, 2008

What a Difference a Day Makes

Now and then a situation arises which changes you. That was profound! As if no one else had ever had that happen. I can't even count how many times over the course of my life I have had these occurrences.

But recently I had an experience that was so life-changing that it has me looking at things through completely different glasses. I have struggled most of my life with nicotine addiction. I started smoking in the first place to be "cool", as it was cool in those days to be a smoker. We had no idea the harm smoking would do. Had we known, though, I still don't think we would have given up the coolness of it. Just like the hip-hugger bell-bottom pants, the peasant blouses, the platform shoes, the long stringy straight hair and going without a bra, it was a part of us. It defined us. It proved how grown-up we were!

Fast forward to adulthood with its pressures, responsibilities and challenges . . . and its excuses for not giving up cigarettes. Over the years I have quit and started back more times than I can count, never giving serious consideration to my family history and how these things can be handed down from generation to generation.

In August of this year I decided I needed to have a complete physical. It had been five years since I had had one. Oh, I had seen a doctor at some point when I was so deathly ill with a sinus infection that I could not go on another minute without a Z-Pak. But at that time my life was such that I just could not make time for a visit to the doctor. (At this point I was in Ohio, my favorite doctor was in Georgia, and I just wasn't ready for a change.)

My doctor is part of a diagnostic clinic, and when I say complete physical I mean complete. He obviously heard something in my chest he didn't like, so off to the X-ray department I went. The next morning I was awakened from a sound sleep by my cell phone playing "River of Dreams" (one of my favorite Billy Joel songs). It was my doctor's nurse telling me in rather unemotional tones (but I guess they have to do that) that the X-rays showed a "spot" on my right lung and I would need to come in for a CT scan. Somehow I managed to go back to sleep and when I woke up later I wasn't even sure if the call had really happened. But I checked my cell phone, and there it was . . . a call from my doctor's office.

I sat in my bed with my laptop typing out a pitiful poor-me-this-is-so-unfair account of the day. Oh, what would I do? I started compiling the DVD to be viewed at my memorial (I would, after all, be cremated). I could not decide whether to tell anyone; I didn't want to worry my family. But on the day I was to go for the CT scan I happened to be with my son and his wife. I did not want to tell them what was going on, but somehow I just felt compelled to. They were both visibly shaken but optimistic that the outcome would be a good one.

But how could it be? Had I not known for years that smoking was very bad for anyone but certainly worse for me because of my family history? How could I even expect to have a good outcome even though I had, once again, quit smoking? So I was planning my memorial, picking out the music and the photos (need to get some more photos out of storage and I don't have "At My Funeral" by the Crash Test Dummies on my computer). What to do first? There was so much I had not told my only child, my 31-year-old not-so-grown-up overprotected son. There was so much to do. Most of my "stuff" was still in Ohio even after two years of being back home in Georgia. What to do about that? And the "stuff" I do have will have to be disposed of. What about my two cats? They love each other, and I would like to keep them together. Oh, who will take them and love them?

So on Friday before Labor Day I tremble as I prepare to go for my CT scan. I can barely breathe, but I shower and dress and put on makeup as if it would matter at all, and drive the 20 or so miles to the diagnostic clinic. I wait only a short time before I am called into the room where the very imposing machine sits. The technician explains to me that I need not undress as she is only interested in a limited area and the machine is very precise. I didn't even need to take off my shoes, she told me, but it just felt more comfortable to leave them beside the chair where my purse was now sitting.

The CT scan took very little time, and the technician tells me that my doctor will call me with the results. Later that day my doctor's nurse called to set up an appointment to see the doctor for the verdict. Since it was Labor Day weekend, it would be Tuesday before I could see him. It was absolutely the longest weekend of my life. I could not force myself to see or talk to anyone at all. I don't think I even left my house again until Monday night when it was time to go to work. And then I went to work early because I just could not stand to be alone with myself any longer.

My appointment was for 1:15 p.m. on Tuesday, and I'm not sure how I managed to keep quiet until then. I waited for what seemed an eternity for the doctor to come into the room. When he did, he barely got one foot in the door before looking me squarely in the eye and saying, "You're fine." He obviously knew how worried I had been by the haggard look on my face. As it turns out, the "spot" was some sort of scar tissue, possibly from slight pneumonia or another ailment I had either forgotten or not felt sick enough to count. I will see him again at the end of November to have it re-checked, but the doctor saw no need for concern. Before CT scans and the vast strides made in medicine and technology, I imagine I would have had a biopsy to determine the nature of the "spot."

To say I felt relieved is more than an understatement. I was not even in my car when I was on the phone with my son, telling him the good news. "I'm fine," I said, echoing the doctor's words exactly, and burst into tears. I came into work that night practically floating on air, prompting one of my co-workers to ask if I'd had a sexual encounter, though he used other words. I told them all what I had just endured and how very grateful I was to be alive.

It wears off, of course. One cannot go around all the time in a grateful mood, floating on air. It just isn't practical. There are days I'm sure I don't even give it a thought. But on the days I do, I am more than exceptionally grateful for every day of life I have. By no means do I think I am completely safe . . . there is that family history, after all . . . but I do not believe I will ever even think of smoking again.

When I was so sure I was dying, another thought that entered my mind was, "Who will ride the tandem with Lil Sis?" Seriously. I'm doubly glad we don't have to answer that question.

1 comment:

Bragger said...

Where have you been hiding this writing talent for so long? How poignant....

I was holding my breath, even though I KNEW the outcome.