Chapter 2 - The Thing Growing Inside Me
The ride to the hospital took seventeen minutes.
Nobody spoke for the first twelve.
I sat in the passenger seat of Elena's SUV with both hands on my abdomen.
For six months, I had touched that curve with tenderness.
Now I was afraid of it.
Gabriel and Michael followed in another car.
At the hospital entrance, Elena pulled into the drop-off lane.
“I'll park.”
“I can walk.”
“You're not walking across a parking garage.”
“I've been doing it for months.”
“And you've been carrying a mass the size of a watermelon for months.”
The words came out before she could stop them.
Her face collapsed.
“Mom, I'm sorry.”
I looked out the window.
“So am I.”
A nurse was waiting with a wheelchair.
I almost refused.
Then a sharp pressure moved under my ribs.
I sat.
Gabriel appeared carrying my purse and the diaper bag.
He hadn't left it in the car.
I noticed.
I said nothing.
Within an hour, I had been poked, scanned, weighed, questioned, repositioned, and asked the same questions by five different people.
Age?
Sixty-six.
Pregnancies?
Three.
Live births?
Three.
Menopause?
Fifty-one.
Family cancer history?
Mother, ovarian.
Age at diagnosis?
Sixty-seven.
Cause of death?
Ovarian cancer.
Every time I answered, Elena looked worse.
The CT scan was the hardest part.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
They slid me inside the machine.
A mechanical voice told me to hold my breath.
I stared upward.
For the first time, there was no story left to tell myself.
No miracle baby.
No late-life surprise.
No impossible second chance at motherhood.
Just a machine taking pictures of something that might kill me.
When it ended, a nurse took me to a private room.
My children waited there.
Michael paced.
Gabriel stood by the window.
Elena sat with my coat in her lap.
Thirty minutes passed.
Then forty.
At fifty-two minutes, the door opened.
A woman entered.
Mid-forties.
Dark hair.
Navy scrubs beneath a white coat.
She introduced herself as Dr. Rebecca Lang, gynecologic oncologist.
There was no gentle way to hear that title.
She sat.
Doctors sitting again.
I hated chairs now.
“Mrs. Morales, I've reviewed your CT.”
“Call me Larisa.”
“All right. Larisa.”
“Is it cancer?”
She paused.
“We don't know yet.”
“What do you know?”
“You have a very large mass arising from the pelvis. Based on its location and appearance, it most likely originates from one of your ovaries.”
“How large?”
“Approximately thirty-three centimeters.”
Elena made a sound beside me.
I kept looking at Dr. Lang.
“And?”
“There are both fluid-filled and solid components.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we can't assume it's a simple benign cyst.”
There it was.
Not cancer.
Not not cancer.
A doorway between two lives.
“Is it attached to anything?”
“It is putting pressure on your bladder, bowel, and diaphragm. That's why you've experienced frequent urination, constipation, breathlessness, and sensations of movement.”
“Movement?”
“The bowel and other organs are being displaced around it. Fluid inside a large mass can also shift when you move.”
So that was my baby kicking.
My own organs trying to find space.
I laughed.
One short sound.
Nobody else did.
Elena reached for my hand.
I pulled mine away.
Not because I didn't love her.
Because I couldn't stand being comforted by someone who had laughed at me three hours earlier.
Dr. Lang continued.
“There is also some fluid in your abdomen.”
“Ascites?”
She looked mildly surprised.
“My mother had ovarian cancer. I learned words I never wanted to know.”
“Yes. A small-to-moderate amount.”
My stomach turned.
My mother's final year returned in pieces.
Hospital gowns.
A blanket over knees that became too thin.
Medication bottles.
My father pretending he wasn't crying.
My mother telling me not to cancel a family vacation.
She died eight months after diagnosis.
I was thirty-nine.
The same age Elena was now.
“What stage?”
“We are not at staging yet.”
“If it's cancer.”
“If it's cancer, staging depends on pathology and what we find surgically.”
Michael spoke from behind me.
“Surgically?”
Dr. Lang nodded.
“This needs to come out.”
“When?”
“As soon as we can safely arrange it.”
“Today?”
“Probably within forty-eight hours.”
Elena's hand flew to her mouth.
Gabriel leaned against the window.
I was oddly calm.
“Can you take the whole thing out?”
“That is the goal.”
“With laparoscopic surgery?”
“No.”
I knew what that meant.
Big incision.
Big surgery.
Big risk.
Dr. Lang looked at me directly.
“Because of the size, we will likely need an open abdominal procedure. Depending on what we find, that could involve removal of the affected ovary, both ovaries, uterus, fallopian tubes, and any tissue that appears suspicious.”
Michael sat.
For the first time, he looked truly frightened.
“My mother's sixty-six.”
“I know.”
“What are the risks?”
“Bleeding. Infection. Blood clots. Injury to nearby organs. Complications from anesthesia. If the mass is malignant and has spread, the surgery may be more extensive.”
