I sat in the main waiting room. The room had a half dozen plaster body casts of a women’s torso. The casts were decorated with breast cancer awareness ribbons, handwritten words of strength, hope, and encouragement. Some were decorated using only a black sharpie, others more ornate and colorful – one colored in the highly recognizable “breast cancer pink” color. I remember noticing how small the casts were and I vividly recall that moment of pure optimism and selfishness when I thought to myself, “This isn’t going to be us.”
I was escorted to an exam room where I found Anissa – just waiting. The room was filled with crisp, morning light. There were two chairs; one comfortable and the other extremely uncomfortable by comparison. Anissa was in the uncomfortable chair still dressed in a hospital gown and thumbing through work e-mails on her blackberry. The window overlooking The Walt Disney Studios was at her back and the light poured in and over her shoulders.
I think I tried making a joke to lighten the mood. I might have even tried sharing a story about something funny our son said that morning – honestly, I don’t remember the words or conversation at all. I can, however, describe the room and its contents in detail if I had to. We just sat there quietly. Both of us nervous but not willing to share that with the other. Anissa continued to read e-mails while I just watched her in between noticing the shadows cast on the wall.
At any moment, a radiologist was about to enter the room. The news he had would forever change the course of her life, my life, our life together and those close to us. I’m normally the optimist in our marriage. But what if it was bad news? A part of me wanted to lock the door and keep him out. I didn’t want Anissa to hear the results if they were bad. I didn’t want anything to change. I wanted our normal life to remain in tact.
Realizing this could be the last moment of “normal” I grabbed my iPhone, muted the sound, and snapped the photo you see below without Anissa’s awareness. It truly was the calm before the storm and I wanted to remember this moment for ever. While the light poured onto Anissa’s shoulder, the shadows and lines danced in perfect alignment.
This image was taken one minute prior to the radiologist sharing the news that what they found was most likely cancerous. It wasn’t an official diagnosis (that came 10 days later) but it may as well have been. I remember some of the words the radiologist used. Words like mass, primary and lesion. Yet the only two words uttered by the radiologist that stood out as the most memorable were, “I’m sorry.”
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