Jen Benka The Tide is High And
She is staring at my face. I don’t blame her. If I were sitting across from someone who had hairy stitches dragging from her nostril down toward her upper lip, I’d look, too. (Is now a good time to talk? Yeah, sure. The biopsy came back. And? You have skin cancer. Is it serious? It is not metastasizing, just slowly spreading locally. Do I need to have surgery? Yes. But, I’m so busy-- can I wait to schedule it? It is a good idea when you are told that there is cancer in your body to have it removed as soon as possible. Wait, cancer, as in cancer? Yes. Am I dying? Not immediately, but eventually, yes. Once it’s removed, can it come back? The likelihood of that happening is strong. And will it spread then? Not necessarily, but from now on you will need to be very careful. Cancer? Yes, cancer.) She is still staring at me. Like she knows me. I don’t want her to know me. I feel like shit and I look even shittier. I just want the nurse to call me. But she doesn’t. Instead the woman across from me in her tiger print stretch pants, baggy sweater, and bad platinum dye job, keeps staring. I want to tell her to leave me alone. I want to accuse her of being here for botox injections. I want to tell her I am here because I had cancer removed, not something cosmetic. I am on the verge of tears. Every time I have to sit in a doctor’s office waiting room, I think of hospitals and hospice and how she’s gone. The absence. The ache. Now I am the one staring. I can’t stop looking at her. I want her to come comfort me. To wrap her arms around me and pull me close to her. To whisper in my ear that my heart is not glass. I am shattered but whole. She is so kind and compassionate. She is so pretty. I could love her. And the nurse enters the doorway. “Deborah?” The woman across from me stands up. She smiles. I realize who she is. I’m holding on.
