The Way It Began (Part 2)

Had to stop in the middle last time. Some of the feelings I thought I had tucked away for good were beginning to swirl around. Funny how talking about it can take you right back to the time.

After what seemed like a year (I'm sure it was actually only a minute or so), I asked the Dr., "So what do we do now?" I'm not really sure I heard everything he said. It kind of came in bits and snatches. I heard, "that will depend", "more tests", "every case is unique", ". The rest of it was sort of like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. . . "waa, wa wa wa waaa".

I guess the Dr. realized I was zoning out, because he stopped and said, "Mrs. Lunsford?" I blinked three or four times and tried to focus back on his face. He said, "I'm going to refer you to a surgeon because Ken will most likely need a feeding tube". What he didn't say was that it wasn't just a "surgeon" he was sending us to, but a "surgical oncologist". He went on to say that he was sure the surgeon would want a CT scan done, so he was going to just go ahead and send Ken up to the imaging center to get that done before we left. He told me that Ken was still in recovery and I would be able to see him in about 20 minutes. As he was heading toward the door, he said, with a face full of genuine regret, "I'm sorry--I wish I'd had better news to tell you."

I went back into the waiting room. People were still waiting to hear about their loved ones. Waiting, chatting, reading, watching TV--just the same as they had been when I went into "that room". Now I had twenty minutes until I could see Ken. What should I do? Should I cry? Should I pray? Should I call someone? Who should I call? I was in such a whirl of emotions.

I finally decided that I should call Mama and our pastor, Keith. Tried Mama first. She answered the phone and I said, "Mama?" That's when I was hit with the most crushing load of fear I have EVER felt. It was so bad that I couldn't speak another word. Mama was on the other end of the line yelling at me to talk to her and tell her what's wrong. Every time I opened my mouth to speak, my breath left me and all I could get out was "wait. . . ". This went on for about 5 minutes. Poor Mama. I'm not sure if I ever apoligized to her for doing that. I can't imagine what she must have been thinking.

I'm not really sure how it finally came out, but I think I said something like, "Mama, there's a mass in Ken's stomach and they think it may be cancer!" I do not remember what she said, as the rest of the conversation is a big blur. I remember telling her that I would call her later. I hung up and tried to call Keith. I forgot that he was going to be out of town that week. I guess the secretary heard how upset I was because she put me through to Brad, our brand-new (I think it was his first official day at work) associate pastor. I introduced myself (remember, he was new), told him what was going on and where we'd be. He said he'd be right down. Poor guy, he got lost on the way because he had just moved from Knoxville and had NO idea how to get to Erlanger Hospital.

About that time, the nurse came to tell me I could go back and see Ken now. When she saw how upset I was, she got a panicked look on her face and said, "I'm not sure he knows yet". I'm not sure if she expected me to paste on a smile and pretend everything was peachy, but I was too far gone by that time. Turns out, Ken did know. I think he knew all along. As soon as the procedure was over and they started trying to rouse him, he looked at the Dr. and asked, "Is it cancer?"

I went into the recovery area and Ken was sitting up in the bed. We didn't say anything--just held hands and looked at each other. The nurse came with a wheelchair and handed me an order for a "STAT" CT scan. Now, I've watched enough ER to know that "STAT" means "do it now". I didn't know, though, that Drs. don't usually issue "STAT" orders unless something tremendous is going on. We got up to the imaging center somehow--I believe the nurse went up with us. They gave Ken a big cup of the thickest, gloppiest stuff I've ever seen and said, "when you finish that one, let us know and we'll give you another one". Now, I know I had a HUGE lump in my throat. I'm sure Ken's was worse. How in the world did they expect him to drink two full glasses of that nasty stuff? About 3/4 of the way through the second cup, Brad came in. He had been driving around downtown Chattanooga for the better part of an hour, trying to find us. He held our hands and prayed for us. They called Ken back and Brad stayed with me while Ken was having the CT. Several months later, Brad got all crossways with some people in our congregation and he left under not the best circumstances. But as long as I live, I will NEVER forget that it was Brad who was with us on that first day and that he was the first one to pray for us.

When the CT was over, they brought Ken out and sent us home, saying, "You'll be hearing from the doctor soon." Such innocent words. . . such ominous feelings.