The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 23 - Waiting

It had been a very long three weeks, and I felt like I was nearing the end of my tether. My right foot was twitching uncontrollably as I sat in the brilliant white waiting area, trying to block out the tantalising violins that were racing circles in my brain.

Millie flipped through an old copy of Vogue, seemingly impervious to the debilitating tunes. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall. I didn't think I could bear waiting in that room for another minute. I needed something to happen — the nurse to call us in, or send us home, or wake me up to tell me this was all a freakish nightmare.

I felt the critical eyes of the receptionist on me and my squeaking chair. She probably thought I was the patient and Millie was the one there for support. I didn't blame her. I'd seen people waiting in line at the post office who, at first glance, looked edgier than her.

But I knew better. I knew that Millie's eyes had been fixed on the same spot, on the same page, for five minutes now. I heard the pages fluttering between her trembling fingers. I felt her sigh quietly beside me, trying to pull more oxygen into her lungs. I turned to the print of the Maltese capital, trying to ignore the exhaustion from the events of the past few days.

Four days after our appointment with Dr Debattista, we met with Ms Marjorie Atkins, Millie's gynaecologist — a warm-natured woman with lush amber locks. Millie told her the whole story and showed her the ultrasound report and blood results. Ms Marjorie, who Millie had been seeing for the past twenty-three-odd years, seemed genuinely concerned. She carried out a pelvic exam and a Pap smear and confirmed that she could feel a lump that coincided with the findings of the ultrasound. She then said that Millie would probably need a hysterectomy.

The following Thursday, we had the CT scan. The radiographer was a tall, roundish lady named Antida. She was very gentle and patient. She explained every step of the procedure, painlessly inserted a needle into Nanna's arm and injected what she described as a contrast dye through it. Millie had to drink a solution called Gastrografin after being starved for four hours. When they were ready to start, Antida asked me to wait outside, which I did — for thirty long minutes. As soon as the door opened, I jumped on her and asked if the cancer had spread anywhere else, but she said she wasn't in a position to say. The radiologist still had to see and report on the scan. Before I could ask how long that would take, she went on to say that the radiologist would send the report directly to Dr Debattista, and he would discuss it with us himself at our next appointment.

I wanted to scream. Our next appointment was more than two weeks away. Luckily, Millie came out at that moment and dragged me away before I could make a fool of myself.

The hysteroscopy was done on Friday. We were at the hospital at six in the morning. I felt as though someone had transformed my insides into a ton of wriggling worms overnight. Millie, on the other hand, was incredibly brave and calm. She was thoroughly checked by a stern-looking Eastern European nurse. Then, after a few minutes in the quiet cubicle, Ms Marjorie walked in and introduced the anaesthetist who was going to sedate her.

The procedure was ready in twenty minutes, during which I made myself dizzy pacing in circles outside the theatre doors. My fingers were raw from wringing them so hard, but they could have been bleeding and skinned to the bone, and I wouldn't have noticed.

Finally, the swinging doors opened and Millie was wheeled out of the theatre on a stretcher. She was still high on the sedative, but she was completely pain-free and comfortable, and we were able to go home an hour and a half later.

Then came the worst and most exhausting part — the waiting. Two whole weeks of waiting, of doing nothing but distracting each other from wondering about the results.