Season of Blessing

by Beverly LaHaye

  Finally he got around to the subject at hand. “Sylvia, I’ve looked over your X rays and your biopsy report, and as I see it, we have several options.”

  She got out her recorder, switched it on, and set it on the chair next to her.

  “With many of my patients I offer the option of a lumpectomy or a partial mastectomy to preserve as much as we can of the breast. That’s certainly an option for you, but because of the irregularity of your tumor’s margins and the type of cancer cell it is, I can’t recommend that. I would recommend a mastectomy.”

  Her stomach sank like lead. “My mother had a mastectomy over thirty years ago,” she said.

  “Well, the good news is that it doesn’t have to be as bad as hers was. Back then, we did radical mastectomies, where we took the breast, lymph nodes from the armpit, and the muscles in the chest. Today we can do a modified radical mastectomy, where we leave the muscles alone. That makes the surgery less disfiguring and easier to recover from.” He handed her a couple of books and pamphlets about mastectomy surgery. “These will explain the procedure in more detail and answer your questions.”

  “If I have a mastectomy, will that take care of all of it, or will I have to have chemo?”

  “I’d recommend that you follow up with chemotherapy, especially if it’s spread to your lymph nodes.”

  She thought of her mother with her bald head and paperthin skin, suffering through intense nausea and weakness.

  “You said options. What are the others?”

  “Another option I’d recommend you consider is a bilateral mastectomy.”

  “Both breasts?” Her ribs seemed too small for her lungs, and she tried to catch her breath. “Why?”

  “The fact that your mother died of breast cancer causes me some worry,” he said. “A bilateral mastectomy would virtually ensure that you don’t get future tumors in the contralateral breast.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but she fought them back.

  “It’s not absolutely necessary,” he said. “As I said, it’s just an option. Some women choose to do that to be safe, to prevent recurrence, or to prevent a new cancer from growing. But it’s your call.”

  “Do you think the cancer has spread?”

  “The undefined margins mean that it’s spread into the tissue around it, but it could be confined only to the breast. The lymph nodes will tell us a lot.”

  Sylvia cleared her throat. “If I have a lumpectomy, it might get it all. Right?”

  “Possibly. But you’re not a good candidate for that, Sylvia. You’d be taking a chance.”

  “But if we found out it didn’t get it all, we could always go back and do a mastectomy, couldn’t we?”

  “That’s possible. Again, I don’t recommend it.”

  Sylvia felt herself shrinking back into her chair. She suddenly wished she had waited until Harry could be with her. She tried to prop herself back up and sat straighter.

  The room seemed to be moving, and Sam’s face blurred.

  “I don’t know what I want to do yet,” she said. “I have to think.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, “and you can take a week or two to decide.”

  Sylvia got up and walked to the window, looked out. In the hospital courtyard, she saw children playing while their mothers sat and smoked cigarettes, the smoke rising on the breeze and disappearing.

  “This is not a decision you need to make quickly. It’s your body and your life. But my main concern right now would be trying to get as much of the cancer out of your body as possible so that any additional adjuvant therapy is easier and most successful. You need to talk it over with Harry and decide what you want to do. And if you’d like to get a second and third opinion, my secretary will help set those up for you.”

  She glanced back at the doctor, trying to remember what it was she’d wanted to ask. The questions just whirled through her mind and she couldn’t settle on one.

  “If you choose the mastectomy, we need to decide whether you’d like to have reconstruction surgery at the time of the mastectomy. Or you may want to wait until later when you’re finished with your treatment, and then go back and do the reconstruction. You may even decide you don’t want the reconstruction at all. Some women prefer to have their battle scars to remind them how hard they fought and how much they’ve overcome.”

  Sylvia had once believed that if anything like this ever came up in her life she would know quickly what to do. But everything seemed muddy and unclear.

  He leaned forward on his desk, crossed his hands in front of his face. “I have to tell you, Sylvia, that the biopsy report shows that these are aggressive cancer cells.”

  “Aggressive?” She turned back from the window. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Her hand came up to her breast. “But you said I had time. Two weeks, you said.”

  “You do. But we shouldn’t wait longer than that.”

  She rubbed her face. “Well, I’d like it out now. Right this minute. Can you do it now?”

  He smiled. “Take a little time, Sylvia. Get Harry home.”

  She wondered how she would sleep that night knowing that this monster called cancer moved aggressively through her body, conquering new territory, staking its claim.

  The doctor gave her some books on breast cancer and instructed her to read them thoroughly before she made up her mind. She walked in a haze back to the secretary, her arms overloaded with the books and her purse and the legal pad she hadn’t used and the tape recorder clutched in her hand. The woman started talking about second and third opinions, plastic surgeons, possible operation dates.

  But Sylvia couldn’t make her mind focus. She wished she had followed Al’s advice and brought a friend with her today. Someone who could think clearly while her thoughts rollercoastered out of control.

  Failing to make any appointments at all, she left the building and went to her car.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  Sylvia didn’t go straight home to call Harry or share her news with her friends. She had errands to run. She had to go to the post office, the bank, the cleaners. She had to get things done.

