Lost in Translation

About 10 days after the biopsy I got a call from a doctor about my results. He had an accent that sounded much like the people from Microsoft Tech support. I guessed that maybe the people that have to call and give people bad news had outsourced their duties to India. I couldn't really understand what he said as I wasn't as savvy to cancer-speak as I am today. The gist I got was that I had a big tumor, some rare form of something and it needed to come out. At no time did I hear him say "malignant" or "cancer" or "ma'am, this be veddy veddy bad." For all I know he said those things, but I didn't hear him. When a letter from the lab came a few days later I was shocked to see in black and white text that I indeed had a rare form of pancreatic cancer. Luckily for me I didn't know much about pancreatic cancer, so I really wasn't terribly concerned. I mean, it's not like I had cancer, or anything, I just had a cancerous growth that could be removed, easy peezy lemon squeezy. I scheduled an appointment at the big doctor's office in the big city. When my husband and I got there we were completely overwhelmed at the skyscraper building, the underground parking garage and the maze of elevators and floors. We are not from here, our faces screamed. As I waited in line to check in I noticed the banners, the posters, the pamphlets all screaming about early detection and mortality rates and all kinds of things that weren't on my radar. It was there that I learned that pancreatic cancer has a 4% survival rate. All my addled brain could manage was the line from Dumb and Dumber..."One in a MILLION? So you're telling me there's a chance!" After spelling and then respelling my last name (No, F as in Frank. No, no T, just F. ) I was called back. It was then that I first met the surgeon that would be taking care of me. I liked him immediately. He looked like a cross between the dad on Alf and Vizzini from the Princess Bride. He talked about what my surgery would entail and informed us that he was sorry but it couldn't be done laparoscopically, it would have to be a big incision. I was thinking big like my C-section scar not big like Frankenstein's monster which is more like what it ended up being. I was my usual lackadaisical, nonchalant self and took it all in stride. I had a bunch of stuff coming up at work so I asked if I'd have to stay in the hospital more than 2 days because I had a lot of crap to get done. He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and sadness and informed me that I would be in the hospital more like 2 weeks. That was when it finally got through to me that this was a BIG DEAL in capital letters. I was mostly annoyed and politely told him that 2 weeks would simply not do. I told him that I heal quickly, I'm pretty tough so I'd do 5 days tops and be on my merry way. He patiently explained that this could be an 8-10 hour surgery involving the removal of major organs. I couldn't feel my hands anymore and for some reason everything sounded tinny like listening to the wrong end of a phone. I think I said something akin to "Well....shit." Told you, master orator over here.