My dog, Oreo, was a master at waiting. But for me, waiting–especially for medical news–is the worst. It’s where you’re stuck in limbo between reality and fantasy. Will test numbers show the tumor’s back or will it still be gone? Will the MRI come back clean or will there be a cloud we need to address? Without a doubt, waiting’s the worst.
April’s been a hotbed of emotion for me since my brain surgery. That’s the month I was diagnosed with meningioma. That’s when doctors told me I needed to get my affairs in order. That’s when there could have been a period at the end of my life’s sentence.
There’s nothing mysterious or magical about April, it’s just the month when I no longer need to wait. In a few weeks I go in for my annual MRI to make sure everything’s where it needs to be in my brain and nothing is there that shouldn’t be. But until then as long as I don’t hear bad news, I can claim everything is as it should be—perfect.
But will it stop being perfect in April? Will unwanted or undesirable news move my condition out of the “Perfect” column and into the “I’m sorry to have to tell you …” column? It’s hard to say. So I wait for the news.
Waiting for news is the worst.