Dr.
Avery kept one finger on the radiology report as if she wanted to make absolutely certain she chose the next words correctly.
Emily sat beside me on the paper-covered examination table, her hand still trapped inside mine.
Her fingers were cold.
I could feel the tremor in them traveling into my palm.
“There is a large mass in Emily’s lower abdomen,” Dr.
Avery said.
“It appears to be arising from one of her ovaries.”
For several seconds, the room made no sense to me.
I heard the words individually—large, mass, abdomen, ovary—but my mind refused to arrange them into a sentence.
Emily did.
Her face went white.
“Is it cancer?” she asked.
Dr.
Avery moved closer rather than answering too quickly.
“We do not know that,” she said.
“And I don’t want either of you assuming the worst.
Many ovarian masses in adolescents are benign.
But this one is large enough that it is pressing on surrounding structures, and that explains the fullness, nausea, pain, and difficulty eating.”
I stared at the scan again.
The thing Victor had called drama was there in shades of gray.
It had weight.
It occupied space.
It had been pressing inside our daughter while he told her she needed discipline.
“How large?” I asked.
Dr.
Avery gave me the measurement.
I looked at her because the number sounded impossible.
She explained that the imaging showed a sizable fluid-filled and complex mass that required prompt evaluation by a pediatric gynecologic surgical team.
Blood tests could help them understand what they were dealing with, but imaging alone could not give every answer.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“I’ve already spoken with a specialist at the children’s hospital,” she said.
“They can see Emily today.”
Emily’s grip tightened.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
The fear in her face nearly undid me.
I wanted to promise that nothing bad would happen.
I wanted to tell her we would walk out of the next hospital with a simple prescription and an embarrassing story about how frightened we had been.
But I had spent years telling frightened children that adults should not lie just because the truth was uncomfortable.
So I leaned toward her.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I said.
“But I’m staying with you through all of it.”
Dr.
Avery handed me the folder.
It felt heavier than paper should.
My phone vibrated inside my handbag.
Victor.
I looked at his name glowing on the screen and felt something unexpected.
Not fear.
Anger.
I silenced the call.
He called again before we reached the parking lot.
Then a message appeared.
Where are you?
A second followed.