Silence.
I asked the question everyone was avoiding.
“Could I die?”
Dr. Lang did not lie.
“Yes.”
Elena started crying.
I looked at her.
Quiet tears.
No drama.
Just my daughter suddenly understanding that mothers are not permanent.
I reached for her this time.
She grabbed my hand.
Dr. Lang handed me tissues.
Then she said something that changed the room.
“There is another issue.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
She turned her tablet toward us.
“Dr. Bennett mentioned an abnormal result from fourteen months ago.”
I stiffened.
“What result?”
“We obtained the records electronically.”
She tapped the screen.
“A blood test was ordered during your visit with Dr. Ramsey.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He told me blood work wasn't necessary.”
“According to the chart, it was drawn.”
I thought back.
I had gone to the lab that day.
Routine cholesterol.
Vitamin D.
A metabolic panel.
I remembered.
“What test?”
“CA-125.”
My chest tightened.
My mother had that test repeatedly.
“Why would he order that?”
“Because your chart says you reported pelvic pressure, bloating, early satiety, and a maternal history of ovarian cancer.”
“And?”
“The result was elevated.”
Elena stopped crying.
Michael stood.
“How elevated?”
Dr. Lang gave the number.
It meant nothing to my children.
It meant something to me.
Not proof.
But enough to warrant attention.
Enough to warrant imaging.
Enough that I should have been told.
“I never heard about it.”
Dr. Lang's face remained careful.
“The chart contains a note.”
“What note?”
She hesitated.
I knew before she answered that I was going to hate it.
“Patient notified. Ultrasound recommended.”
My entire body went cold.
“That is a lie.”
Michael stepped forward.
“Mom.”
“I was never notified.”
“Could they have called?”
“No.”
“Maybe voicemail?”
“No.”
Elena looked at Dr. Lang.
“Is there a record?”
“There should be communication documentation.”
“Is there?”
“A brief entry.”
“Who wrote it?”
Dr. Lang enlarged the screen.
I leaned forward.
There it was.
Fourteen months earlier.
Abnormal marker discussed with patient. Recommend pelvic ultrasound. Patient declines further evaluation at this time.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Patient declines.
“I didn't decline.”
My voice sounded like someone else's.
“I asked for an ultrasound.”
Dr. Lang watched me.
“I asked him directly.”
I remembered it perfectly now.
Dr. Ramsey had laughed lightly.
Not cruelly.
Dismissively.
“Larisa, if I imaged every woman with bloating, I'd have no time for anything else.”
I told him my mother had ovarian cancer.
He said family history mattered, but symptoms were nonspecific.
He told me to lose weight.
I left embarrassed.
That was it.
“I asked him.”
Elena stood.
“Can a doctor change a record?”
Dr. Lang chose her words carefully.
“Medical records can be amended, but changes should generally have an audit trail.”
Michael pulled out his phone.
“Then we need the audit trail.”
“Not today,” I said.
All three children looked at me.
“Today I need surgery.”
Dr. Lang nodded.
“That is the priority.”
She continued explaining.
Preoperative testing.
Cardiology clearance.
Anesthesia evaluation.
Nothing after that stayed in my head.
By late afternoon, I had a hospital room.
My children brought me clothes.
Gabriel returned with my phone charger.
Michael brought my medications from home.
Elena stayed.
The diaper bag sat in the corner.
Nobody moved it.
Around six, Michael stepped into the hallway to take a call.
He returned five minutes later.
His face had changed.
“What?”
He looked at Elena.
Then Gabriel.
Then me.
“I spoke to someone at Ramsey's office.”
I straightened.
“Who?”
“A former nurse.”
“How?”
“My friend knows her.”
“Michael.”
“She worked there when you had that appointment.”
My pulse increased.
“What did she say?”
“She remembered your chart.”
Elena stood.
“Why?”
Michael looked at me.
“Because she says Dr. Ramsey asked her to schedule your ultrasound.”
Nobody spoke.
“And?”
“She scheduled it.”
My mouth went dry.
“When?”
“Two days after your appointment.”
“I was never told.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
Michael looked sick.
“She said the appointment was canceled.”
“By whom?”
“She doesn't know.”
Gabriel frowned.
“There should be a record.”
“There is.”
Michael held up his phone.
“The cancellation was entered under Mom's name.”
I felt anger for the first time.
Real anger.
Not fear.
Not humiliation.
Anger.
“I did not cancel anything.”
Michael nodded.
“The nurse believes you.”
“Why?”
“Because she remembered something else.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“She said she printed your abnormal blood result and put it on Ramsey's desk.”
Dr. Lang, who had just stepped back into the room, stopped.
Michael continued.
“She came back later.”
His phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
Then went completely still.
“What is it?” Elena asked.
Michael turned the phone toward me.
A message from the former nurse.
I only read the first line.
I FOUND THE ORIGINAL NOTE.
May you like
And beneath it was a photograph.
My name was written at the top.
