Varios han comparado nuestras vidas como las historias en un libro… Bueno si es asi, me parece que los capítulos se repiten – de alguna forma u otra. Just a couple months ago, I was in the hospital with pneumonia…during that time, the doctors found a mass in my lung and now, I have to have surgery. Continuing with this whole analogy, “our lives are books” in God’s endless library, I seem to have read this chapter before.
“¡Chacha!” My grandma cried in horror. “ ¡Chacha, Berta, Lina! ¡Chacha tu hija, tu hija Chacha! Hurry up Chacha, your daughter needs you!” Chacha – was my mom’s nickname.
All four women ran to the bathroom, where I was uncontrollably quivering towards my aunt Berta’s bedroom. My arms pulled in towards my body, my fingers curled in towards the palms of my hands, my head dropped to my chest, my eyes turned up towards the ceiling, my mouth moved to the left side of my face, my legs crossed, and as I spun, the cries of hopelessness grew louder as my family made sure that I fell on the bed.
After the convulsing, I was rushed to the military hospital in Panamá City. When we reached the Gorgas Hospital, I was taken to a small room, my clothes were loosened, and a couple of male nurses laid me on a bed. A doctor came by and randomly poked at my stomach, another doctor shined a flashlight in my eyes, while a nurse took my temperature and later my vital signs. I was dozing off from some pills another nurse had given me when I heard someone say, “Perdónenos Señora Ugarte, pero vamos a tener que internar a Alejandrita. For her health and safety, it’s better that she be here. We have to run some other tests, so we can be sure to give the proper diagnosis.
And then…a loving and devoted parent’s worse nightmare…
By Sunday evening my right arm was thoroughly punctured and completely swollen, and the last test had finally been run. Early Monday morning, a tall, thin Panamanian nurse walked out of the CAT Scan room with tears in her eyes. An American oncologist walked out from behind the nurse.
“I am sorry Mrs. Ugarte, I believe that your daughter has a malignant tumor in the posterior part of her brain, and we can only give her seventy-two hours to live.
God keeps us hanging on the edge of pages, and we have no idea in heaven…what He has written next.