As in many situations in life, this he had to do on his own. Now he was in their hands and we must trust and believe in their efficiency and knowledge, and possibly that miracles do occur even when the guardian angel has been moved to a shopping bag.

We located the waiting room, gave our names to the volunteer who manned the desk and prepared for the long day ahead. The Doctor had informed us that the operation would take most of the day, probably be finished sometime in the late afternoon. He also added, that the longer it takes, the better the news, so we were not to worry if it was longer than expected. Pauls father and stepmother arrived at around 9:00. The waiting room was large, cheerful and comfortable. It was filled with many other relatives, waiting for their family members who were also in some type of surgery. I took out my knitting, hoping in that way I could make the long wait go faster. The people in the room were all quite subdued. There was little conversation. Occasionally a Doctor would call with the information that The patient was in recovery and they would be able to visit them in their room in about an hour. In my own mind, I had estimated that if there was a problem, the Doctor would appear between 12:00 and 1:00. However, not really anticipating anything but a long day of waiting, we settled in for the long haul.

At around 12:30, I looked up and saw the Surgeon. This was not going as planned. My heart sank as he approached us. Kathy looked up at about the same time and put up her hands as if to push him away. Oh, no, she cried, Its not time. He pulled up a chair and sat down. In my state of mind, I still do not remember the exact words that he used to break the news. The tumor had indeed spread, with both the liver and the pancreas involved. He was able to reroute the bile duct, but there was nothing more that he could do! Then the usual routine statement, Hell be back in his room in a couple of hours, you can see him then. I did manage to ask, When will you tell him? His response was, tomorrow. I felt a creeping numbness overcoming my body. The waiting room was still there. Kathy, Pauls father and stepmother were still by my side, but I was leaving. I wanted to scream, sob hysterically, beat on the walls, but I was paralyzed. We had one free phone call, so I called Jack. I started to cry as the answering machine came on and recorded the message. People in the waiting room looked at me with sympathy, normally I would have appreciated their empathy, now I resented it. They I thought could afford to be sympathetic, their loved one was not going to die! I excused myself and went to the restroom. Inside the stall, I sobbed uncontrollably. When I felt completely empty I went outside to wash my face. A young girl stood there waiting for me to come out. Please, she said, Is there anything, I can do? I remember a voice, not mine surely, saying, There is nothing anyone can do. My son is going to DIE! She reached out and hugged me for a long while. I didnt say a word, just held on. Soon I pulled myself together. I needed to do what had to be done. I was not alone in my grief. Kathy, the rest of the family, needed some support. I must somehow find it in myself to do what must be done. I asked the Receptionist to send for the Hospital Chaplain. He came immediately, a pleasant young man, but I could not help but wonder what great life trauma he had ever had to face, and concluded probably none. He offered to do what he could, especially for Paul, Paul who did not know. Who would not know until tomorrow! How was it going to be possible to control our grief? What type of a mask do family members wear that will cover their despair? How could we possible pretend everything had gone well, when the reality was, for him, for us, nothing would be fine, ever again.