Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles.

So, it turns out that the woman doing my ultrasound scan today is the same woman who did my first ultrasound scan back in December. I don't remember her and she doesn't remember me, but her initials are on that first scan. Before she starts today's ultrasound, she scrolls through the past scans on a computer screen to get an idea of what to look for now. 

I avert my eyes, as I am a coward and afraid of what I will see, even if it's good news.

She starts working the ultrasound machine, but pauses a moment and then stops. She goes back to the computer and pulls up the original scans from December once more. From my vantage point, I see her scrolling through scan after scan until she stops on one and leaves it there on the computer screen. This time, I look - I can't help it, I'm curious. 

The long, black terror of a tumor stares back at me like a glowering menace. It's like looking into the eye of Sauron.

She returns to the ultrasound machine, this time with a ruler. She gets the exact measurement on my breast of where to look and tries again. The plastic stick kneading my flesh. The warm, gooey gel spreading across my skin. I can't bear having anything on my skin, including lotion, so this process makes me squirm a little. I try to focus on the ceiling to calm my nerves. 

"Oh, my God. I don't believe it." She shakes her head.

I jerk in response. "What? Do you see anything?"

There's a long pause. A deep breath. And then:

"No. There's nothing there."

I peer over my shoulder at the ultrasound screen. 

"Well, what's that?"

"That's the clip from your biopsy. But that's it. Just the clip."

When I had the biopsy of the primary tumor in my breast, they inserted a little clip in afterward as a marker to keep track of where they took the sample tissue. Before my first cycle of chemo in January, my oncologist had said that the goal would be to shrink the tumor so small that it disappears completely and only the clip would be left when viewing scans of my final ultrasound. Though, he added, the likelihood of that would be very slim, about 5%. Improbable, but a good goal nonetheless.

"So, that right there. That is just the clip? There's nothing else?"

"I mean... No."

"Oh. Wow."

It looks so clean, so new, so healthy. I'm stunned.

"Have you... have you ever seen anything like this before?"

"I have never seen anything like this before in my life. It's a miracle."

She leaves the room to go get the radiologist on call. Alone in the room, I am shaking. There are tears in my eyes but I don't even register that I'm crying, more like my eyes are in shock and are trying to make sense of things. My whole body thrums with dull energy as I keep staring at the stilled images on the screen.

It's a miracle. It's a miracle. It's a miracle.

She returns with the radiologist, who scrolls through the images and is explaining the scan to me. There is no indication that a tumor was ever there. No residual tissue, no scar tissue, nothing. Only the biopsy clip. I hear him but it's so hard to listen when my blood is rapidly pounding in my ears. 

As he leaves, we shake hands and he says, "Congratulations." In that one word I see my life, my future, unfurling out of the sky like little shooting stars (or meteors if you want to get technical) and coming back to me. I welcome it all. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles.

I believe in you my soul.