The intake clerk begins asking me the routine questions necessary for admittance. She is called away for a few minutes. Idlely, I spin the chart towards me and read the doctor's notes.

Carcinoma. The word leaps off the page. There's levels of knowingness. This is where the rubber meets the road.

Early tomorrow morning, my body will be changed forever. Only 37 my mind repeats, only 37, too young for menopause, too young for cancer, too busy to be sick, immediate total surgical menopause. The silver lining, the only silver lining I can glimpse is no more periods. I tell myself that is something to look forward to.

Smiling confidently at Ken, I reassure him that everything will be alright, he also has seen THE WORD. He comes with me to my room carrying my bag. Minutes later I'm installed, there's not much to unpack. My stay will be brief, only a few days, then home to recuperate. Already it's time for him to go, a desperate hug, a smile and his footsteps fade down the hall.

All the pre-op somewhat nasty preparations proceed for major abdominal surgery. There's a sedative for tonight if I want it; I refuse. I am determined to take not one pill, not one shot more than absolutely necessary. During consultations with my chiropractor, I am advised that drugs interfere with the healing process. I am determined to heal as fast as possible. My busy life doesn't allow for weeks let alone months of recuperation.

Morning comes so quickly. There's joking with the nursing staff to cover the terror. Smiles to everyone, perhaps it will become real inside if I do enough on the outside. Silent prayers to the spirit world for strength. After a shower and "dressing" in the non-clothes, I am as prepared as I can make myself. It's time; the gurney and the thankfully cheerful attendants come for me. They wheel me through the hospital corridors towards the surgical unit, parking me with others also waiting. I try to relax. The sedative I have been given just isn't working. I am terrified.

My turn. Here we go.

The doors swish closed and I enter an alien world. Everyone is gowned and masked and very efficient. My body is handled gently as they transfer me to the operating table with my modesty intact. I am grateful. Equipment is attached, I am draped and painted. The anesthesiologist speaks to me as he administers the anesthetic. A black curtain drops over my world.

Vaguely, I become aware of machines beeping and lights and thirst. A nurse greets my return and holds a straw and glass for me to drink a mouthful of water. Dozing, waking, dozing, a strong medicine taste and smell, my world is narrow. Hot pain partners any movement at all. Eventually I am transferred back to my room. There the familiar face awaits me. Ken holds my hand, speaking from time to time to ask if I want anything. The journey back from the gray void is exhausting. Curtains of hazy pain hang between me and the world; it's like being surrounded by cotton batten. Everything is muffled. His hand still holds mine, drawing me nearer and nearer. Finally, I have returned and can open my eyes to see.

In my immediate curtained world there's fragrance cutting through the heavy medicine smell. The oh so lovely flowers. From him, from friends, from co-workers, it's heart warming and unexpected. He intercepts visitors, thanking them for coming, asking them to come another time. The energy that would be needed to interact with others can be directed internally. Yes, I will accept the drugs offered for the night. Tomorrow is another day.

Learning to move, just to shift my legs, or turn over is a new experience in pain. Careful, slow movements and deep breaths accompany any effort. This too shall pass.

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