Kwami sat in the parking lot, waiting for information, for results of the CT scan. Imagine getting that phone call. “Go home, I’m heading to surgery.” I am trying to get inside of that. Such helplessness.
And the kids… calls to them. “I don’t plan to die today. I love you, forever, across all boundaries and time.” There are so many others I would say that to in the same moment. You have to know that you are included in those words at all points of my story.
I could die. It was an option. Spoiler: I am still here.
So for surgery, they wheel a person away from Kaiser Urgent Care and admit the patient into Overlake Hospital. It was creeping into the wee hours. I slept. And then they took me to an enormous, overly lit room. In moments, I was out.
And Dr. Haque started a marathon that’s results shifted the balances for heaven and earth. The lymph (revenge), the lower colon, the mass, the appendix, a Fallopian tube and its cyst were removed. “Rebuild her, make her better, stronger, faster…” That had to be the worst of it. A new exit for the colon. Endless stitches and repairs. Cleaning up the insides for a chance of continued function.
Dr. Haque presents as a jovial, positive, upbeat person. Nyasha got the call about the completion of surgery around 6am. He was rightfully worn and mentally, perhaps physically exhausted. But the report was that I had survived.
micheleplumbstowell.org 