Last week, my mother underwent outpatient surgery related to her glaucoma. She needed to be there at 6:45 am, which meant I need to pick her up at 6:15 am and drive her to the hospital. When we arrived, we were informed that her procedure was scheduled for 9:45 am.
Mind you, it had not been "rescheduled" for that later time - that was the medical team's planned time for the surgery from the beginning.
I wanted to scream - WHY ON EARTH DID YOU TELL HER SHE HAD TO BE HERE TWO AND A HALF HOURS EARLY??? But I didn't. Because I'm a Black woman in the United States of America. I have no doubt that I would have been arrested and held without bail for asking a perfectly reasonable question in a perfectly understandable state of sheer exhaustion after waking up far too early!
Anyway, after waiting an inordinately extensive period of time in the regulay waiting area - cuz, you know, we were there WAY too early - I was informed that I could join my mother in the surgical pre-op waiting area. When I arrived at her little curtained space, the waiting continued.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. There we sat.
Actually, I was sitting up. She was reclining comfortably on the gurney in her fancy surgical attire under what appeared to be a piece of aluminum foil that had fleece on the underside. Surgical garb, rather pre-surgical garb, at Novant Presbyterian Hospital's outpatient surgery center has changed a lot in the past 10 years.
I know that because my mother took me to the same outpatient surgery center in November of 2012. I waited in that same building, in that same pre-op waiting area, perhaps even in that same little cubicle, for a chemo port to be inserted in the upper right quadrant of my chest. The curtains that separate the cubicles are the same - and I have the photos to prove it - but the patient attire has been upgraded significantly.
Yes, it has been ten years, four months and two days since I received my breast kanswer diagnosis. For those who aren't in a counting mood, that was
November 6th, 2012. And thirteen days after that, on November 19th,
that chemo port was placed under the skin just under my right collar bone there at Novant.
The same surgeon who installed that port, Dr. Peter Turk, also performed a double mastectomy on me four months later,
on April 19, 2013. And then in December of 2013, at the conclusion of my
kanswer healing journey,
he removed the port.
Those were some of the most demanding, painful, unsettling, soulful, courageous, curious, empowering months of my life.
Everything in my life changed.
The way I ate and drank.
The way I dressed.
The way I wore my hair.
The way I prayed.
The way I journaled.
The way I traveled.
The way I prioritized and cared for myself.
The way I connected - or didn't connect - with people in my blood family and my chosen family.
The way I appreciated the gift, the brevity, the joy, the pleasure, and the fragility of life itself.
Everything changed.
Even my gratitude practice changed. And I've always been a grateful person.
In my estimation, life is a miracle, a series of miracles every day.
Driving back and forth to work, to the supermarket, to my mother's house, to the airport, to the bookstore - every single trip is a miracle.
The way my car functions.
The fact that there is gas at gas stations.
That I leave here and return home without incident or accident.
That I am able to buy the things we need and many of the things we want.
That there is air to breathe and water to drink and bathe in and cook with and wash our clothes in.
That there are friends to talk to and complain to and laugh with.
That there is a church to attend and work at and serve and pray for and pray with.
It's all miraculous to me.
And I am grateful for the wonder of life every day.
But kanswer increased my gratitude.
I even managed to be grateful that
I got my period on the morning that I received that dreadful diagnosis. (Please forgive the limited terminology for the people who get their period in that piece. At the time, my understanding was limited to the notion that only "ladies/women" got their periods...)
I have been so staunchly committed to the attitude of gratitude that I taught my children the American sign language sign for "thank you" so that I could signal them to thank people. I didn't want to have to speak aloud the prompt, "Say thank you, Kristiana" or "Say thank you, Daniel." So I learned the sign and taught it to them so that I could prompt them silently. It worked! They practice gratitude regularly now - without me having to remind them with my words or with my hand.
Anyway, there I was with my mother in the pre-op waiting area, the same one that I had occupied more than ten years earlier - only I had been in the bed that day so long ago and she had been the one sitting in the chair next to the bed.
While I was waiting there last week, I confess that I was losing patience. I confess that I was not grateful for what felt like a whole lot of wasted time in a windowless medical facility while Covid is still very much a thing.
Truth be told, I was grateful that I was wearing a mask that day - for many reasons - but mostly because I didn't want the scowl on my face to be visible to all the medical staff and personnel scurrying back and forth in scrubs and surgical slippers and masks.
I was thinking, "Come ON!!! When is somebody gonna come for my mother and get this thing underway?"
Then I heard someone say, "Dr. Turk? Dr. Turk, can I ask you something?"
He paused his lengthy strides, rotated in the direction of the person who had called his name, and engaged in a brief exchange with her.
By the time he turned to walk away, I was already out of my seat and standing within arm's distance of him.
"Dr. Turk, I know you've performed thousands of surgeries and you probably don't remember me, but you performed a double mastectomy without reconstruction on me ten years ago. I've been breast-free and kanswer-free ever since. And I just wanted to thank you for that."
I couldn't see his mouth because he was wearing a mask, but I could tell he was smiling.
I couldn't see the mouths of anyone else in the vicinity, but I heard a lot of people saying, "Awwww."
He responded, "Tell me your name."
I told him.
He said, "I do remember you. That's such good news. Thank you for stopping me. Thank you."
And then he extended his arms and enveloped me in a warm hug.
The chorus of "Awwwwww" around us swelled.
I have no idea if he actually remembered me or if he was just being his usual kind and polite self.
Back in November of 2012, before my first consultation with him, I waited calmly and anxiously (yes, I felt both of those things that eerie day) in an exam room at his surgical practice, and when he entered the room, his first words to me were, "I'm sorry you're here."
In the presence of his kindness and his politeness, my shoulders fell and I exhaled.
I responded, "That makes two of us."
But even if he was just being kind and polite out of habit last week, why question or quibble with such an endearing habit - when, as a surgeon, he could simply be cocky and ego-driven? Why question his kindness and his politeness? Why not receive that as the gift it was?
Besides perhaps he did remember me. After all, I cannot imagine that he has had too many Black breast kanswer patients who, when offered the opportunity to have a lumpectomy on one breast, declare in their initial consultation that, if insurance would cover a double mastectomy without reconstruction, that's what they would prefer.
It doesn't matter if he remembered me. I remember him. He was part of the team of people that got that kanswer out of my body and made it possible for me to be who I am and where I am right here, right now.
In hindsight, I am grateful for all that "wasted time" before my mother's surgery last week. Turns out that time wasn't wasted at all. I needed to be right there when Dr. Turk walked past. I needed to hear someone call out his name just as he passed where I was waiting with my mother. I needed to, once again, come face-to-face, mask-to-mask really, with the kindness, gentleness, and politeness of the man whose surgical skill preserved my life.
I am endlessly grateful to Dr. Turk.
I am eternally grateful for Dr. Turk.
I am grateful that he was there in that same building in that same space ten years and three months and some days ago, being called into the operating room to take care of me.
It's never too late to say thank you.
Make the phone call.
Send the card or the text or the email.
Say it face-to-face or mask-to-mask.
It's never too late.
Thank you.
PS. My mother is recovering well from her surgery. I am grateful.
