Benign.
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere far off, I heard my children in the hallway. Claire was crying. Thomas was saying “Thank God, thank God” over and over. Daniel wasn’t saying anything at all.
The final pathology report came five days later.
Mucinous cystadenoma, left ovary. Benign. No evidence of malignancy.
Dr. Osei brought it to my room himself.
“No chemotherapy. No radiation,” he said. “Just recovery.”
“If someone had checked it twelve years ago,” I said. “When it was small. Would this have been easier?”
He thought about it honestly.
“Probably,” he said. “It might have been removed with a small procedure. Or just watched. But Mrs. Whitmore, your husband’s study told us something important twelve years ago. It told us this was likely benign. And it was right.”Get Marriage Tips
I spent eighteen days at Avery Heights Rehabilitation Center, learning to walk again with a walker, and then a cane. A physical therapist named Marco, with arms like tree trunks and a laugh like a car horn, made me walk the hallway twice a day and climb a set of practice stairs until I could do it without stopping.
