Biopsy

Fifteen years ago this month, my husband Steve and I walked through the doors of MD Anderson Cancer Center.  We were not visitors.

Four weeks before, in July, 1998, at an area hospital, Steve had a biopsy of lymph nodes under his left arm.  It was his preference to do this without telling any other family or friends, so I sat comfortably alone in the day surgery waiting area until I heard the question announced.  "Bingham family?"

A stout tower of greygreen scrubs informed me (and every other person there in the day surgery waiting area) that my husband "had waited much too long to see about this matter."  As I stared at a starched, sterile chest, the surgeon's voice said he couldn't tell what type of tumor he had removed and sent to the lab.  (Naming the monster would take several weeks.)  I watched the jaw and its paper surgical mask beard deliver its judgment.  Greygreen shook his head, turned on his heels, and left the room.  My first thought was, "What a coward!"  No private conversation, no questions.

That day, my 50 year-old husband and I began a journey that would take us deep and wide--beyond every known boundary that we could imagine.