Yesterday I received some good news: the mass on my ovary is a benign cyst. May likely not even need surgery. Yahoo!
As I journeyed through the last few weeks, a lot of scary questions came my way. When the specialist mentioned extra testing to see if the cyst was "malignant or benign", the obvious question popped up: What if I have cancer? That was a tough one to swallow. Why now? Why, when I just had the child I dreamed of? My sweet little boy! What would we all do?
Thankfully, I never really, truly had to go there.I know there are a lot of mothers that must, and I can't begin to understand how awful it must be for them. I only had a tiny sliver-glimpse into that world and it scared me.
Other questions popped into my head that made me cry. At first, I was hearing "surgery" like a broken record. That would have meant that I would not have been able to nurse my son for a while. Opiates that are given after surgery cross into the breastmilk, and that is potentially dangerous. Recovering from a surgery would be painful, and my little guy isn't that little any more.
And who would take care of him? Sure, Joe would be there for him and so many wonderful women offered to take him, but I was sad at the idea of him being with so many people that weren't, well, me. They wouldn't know him like I do, or understand that "see-shovo" means "Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel" or that "caw-di-di-di-daw" means "more cottage cheese, please".
Missing work was a regret, but truthfully, it was one of the last things on my mind.
Overactive mamamind at work.
So, yesterday, the "not too bad" prognosis was a Christmas present. Big time. A huge chunk of peace.
"Are you exhaling?" asked the voice on the other side of the phone after she had given me the reassuring news.
Am I ever. Many grounding, heavy exhalations of relief. I probably sounded like some creepy heavy breather, but I so didn't care.