tough skin

last week, i had an endometrial biopsy done in the office.  standard procedure, i was told.  results wouldn't be back for a few days.

as someone who's been poked and prodded and biopsied for years now, i didn't dwell too much on it.  admittedly, there was a niggle, yeah.  but there's always a niggle of worry in the back of my mind.  standard procedure, sure, but i've never really been "normal" when it comes to these tests.

after a few days of nothing, in which i've established "no news is good news," that's when i received the call.

"it's not cancer," my nurse stated, and repeated it again probably to make sure that that had registered.

not cancer, i thought, cool as can be.  but it was something.

i wasn't in shock or anything.  this wasn't my first rodeo.  outwardly i reacted with a surreal sense of calm and déjà vu.  after all, i'd been here before.  three times before, to be exact.

perhaps this is the type of reaction that someone has when they're accustomed to hearing bad news.  the kind of someone whose skin has grown so tough it's nearly impenetrable.

and so, i did what any logical girl does.  focused on getting the time off.  on the flurry of scheduling to get me in as soon as possible.  another pre-op, another surgery, another thing among several things of "been there, done that" which has really just managed to test my patience.  and my faith, yet again.

afterwards, i took a breath.  and realized i was shaking.  packed up my things, got in my car... and burst into tears.

still not quite invincible, i suppose.  dang it.

my papa

My father has always been my hero.  Not because of his military service or his numerous patents and contributions to science or his devotion to mission trips and scheduling family vacations.  It is because he has always been the guiding force in my life -- and he does so with persistence and humility.

I have often been compared to my dad, both in appearance and demeanor.  As a child I understood that to mean because he was quiet and analytic and I was studious and contemplative, we were different from my mom and younger sisters.  Over the years though, I cherished the remarks as compliments, realizing that we are innately connected in our makeup.  We find refuge in our thoughts, importance in choosing the right words, significance in expression and perception.

Throughout school, my father pushed me to be my best, not in a patronizing way but much like a coach would lead a team.  And there was a team -- my family -- and as the eldest he instilled in me an obligation to lead by example like he always has.  His patience, too, is unparalleled.  When I struggled with calculus, he set up shop at the dining room table, explaining and re-explaining theorems and formulas until, out of frustration, I literally cried.  I knew that he was aware of the answers but would wait for me to work them out myself.  After we went through this exercise late into the night and he felt I'd had enough, he'd stay up long after I went to bed to write the problems out, step by step, neatly onto a page so I would understand how he'd completed them.  Then he would wait for me in the morning before heading to work to brief me on his conclusions until I showed a flicker of understanding.  This used to make me feel like he was dragging me along, but now I think he saw something in me that I clearly didn't.  And he was really dragging that part of me to the surface, the part where I got it, the part that gave me confidence.

In college, he single-handedly helped me pass organic chemistry, serving as a private tutor despite his busy schedule.  Even after I decided to change majors halfway through my program, he didn't react with an air of disappointment or berate me for wasting time or money.  Instead, he helped me find a track more suited to my skill sets which allowed me to shine.  I learned then, that even as an incorrigible planner, it's okay to step back and revise once in awhile.

One time, out of curiosity, I asked my dad if he had ever wished for a son.  Without missing a beat, he responded, "I have everything I need."

To a man who has always understood what I've needed and given it selflessly – Happy Father's Day.