"Cancer." It's the one-tenth of a second it takes for a doctor to look you in the eye and say that word.  That is how long it takes for your whole life to change.  All of those long-term goals and wants and preferences are expunged from the brain.  There is a hot feeling on your neck that rises to your face as you absorb the six letters that make you have regrets, fears, anxiety and desperation for it all to go away in minutes.  And then you cry.

 He handed me a box of tissue as my stunned daughter sat next to me trying to be brave and professional as I crumbled into pieces.  Options? Sure lots of them, with the most radical being a total hysterectomy.  This was only stage one and as grateful as I tried to be, I was angry.  I have not even had grandchildren yet.  I wanted to see the ocean.  Who will hem my daughter's wedding gown?

(Pictured: Carol Fox and Dr. Travis Haldeman) 

His manner was that of a doctor back in the 1950's.  A patient and kind man who listened to my fears and silly questions, and they were silly.  Questions followed by answers, and he even waited for the next one.  A smirk, a smile, a laugh, and a hand on mine promising that he would take care of me.

 His sincerity and compassion were so real that there was no other way to respond except with trust.  And, as the days passed and the date neared, I had kept myself so busy working and so numb without sleep, that by the time the date arrived, I was glad to stop.

 That morning he greeted me with such energy, a big smile and the sound of confidence.  He bounded into the room at the very moment that I was ready to leave, I thought I could still avoid this whole mess and run away to a circus.  But there he was, patting my hand and grinning like we were going to a party.  I began to drift, as the sedatives started to work, but it was his face and presence that reassured me that this was the best thing I was ever going to do.  His students were nearby waiting for the experience as an audience to my laproscopic procedure, and seemed they had learned to emulate his bedside manner.

 And the next thing I know, I am in the recovery room.  A wonderful morphine button became my best friend for the day.  Ice and sips of water were like Champaign and caviar.  And, at the end of the day, coat on and tired eyes, he came into my room and sat back in a chair next to my bed and just looked so comfortable.  I rambled on about stories about my daughter that only he and the Lord would remember. 

 But he continued to sit there, for as long as I needed, tired, smile and all.  He gave me more ice chips and apple juice.  And he sat once again, like he was ready to have some tea and watch the sunset.

He is a good doctor because my little scars and quick recovery attested to that.  But more than that, he is a good, kind empathetic and compassionate man.  He cared when I was most frightened.  He listened as I continued to talk from nervousness.  He looked directly into my eyes as I drifted off and made me feel safe. 

Thank you Doctor Travis Haldeman, for not only being a great doctor, but most importantly to me, a kind man.  And, with an "all gone" on the endometrial cancer prognosis, there is most importantly an "all gone" on feeling alone or scared about that six letter word anymore.  Because, "Safe" is the best thing to happen to anyone who hears that word and lives to say...

 Thank You,

Carol Fox