Hold My Hand

The doctor’s face was grim as he stared at me over the counter in the cardio unit. “Stay here,” he said, holding the phone. “I’m getting results.”

Finally. Our daughter, Katy, had been hospitalized five days earlier as a result of a slipped needle biopsy that had collapsed her lung. Along with her husband, Chris, Joe and I waited for answers.

I prayed for Katy, that this was simply a virus. I prayed for Chris who had spent every night at the hospital. For Joe and me, that we could stay strong for our daughter. That Katy’s cancer hadn’t returned.

I smiled thinly at the chaplain walking by, but something in me said that he would be needed. I called him back and asked him to go see Katy. “She’s in a bad place,” I told him. “She’s so discouraged.”

The doctor hung up. “Metastatic melanoma.” Without another word, he headed down the corridor to Katy’s room. I was left at the front desk, holding onto it for dear life.

I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen in shock. When I stumbled down the hall, the chaplain was just leaving her room. “Let me pray for you,” he said.

I can’t remember his words or how he prayed. Just that he held my right hand. And that I didn’t fall down.