  The post office wasn’t busy, so she went right up to the counter and bought her stamps. As she walked back to the car, she breathed in the sweet mountain air. The breeze felt like freedom on her face, but she was anything but free. She got into her car and drove to the cleaners. Malignancy, mastectomy, aggressive cancer cells…

  She shoved those words out of her mind and told herself that she wouldn’t fall apart until she got home. She would finish her errand list.

  She went to the counter at the cleaners, and the college girl behind it asked, “Name, please?”

  “Sylvia Bryan,” she said.

  The girl checked her slips for Sylvia’s name one by one under the B’s, then turned the spinning rack and checked some more.

  “Bryan?” she asked. “B-r-y-a-n?”

  “Yes,” Sylvia said. “Sylvia Bryan.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t find a Sylvia Bryan.”

  “I brought them in Monday.” After I found out I might have cancer, she wanted to add. “You told me they’d be ready today.”

  “Just a minute. Let me check.” The girl went to the back, then reemerged and punched on the computer. “What’s your phone number?”

  Sylvia gave her the number and waited, tapping her fingernails on the Formica surface. The girl disappeared for five minutes while Sylvia waited. Malignant…mastectomy…aggressive cancer…

  The girl finally came back. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bryan, but we seem to have misplaced your clothes. Could you tell me what they were?”

  “A green dress, a black skirt, a pair of white slacks.” Her voice broke off and she desperately tried to remember what else she had brought, but she couldn’t concentrate on her wardrobe. Her mind kept lunging back to reconstructive surgery, chemotherapy, death. Her mouth started to tremble and her eyes filled with tears.

  Horrified, the girl caug
ht her breath. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’ll go look again.”

  But Sylvia couldn’t wait. She turned and ran from the building, got out to her car, closed and locked the door, and humped over her steering wheel.

  She screamed out her rage and fury, then wept loudly for several moments. Finally, she pulled herself together enough to start the car.

  She couldn’t stop railing as she drove. “Lord, what are you doing? This wasn’t part of the plan. I didn’t even want to go to the mission field but you changed my heart, you made me want to go, and now that I’m there, now that it’s my life, why would you take it from me? Why would you stop us in our tracks and bring our work to an end like this? I don’t understand.”

  She wept as she drove home, praying all the way, and when she pulled into the cul-de-sac, she prayed that none of her neighbors were waiting outside. But that prayer wasn’t answered either.

  Cathy stood in her driveway. Sylvia drove past her, gave her a quick wave, then pulled into her garage and closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  Cathy knew something was wrong when she saw Sylvia close herself in the garage. She never did that. Whenever Sylvia saw that anyone was out, she would get out of her car and walk down the driveway and spend at least a few minutes talking.

  Cathy’s stomach plummeted. She was certain Sylvia had gotten bad news.

  She ran back into the house and called upstairs. “Annie? Annie, come down. I need you.”

  Annie bounced down the stairs. “What is it, Mom?”

  “I need for you to come with me and baby-sit Tory’s kids. I need to gather her and Brenda up, so we can go see what’s wrong with Sylvia.”

  Annie’s face changed. “Did she get her results?”

  “I think she must have. She looked upset.”

  “Oh, Mom, you don’t think it’s cancer! Tell me it’s not cancer. It couldn’t be cancer.”

  “I don’t know, Annie, but I need to get over there.”

  Cathy bolted out the door, Annie close on her heels. “Mom, please let me come with you. I’ve been praying so hard for her.”

  Cathy crossed the street and ran up Brenda’s porch steps to ring the bell. “Annie, please. Tory will need a sitter so she can come without Hannah. She trusts you.”

  The door came open, and Joseph took one look at Cathy’s face and yelled out, “Mama!”

  Annie hadn’t given up. “Mom, if it is cancer, what will happen?”

  Brenda dashed to the door. “Cathy, what is it?”

  “Something’s wrong with Sylvia,” she said. “She drove right past me and closed her garage. I think she got the results.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “We need to get over there. Annie’s going to baby-sit for Tory.”

  Brenda burst out of the house. “Let’s hurry.”

  As they crossed the empty lot between the Dodds’ and the Sullivans’ houses, Cathy glanced back at Annie. Tears were rolling down her face. Cathy stopped. “Oh, honey.”

  Annie came into her arms. “Mom, I’m scared. Nothing can happen to her. She’s too special.”

  Cathy held her and stroked her hair. “It’s going to be all right. Look, if you really want to, you can come with us. Tory could just bring Hannah with her…”

  Brenda touched Annie’s shoulder. “I could get Leah and Rachel to sit for Spencer and Brittany.”

  Annie considered that, then stepped back and wiped her eyes. “No. I’ll do it. She really needs the three of you. I’d probably turn into a basket case and get her even more upset.” She dried her hands on her jeans.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll come tell you the minute I leave her.”

  They headed into Tory’s garage and knocked on the kitchen door.

  She answered quickly—Hannah on her hip—and stared at the looks on their faces. “What is it?”

  “We have to go to Sylvia,” Brenda said.

  Tory brought her hand to her mouth. Annie took the baby, and the three of them hurried on their way.

