The Momoir Project

By Danielle Christopher

The shakes start again. I inhale and exhale in an effort to calm my nerves. I swallow hard to chase away the tears caught in my throat. The book I brought to read stays unopened in my lap. Music filters through the sanitized air. There are conversations buzzing around me in the waiting room. This waiting room means something different to me today.

“Danielle.”

I gather my things and follow the nurse to the changing room, put on the pastel gown that does not close all the way. I sit clutching my belongings, waiting for my name to be called, waiting to go into the ultrasound room.

For the first time, I feel like I know my mother. She was diagnosed with cancer for the second time when she was 36, the age that I am now. But I am here today to prevent getting cancer. To prevent dying from breast cancer, as she did when she was 38.

Waiting is torture. After I kissed my kids good-bye this morning, I drove through the suburban streets, anxious and terrified and thinking that when I return home, my time with them will be shortened.

The mammogram technician slips by. My irrational side convinces me that it is my time. All my immediate female relatives have been diagnosed in one form or another of cancer. My younger sister is a ten year survivor.

I am ushered into the exam room, as scared as I was when I was 10 and my mom died. All my work at trying to be healthy and fundraise for cancer will be for nothing if I am taken away from my little girls.

The nurse tells me it will be about a week before the results will be in. I thank her and leave, ready to let go of the stress over the next few days and enjoy my family. My mom is gone. But I still need her to tell me everything will be okay.

The next morning, as I get my three-year-old daughter ready for preschool, my doctor’s office calls. The nurse asks me to come in the next day to discuss the results. I plead to talk to the doctor but to no avail. She needs me to come in because of medical protocol- she can’t bill BC Medical unless I am in the office.

The remaining hours of the day are the longest in my life. I do not know what might happen. Somehow, I survive. The next morning, I manage to get my girls into the car and into the doctor’s office. When the doctor enters the room, my youngest starts crying, afraid that she will get another needle.

I distract her and ask the doctor to tell me everything. As she explains, every word washes over me with relief. There is no cancer at this time. I will have to take medication and keep testing for the rest of my life. I am not looking at the big C word. Yet.

When we’re back in the car, I whisper, “Thanks, Mom. We will meet again, just not yet.”

My three-year-old bellows her need for French fries.

“You bet,” I say, enthusiasticly. And we drive off into the beautiful world that is today.

Writing Start: Gratitude