d day. part two.

(2 of 3)

diagnosis day. part two.

Immediately following the news of Brooklyn's cancer diagnosis, Jay and I agreed we should call a few people to update them. I offered to call our three sets of parents, and ask them to share with the rest of our family.

I remember the exact spot I sat in, a crumbled heap on the floor.
I was outside 3B2, where a mechanical penny machine sits in glass.
I sat down on the ledge beside it, unable to walk any further.

It was cold.
Hard.
Exposed.

I didn't know where else to go. I think, in a way, I needed to be in a public place, and as it turns out God blessed me with a McMaster mom angel who stopped not once, but twice to check in on me.

"I can see you are having a hard day. Please let me give you a hug." she said. I was so shocked by her kindness, yet so grateful for her in that moment.

I called my mother-in-laws. One at work. One at home.
I also called my parents, my dad picked up the phone.

Never in my life have a stuttered like that.
Never.

I couldn't string a sentence together.
I remember saying 'Brooklyn... has... cancer.... surgery... biopsy....'
But I don't remember being able to say much else besides a quiet request that they each contact our siblings and extended family to update them of this news.

For the first time as Brooklyn's mother, I was useless.
There wasn't a thing I could do to stop the train.

A train which derailed, earlier that morning, and was speeding.
Speeding down a hill so steep, I was breathless.

---

Because Brooklyn was on the 'add list' as a registered patient in surgical, hospital OR time was very fluid and changed in a heartbeat. We knew she would have surgery later that afternoon, a laparoscopic biopsy, to test the tumour inside her abdomen.

What we weren't prepared for was hearing the head of oncology tell us they'd like to insert a port-a-cath into our daughter's chest. This tool was vital for chemotherapy, a medical procedure they believed essential given the potential for an advanced stage cancer.

I remember sitting in the social room in 3B2, surrounded by families playing games, laughing and participating in craft time.

I remember our table was not laughing.
Not having fun.
Not even close.

The rest of that afternoon was like a hyperspeed episode of a hospital drama.

From the meeting, to a child life specialist racing down the hall to tell us she was being taken for surgery.
To the OR holding area, only to be bumped and forced to wait almost two more hours for surgery.
Into the OR, where my daughter begged to go home, then fought every doctor and nurse who attempted to touch her.

I left my daughter in an OR.
Cancer in her stomach.
Her future resting on the results of a biospy only moments away.

I left her.
I couldn't help her.
I couldn't fix it.

I remember falling into Jay's arms, a heaping mess of exhaustion and anxiety.
I remember him forcing me upstairs to Brooklyn's room, to my waiting mother and aunt who, despite my best attempt to tell them to leave, stayed to care for us. Thank God.

I was completely numb.
I was shaking.
Thousands of pounds on my shoulders.
My head was exploding.

They made me a sandwich.
I sat in stunned silence.

d day. part two.
January 20th, 2016.

#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold