I walked in, signed my name and took a seat in the back corner.
I sat there waiting.
My heart pounded against the walls of my chest.
My breaths became shorter which each racing thought.
Beads of sweat started to pool against my clammy palms.
Posters on the wall stared me in the face.
1 in 8 will be diagnosed in their lifetime….
Second leading cause of death…
Each year more then 40,000 will die…
A growing lump lodged in my throat.
I felt the tears welling, threatening to spill over my eyelids.
What if the results aren’t what I had hoped for?
What if this is it?
What if this is my turn?
Family history flashed through my mind as an image of each diagnosed relative danced before my eyes.
The fears grew strong and deep.
The clock ticking away each second on the wall behind me was like a timer counting down to my fate.
My body jumped with each passing tick, terrified of what lay before me.
I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, fantasizing about running out of that room, unable to face what was heading my way.
I tried to focus on my kids, picturing their smiles and hearing their laughter.
I envisioned my husband, laughing with me, holding my hand, and lifting my worries with the ease of his smile and the gentleness of his embrace.
I couldn’t do it though. My mind kept turning to that dreaded place.
Fear gripped my heart and held on tight. It wrapped its’ threatening fingers around my soul and squeezed with each passing second.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t calm down.
I needed to leave.
I needed to go home. To go back to the safety and security of my family. To go back to the blissful unknowing state.
“Mrs. Muro? The doctor will see you now”…