I am horrible with dates. I barely remember anyone’s birthday (if not for Facebook I would never remember). I still mix up my wedding anniversary date. Hell, earlier this week I asked my wife if it’s 2024 or ‘23. Yes, really.
So when my wife posted on social media that today was her cancer-versary I felt like an ass. I should have this written down somewhere, right? This should be the type of thing that should be seared into my memory bank. But what memory do I erase in order to make room? A line from a favorite movie? A song I randomly remember apropos of nothing in particular? Pi? It really is a Sophie’s Choice kind of conundrum.
And while I am horrible with remembering dates, I am crystal clear on remembering experiences. The sitting in the waiting room while she was in surgery to remove this fucking invader trying to kill the woman I love. It took much longer than Dr. Dorigo said it might and as the expected hour rolled by I was struck by that sense of anxious dread.
The mind is an asshole.
She should be done by now. This can’t be good. They must have found something… something worse…
She’s fine. She’s going to come out of this soon.
Maybe. Just don’t say what you’re really thinking out loud. Her mom couldn’t handle that. You need to be strong just in case the worst has happened.
What the fuck do you mean ‘the worst’? She’s not… she’s fine. It’s just taking a little longer because…
Fuck! Why is it taking longer than it should?
What you don’t consider – or at least I hadn’t considered – is that you have no medical training; you have no idea how long this really should or could take. I also forgot that Dr. Dorigo was one of the absolute best gyno-oncologists in the world. I forgot all of the relief I had experienced at being fortunate enough to be stationed 90 miles from Los Angeles – 90 miles from some of the best medical care in the world. Mostly, I forgot how fierce and badass the woman laying on that operating table is.
Self-pity is a hell of a thing.
Dr. Dorigo made an appearance and I was frozen.
Please don’t be the worst.
It was not. He explained that the surgery took a little longer than expected because I forget why now, but that she was in recovery and fine now. He explained that her margins were clear and that he was supremely confident that they got it all.
It’s twelve years later and I can say they got it all.
Postscript – Dr. Dorigo moved on from the gyno-oncology department at UCLA to being in charge of it at Stanford so I never got the chance to go back and thank him for saving my wife’s life. So if you find yourself up in Santa Clara county and run into an unassuming blonde named Dorigo, please thank him for me. Hug him hard and just let him know that as long as I live I will be so fucking grateful to him for saving the most important person in my life.
