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StumbleUponCall It Instinct, Call It Fear
On a crisp autumn afternoon, Monday, November 17, 1997, I was admitted to New York City's Mount Sinai Medical Center and prepped for surgery. The dagger-like pain to my gut on the lower right side had left me gasping. Doctors thought it was appendicitis.
En route to my room, I asked a direct question, something I've done for years as a reporter and journalist: "Is there any chance it's cancer?"Call it instinct. Call it fear. Or maybe resignation, since I had lost almost everyone close to me to cancer, including Larry, my husband, who died of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma in '92. He was part of every single thing I cared about. I still wasn't over his death. (You're never really over it.)
The surgeon replied, "I don't think what you have is cancer. Very small chance. It looks like appendicitis."
The rest of that day is a blur. I know I got to my hospital room around 5 p.m., that I called my sister Lois for my toothbrush and that I contacted Andy, my middle stepson, to pass the word to family and friends that I was going under the knife but that they shouldn't worry. Next thing I remember, I was waking up in intensive care at 5:30 a.m. -- the next day, Tuesday. My gut felt taut, and I was flat on my back, with tubes snaking everywhere.
I asked one of the ICU nurses, "Was it appendicitis?"
"I'll get the resident," she replied.
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