25 - The Big C

It is 6:00 AM on the last day of August. The Second Dr V walks into my room. Without preamble he states: The biopsy is back. You have stomach cancer.

Like past mornings, he does not turn on the overhead lights. The room is not completely dark, but it is dim. The sun has not yet risen. I stare up at him.

Finally, I utter one word: Oh.

Part of me is expecting this. I mean, DUH! I am on the 9th floor surgical oncology wing of a big, city hospital. There have been tests, conversations, signs.

And - yet - part of me is not expecting it at all. As if all those bright, breezy texts about orange Jell-O, CSI, and round-off-back-handspring-into-a-Whipple are the reality…and this 9th floor surgical oncology room is the not-quite-funny mistake.

He adds that I will get more information later in the morning.

Oh, I repeat. Okay.

The Big C is here and I have nothing to say.