By Susan Bell

Moving through the fog, steady clacks, low rumbles, slight rocks, far-away voices hollowed by the noise, by the drugs. White sheets above, white sheets below, white eggshell walls. A misplaced chick not yet able to peck my way to freedom.

Deliberately I blink: open, close, open. Flashed cards reveal: the masked nurse, the bright sun, the dripping tubes. A shifting picture of scrolling images—a down arrow stuck on the ocular screen. I can only look up. Is there a name for those ceiling mirrors placed at just the right angle so that no collisions occur? Blind-spots. Can't play bumper gurneys inside these austere halls. I imagine crashing corpses, rolling off, sliding under my pushcart - anything that might stop this train-like motion. How did I get here? Even worse, Why did I choose this?

It started with a phone call three short months before. "Hi. I have cancer." That's how she says it, my baby sister. The one we all protect. The one we all love. The only one who can make us advance into a room, together. "I'm to go in for a radical hysterectomy next week." Silence, finally, she cries, scared. I know. I hear my own words echoed in her voice. "Cancer? Not Me! I feel fine."

Five years have passed since I was diagnosed with my cancer. Same kind, same age as my sister is now. I should have been the only one in my family to get this odd rare cancer. It is not supposed to be genetic. Yet, they didn't tell her that cervical cancer progresses slowly, is easy to capture. And they didn't tell her that you can still keep your ovaries even in a "radical". And, they didn't explain that the tubes would be left. And, they forgot to mention that radiation might be needed.

I explained the parts the experts neglected but I didn't know about the hysterectomy. I elected to wait on having mine as the doctors allowed me a few years to conceive before removing my uterus. I have one child and continually pushed off the decision for more. I have been clean for such a long time. A hysterectomy was not on my mind, it just wasn't.

But with my sisters illness hovering, I went back to the oncologist who speedily defined my choices - conceive or have surgery. Now. Make the right decision.

My 4 year-old son jokes and laughs, loves musicals and hugs, cries like me, looks like his Dad. He's perfect. We're good parents. We show him everything: the grand mountains, the eagles that soar over head, the crabs that scoot from under an upturned rock, ballets and books. We support him, always: the trials of riding a bike, dealing with bullies, being brave—doing something even if you're scared. We teach by example: reading lots, no-TV days, and new personal challenges. Hugs, kisses, and "I-love-you" abound.

What I feel for him is eternal, magical, a present.

But another baby? I can't do this again. It's too much energy. It's too much money. It's too much responsibility. It's too much love. The decision has been made.

I could have said "no" anytime during the 3 weeks I had to take my iron supplements. I could have said, "I want another baby" in the middle of the drawing of each pint of blood—just in case it was needed. I could have said, "I'm not ready", during the 5:40am hospital admittance. I could have gotten up out of my gurney, pulled the IV from my arm and walked out of that hospital. I'm an adult. It's my decision—until the sedatives.

Now I'm a patient. Now I can only hear the screaming inside my head. "NOOOO," I yell. Can't anyone hear me? Don't they know this isn't the right thing to do yet? As I'm wheeled in to the hushed operating room all I can feel is the weight of each instrument as they place them on my abdomen. It's an accessible place—easy to grab the necessary tools. It's the spot my husband rubbed for good-luck in my growing baby Buddha days.

It's the spot where my son rests his head when the day has been long.

I expect the biopsy to be clean. This is preventive surgery. The doctors had said, "just in case." I phone my sister, "Hi," I say, "I had cancer."

Silence—time spent exploring the implications. My sister's cancer had prompted me to have the surgery. She felt accountable for my decision. She had saved my life.

We are healthy. No radiation, no uterus, no cancer, no more children. Well, almost. My sister's newly adopted son is big and bouncy and loved. And yet, I hope someday my son will choose to have children of his own. Strangely, all of his cousins are adopted. Only I have been able to conceive. He's the only one with the family blood left alive. He's the only one left with me in him—able to create another.

But for now, we continue to heal. We talk of our surgeries. We laugh at a new habit of crossing our legs when sneezing. We accept, as we lie on our side, how our stomachs now settle softly, comforting as a sleeping baby.

© 1998-2001 Susan Bell

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