The Waiting is the Hardest Part

After we found out Mom had breast cancer, she had surgery, and then we had to wait to see how far, if at all, the cancer had spread. The surgeon removed some of her lymph nodes, and then the waiting began. I can't remember now how long we had to wait (a matter of days), but I do remember that the waiting seemed interminable. The not knowing was a heavy load on all of our minds. Of course we all hoped the lymph nodes were cancer-free, but even knowing that the cancer had spread that far would be better that not knowing, because then we'd know what course of action to take.

I hope never to have to wait for answers like that again.

Today, I'm waiting for a different kind of answer: Will the government shut down at midnight? In the scheme of things, the answer to this question is both so much bigger and so much smaller than the questions we had back after Mom had her surgery thirteen years ago. Yet I find myself feeling a similar discomfort, a similar tension in my shoulders and funny sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The waiting is the hardest part.