Nunca pensé que iba a pasar por otra cirugía…pero lo hice. Esa primera cirugía fue hace veinticuatro años. I have really never thought of myself as a brave person and really have no clue why God would choose me to go through another surgery…But as the poem says, “our lives are but a weaving.”
¿Qué pasó después de que me dieron las 72 horas? Bueno…una decisión enorme se tenía que hacer. The decision that had to be made was: if I was going to need surgery, would it be done 1) there at the military hospital in Panamá City or 2) would it be better to fly me out MEDIVAC to the States. Para todos los que estaban siguiendo con sus vidas fuera del Hospital Gorgas – los que iban en camino al trabajo, al colegio, al desayuno – la vida seguía sin pausa…pero para todos mis parientes en la sala de espera, la vida aguantaba su respiración.
In my mind, to the general population en la Ciudad de Panamá, el martes era como cualquier otro martes… Tuesday was simply Tuesday. Yet to my aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, grandparents, close friends of the family, my pastor and his wife, family in the faith, and all my older cousins that Tuesday might have been – in there minds – the last Tuesday they would see my warm, round face. My younger cousins were not told that they had found a tumor…much less, that I could die. Some things are better left unsaid.
The doctors had me in a small waiting room of my own. One by one, my family members came in to say good-bye. I couldn’t talk, partly because I was too weak and partly because of the medical cup around my mouth; I responded to words of encouragement by blinking or squeezing their hands. This whole while, family member after family member, the four nurses had stood strong: holding in their emotions.The last person I remember coming in to talk to me was my little brother Oscar. My three year old sister, Carmen, was too young to understand what was happening.
Until now, all the nurses had remained silent. Oscar walked in slowly; he wasn’t tall enough to see my face. A nurse picked up a stool from behind her, picked Oscar up, and placed the stool under his feet. Oscar still did not quite reach and my father came in and held Oscar near my body. His small, Kindergarten hand reached for mine; Oscar held my hand tightly in his.
“No te vayas, Alejandra. Te quiero. I’m sorry for fighting over the remote control and which cartoon to watch on TV,” he paused. “I’ll let you see whatever you want. I love you Alex. Eres mi hermana…mi hermana grande…no me dejes…”
My eyes were puddles…the nurses had to turn their heads and step out…ese martes dejó su marca en nuestras vidas.