Sunday was beautiful day for a road trip. I sat behind the wheel of Bren’s mum’s little auto Corolla feeling a little anxious about the trip ahead. My tight grip and sweaty palms gave away my attempt to hide the nervousness I was feeling at driving in the city and of why we were heading there.
Aunty Sue had taken a couple of days off work so she could stay with Tyra and Baden while we were away. It was always hard to leave our little fellas behind, but knew they were in good hands. Their little smiling faces, as they waved us off, broke my heart.
As we set off there wasn’t a lot of conversation about the biopsy Brendan was going to have, or what the results might be. Bren and I were trying not to focus on the “what if’s” and “what it could be’s.” We were putting our energy into the positive out come we want to see. We were thinking about all the things we will do when he is well again.
We arrived at the our Motel and settled into the little caravan sized room before grabbing an early dinner and an early night. We were all exhausted from the trip and the stress of why we were there. Brendans mum had come with us and was in the room next door.
Monday Morning came around quickly, it was an early 6:30 am start. Bren’s biopsy would be undertaken at some stage through the day. We weren’t sure where he was on the waiting list but he was taken in quite early to be prepped, which was promising. The girls at reception said we wouldn’t be able to see him until sometime around 2pm, so Margaret and I went and grabbed some breakfast. Later Margaret went into the city centre to meet Bren’s sister for lunch.
I waited at the hospital so I was there when he was wheeled back to his room. He was dozy and groggy, but happy to see me. I sat with him and read while he slept the anaesthetic off. Margaret was back by 3:30pm and by 4:00 pm Bren was ready for some quiet time. Sore, tired and still a bit out of it — I think he was probably sick of being mothered by his mother and his wife, so we left him in peace and went and had an early dinner on King St, before heading back to our accommodation.
The next morning we picked Bren up from the hospital bright and early. He was still very sore, but at least now he had a crutch to take a little of the pressure off his leg when he had to walk a distance. We stopped at Macca’s near the hospital to have some breakfast and to let the peak hour traffic pass, and that was where he told us, gently, that things would get worse before they got better.
I had just come back from the bathroom, Bren looked at me and said, Dr P had told him on rounds the night before, that pathology would need to be checked, but it did look to be nasty. I felt my heart stop, and then there was nothing, just numbness. I looked at his Mum, her face had turned pale as she fought back tears. Bren and I rested our heads on each others, and we all had a little cry. After a few minutes we pulled ourselves together, took a breath and that was it. Done We knew. He asked if I was Ok, I said yes, then he asked his Mum the same question and she said yes too. None of us were. We finished our breakfast in a kind of hazy quietness. It wasn’t a momentous or dramatic moment — more a simple sharing of facts and an acknowledgment that we all understood what was happening. Now we would do what needed to be done.
A few times that day, on the trip home, when Margaret or I fussed or tried to help Bren when help wasn’t needed, he would tell us it was OK, he was Ok. In the end after a helping hand was offered one to many times, he ended up saying, I’m bent, not broken, as he smiled at the offender. His way of saying — back off a little bit would ya. Give me a bit of F’ing room. We tried to, but it wasn’t easy.
It felt good to pull into our driveway by mid afternoon. It was good to be home. We were just in time to greet the kids as they got off the bus and their hugs were just what there dad needed — and their mum .
Now the waiting game would began.