I got a message from you the other day. I just had a biopsy. And now, I’m waiting. What do I do? What did they tell you? What…
I feel my face warming. I feel my eyes pooling. I feel heavy. Before I type a response, I take a breath. Truly. A big breath. Because I know what you are feeling. I know. I know, if you’re anything like me, where your mind is going. I know you have a million emotions going through you. And I know you don’t need anymore emotions. You don’t need me to feel sorry for you. You need me to be real. But not to be sorry. Not to make you feel like I am peering back through the computer screen at you with huge puppy dog eyes.
I tell you the facts. 20% of biopsies come back with malignancies. It could be anything. I tell you I want to help you in this part. Through it. Because there is a huge percentage of chance that this will all be for not.
I tell you, “This is the very worst part.” Because it is. I remember it both clearly and fuzzily. I remember, far too closely, the anxiety. The sheer terror. The idea that I believed myself to be a goner. The fact that I was driven to a place of sadness and fear. A place where my stomach was empty because my mind was full. A place where I couldn’t eat. Where I was so exhausted from crying all day. Where I wanted to sleep but I didn’t want to close my eyes because I was scared I might not wake up. They told me over and over, “It could be a lot of things.” But I had a feeling. And it wasn’t optimistic.
You’re waiting. Your mind is creating every worst case scenario there is. Your life feels like it has come to a screeching halt and that you are in a state of purgatory, just waiting to know if you will continue on with life as you’ve always believed it to be or a life where it feels like you are no longer immortal. You are scared. You are lost. You feel alone.
This is the very worst part.
How could it be? I mean, if your results come back positive, how could that be better than this part. Because right now, you are already in the place where your world is spinning in every direction. You have already jumped out of the plane and now, you are just waiting to see if the parachute opens or not. And if it doesn’t, if you can make it safely to the ground. You are in the in-between. And it’s fucking scary.
You find yourself praying. Bargaining. You find yourself seeking out others who have had situations like yours and have had positive results. You find yourself in the opposite state of mind, hearing stories of people who have lost their battle. You just have a feeling that it isn’t all okay.
But once you have an answer, either way, once the results are in, you have direction. You are no longer in a holding pattern.
You are in the hard part. The waiting game. The unknown. The place where there is no yes or no. Where everything feels grey.
It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to feel anxious. It’s a shitty place to be. And you weren’t prepared for this. No one is. Even if they think they are. No one thinks they are going to be the statistic. No one thinks they will have a lump or a question mark. We hear about it all the time … on social media … on the news. No one thinks they will be a part of those who go through the realness.
But you will be okay. I know you are waiting. I know you feel so very tested. But God is here for you. Your friends and family want to pray for you. They want to help you. They want to comfort you. And I know, no one can truly quell your fears. Because you just want the answer. Yes. Or no. I know it feels like every day is a year. I know it feels like the nights are darker than any others you remember. I know that you might be feeling like you should have known something was off sooner. But you can’t change the past or where you are now. You are already here.
You are waiting. And you are not crazy. All of your thoughts… fears… unknowns… scenarios… a lot of people feel this way. You are not alone. THIS IS THE HARD PART.
*Photo taken in September 2015, during my own waiting period.