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  Sylvia knew who it was the moment the doorbell rang, but she wasn’t up to talking to anyone. She tried to ignore the bell, but her neighbors weren’t going away.

  Finally she grabbed a Kleenex, blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes, and decided that she might as well get it over with.

  She opened the door, and Cathy, Brenda, and Tory stood there looking intently at her as if they already knew the verdict. Unable to utter a word, she reached out to hug all three of them. They came into her arms and clung.

  For the moments that they embraced, Sylvia was sure that they were the only thing holding her up, keeping her from collapsing completely.

  “Have you told Harry?” Cathy asked as they each let go and stepped back to look at their friend.

  “Not yet. I wanted to tell him first but I dread it so much. I’m going to have to have surgery in the next week or two. I’ve got so many decisions to make. This ruins everything, you know.”

  “What does it ruin, honey?” Brenda asked.

  Sylvia walked away from her and started flipping through the mail that sat on the counter.

  “Our mission work. Harry’s going to want to rush home, and what’s going to happen to the people who need him? And the children are expecting me back. I don’t understand this.” She threw the mail down and flattened her palms on the counter. “What is God doing?”

  Her voice broke off and she pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, lowered into it. Her friends sat down, Tory and Cathy across from her, Brenda next to her.

  “Sylvia, what exactly did the doctor tell you?” Cathy’s voice was soft, careful.

  Sylvia propped her forehead in her hand. “Cancer in the breast,” she said. “Poorly defined margins. Aggressive cells. I have to decide whether to have a lumpectomy or a mastectomy, and what kind of mastectomy, or even a bilateral mastectomy…” She hated that they’d come when she was so upset. She’d wanted to be stoic, philosophical, gracious. “I’m sorry, girls. I don’t mean to get you all upset. I handled myself really well in the doctor’s office. I really did. And then I went to the post office and the cleaners.” She hadn’t handled herself well at the cleaners, but she didn’t tell them so.

  “You know, this really makes me sick, the way I’m responding. It’s not at all what I would have envisioned.”

  “What in the world did you envision?” Tory asked.

  “I pictured myself being tough and godly, taking it all with some sense of divine power working in my life. I thought I was grounded enough in my faith that I could accept whatever God decided to throw my way, that I wouldn’t fall apart.”

  Brenda hugged her. “Honey, you haven’t fallen apart. You’ve just been given the worst news of your life. You’re supposed to cry.”

  Cathy took her hand. “Sylvia, what would you say if it was me, if I had just come home with a cancer diagnosis and I was crying? Would you think I was weak?”

  Sylvia lifted her chin and took in a deep breath. “Of course not. I’d probably cry with you, and say something totally inane. I’d probably give you some platitude like ‘This, too, shall pass,’ or quote you Philippians 4:13: ‘I can do all things through him who strengthens me.’ And I’d tell you that God will never leave or forsake you, that I wouldn’t either.” Tears assaulted her again and she wiped them away. “But, please, I’m begging you—don’t say any of those things to me.”

  Tory smiled. “They’re all true, you know.”

  “I know,” Sylvia said. “I know they’re true, and I’ll hold on to them as this progresses, but right now I’m angry and confused, and I have too many options, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, let’s break it down,” Cathy said. “One thing at a time. First, you need to call Harry.”

  Sylvia nodded. “I know. But this is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. How will I convince him to stay there?”

  Brenda got up and loo
ked down at her. “Stay there? Sylvia, you can’t convince him to stay there. He needs to be here with you.”

  “But his work is more important,” Sylvia said. “Don’t you understand? Some of those people would have died without him. They can’t do without him.”

  “Somehow they can,” Tory said. “Sylvia, they can do without him because God put this in your path right now. He didn’t do it so you could go through it alone while Harry works for the Lord. There are times when our work has to stop and we have to deal with things that come into our lives. This is one of those times.”

  “You know he’s going to want to come.” Brenda handed her a box of Kleenex. “Don’t give him a hard time about it. Just let him do what he needs to do.”

  Sylvia knew they were right. She tore a tissue out of the box. “Oh, I hate breaking Harry’s heart. And I hate not being there to comfort him when he hangs up the phone.”

  Sylvia blew her nose again and grabbed another one to wipe her eyes. “Who would have thought? When I came home feeling tired and weak, who would have thought I had cancer?”

  “Maybe Harry did,” Brenda said. “He sent you home for tests, didn’t he?”

  “Harry never suspected cancer,” she said. “Not in a million years. And it turns out that the fatigue and the weakness are not even about the cancer. It’s stupid anemia.”

  “Well, be thankful for it,” Cathy said. “It was what got you back here so they could discover the breast cancer. God is working.”

  Sylvia got up, putting distance between them. “I know I should be thankful. It’s just hard right now. I guess I’ve got to call him. I can’t put it off any longer. I know he’s waiting to hear.”

  “Honey, do you want us to stay or go?” Cathy asked.

  Sylvia stared at them all for a moment. Part of her wanted to deal with this alone in a dark closet where she could curl up on the floor and scream out her anger and misery and confusion. But she knew it was better for her if they were here to walk her through this.

  “Why don’t you wait in here and let me go call him in the bedroom? I might need you when I come out.”