The Coming Storm, July, 2006 Louanne Woody Ewald   © Copyright 2023 by Louanne Woody Ewald

Image by Enrique from Pixabay

The sky was dark with dense rain clouds on the July Saturday morning I accompanied my husband David to Elizabeth City, North Carolina, an hour and a quarter’s drive from home. Instead of his usual day-off jeans and t-shirt, David wore khaki pants and a blue polo shirt that matched the color of his eyes. He steered with his right hand and his left hand held an ever-present cigarette. David’s left elbow rested on the door, its window open halfway to provide an outlet for the smoke.

David knew I hated the smell of cigarettes and his thoughtfulness of the open window was one of many reasons I loved him.

He seemed relaxed, driving under the posted speed limit and every so often flicking cigarette ash out the window.

A summer Saturday doctor’s appointment out of town was unusual for us. Saturdays, especially in July, were the busiest traffic days of the week when visitors arrived and left the Outer Banks. When I had asked my husband why he needed a Saturday appointment he didn’t explain the timing, but showed me a marble-sized lump on the inside of his upper right arm that the doctor wanted to investigate.

Road noise made conversation difficult, but I enjoyed being with David on a morning when he would have otherwise been fishing at his favorite pier. I was content to view the passing landscape and listen to snippets of music from the local rock and roll radio station. Questioning why or how the lump would be investigated never occurred to me.

I assumed the knot was similar to the basal cell or squamous skin cancers that had been removed from my fair-skinned husband’s body for decades. His Air Force duties in Southeast Asia had most likely caused the numerous ulcers that appeared regularly. Treatment had always been simple cauterization or small excisions, healing quickly.

We pulled into the parking lot behind the office and parked next to the only other car there. No interior lights were visible through the windows. We exited our car and knocked on the back door, as instructed. The surgeon, wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved tropical print shirt, opened the door for us.

“Hi Doc,” David said. “Are you ready for your vacation?”

“Yes, my wife is packing up the car and should be ready to leave by the time I return home. We’re looking forward to our week at Myrtle Beach.”

That’s why we’re here on a Saturday. Doc was finishing up his week’s work before vacation.

We followed him down a dark hall into a patient room. David removed his shirt and lay down on an examination table. I sat across the room. The surgeon unwrapped a packet of instruments and arranged them on a small tray. He injected anesthetic into the area around the cyst-like bump. When the doctor picked up a scalpel, I looked away. In a few minutes the doctor said “finished”, and I turned my head to see David holding blood-soaked gauze on the wound. The physician transferred something on the knife to a small container.

As he bandaged the upper arm, the doctor said, “I’ll have my office call you Monday or Tuesday with the results of the biopsy and to set follow-up appointments.”

“B-biopsy? Follow-up appointments?” I asked.

The doctor, looking at David, raised his eyebrows and said to me. “I’ve taken a biopsy of the swollen lymph node because I think this isn’t a run-of-the-mill skin cancer. Your husband most likely has either lymphoma or late-stage lung cancer. I performed the biopsy before I left so treatment can begin as soon as possible. Lymphoma will be the better of the two choices.”

As the surgeon explained, David nodded his head. I stared at his bandaged arm, but found no words to express my shock and fear. My stomach churned. I felt blindsided by the explanation.

David knew why he was here today. We’ve been married 36 years. Why was it a secret? Surely he knew I would find out today. He doesn’t look surprised at all.

I knew enough about lung cancer to know that modern medicine had little success in curing late-stage disease. I was ignorant of lymphoma treatments and cure possibilities, but the suggestion that lymphoma would be the better cancer meant to me it was more treatable. I needed more information, but the doctor gave me no time to ask questions.

He ushered us out to begin his vacation, and we were on our way home. Light rain began as we left the office. David cracked his window and lit a cigarette. I turned off the radio, hoping we could talk about the possible diagnoses.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the biopsy?”

He kept his eyes on the road, knocked ash from the cigarette, and didn’t respond.

No surprise there, I was the one who always wanted to talk.

“Have you been feeling bad?”

“No,” he said.

“You don’t look sick. How can you feel fine if you have cancer? This must be a mistake. What now?”

“We’ll see after we get the biopsy results,” he said.

I turned to stare out the window as black clouds released a torrent of rain. Tears trailed down my cheeks.

Could the doctor be wrong? David had no symptoms and he was only 58. This had to be a mistake. Once we’re home, I’ll get on my computer to learn more about the two cancers.

If he did have lymphoma or lung cancer, I could only imagine the many tests, treatments, and hospital stays ahead for David. My head hurt with too many questions I couldn’t answer. As the deluge lessened to light rain, I thought about the week ahead.

Sunday, I planned to fix David’s favorite meal of pot roast, potatoes, and carrots, with apple cobbler for dessert. We should have the biopsy results by Tuesday. David would work his regular weekly schedule, and I had several meetings with clients. Next weekend we would visit our son and daughter-in-law who were expecting their first child within the month.

“David, do you think we should visit Bryan and Becky next weekend?”

“Why not? I can’t think of anything better to do, rather than dwelling on whatever may or may not be going on with me.”

“Okay. Should we tell them about the biopsy?”

“No, let’s wait until we know more.”

Hopefully, there won’t be anything to tell. I can’t wait to see and hold our first grandchild. I need to remember to take the baby clothes I’ve collected. Wish they had told us if they’re having a boy or girl.

I smiled. The windshield wipers’ rhythm calmed me, and by the time we reached home the light rain had changed to mist. Sunshine was visible through the clouds, along with a faint rainbow.

David and I weren’t any different from other couples our age. During our marriage, we had experienced good and bad, sunshine and storms, now grandchildren and cancer. Whatever the result of the biopsy, David and I together would get through this storm to the sunshine on the other side.

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