This past month I’ve been on pins and needles as we waited for my husband to retake his CT scan to rule out any problems with his lungs.
When he was in the hospital in May, several doctors expressed concern that there could possibly be bigger issues than the pneumonia my husband was diagnosed with. He had “suspicious looking lymph nodes” and the doctors felt “concerned.”
Having lost my father a year ago to lung cancer, these were the last words I wanted to hear.
The doctors didn’t want us to panic (too late!) because it was “probably nothing.” However, in order to get an accurate view of his lungs and know for sure, we needed to wait four to six weeks for the pneumonia cleared out and then take another look.
They were, perhaps, some of the longest weeks of my life.
I spent much of the month of June taking an insane amount of photographs and swallowing my fears.
I’d see my husband with our older daughter and think, “What if there IS something wrong? What if we lose him?” Then I’d swallow that fear down, trapping it deep where I wouldn’t think about it and take a picture.
At my cousin’s wedding I watched my husband teach our youngest daughter how to dance. It was probably one of the most precious things I’ve seen in my 39 years. And I’d think, “What if he’s not around to dance with Eden at her wedding reception?”
More swallowing, more suppressing. And many more photographs.
After five long weeks, we finally got the results of his most recent CT scan. And like everyone told me, over and over again, my husband’s lungs are perfectly healthy.
Everything is fine.
As my husband told me the good news, all of the fears and doubts I had swallowed for the past month came up from where I had hidden them. They escaped in loud sobs and ugly tears. My son didn’t understand my crying, he kept trying to reassure me that the news was good. ”But everything’s okay! Dad is healthy!”
That is exactly why I cried, to make room for hope and good news. To make room for the fact that everything is fine.