Marilyn Claire Murphy

A funny thing happened to me on Wednesday.

Not the kind of “ha ha” funny, but “hmmmm, that’s interesting” kind of funny.

Several weeks ago, I noticed discomfort in my lower extremities. Kind of bloating, belching, non-normal bowel movements (sorry if that’s TMI for you . . . ) and some unusual coughing.

“Constipation,” suggested Scott.

Never having had an issue before, I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on – but I knew this wasn’t my normal. Nothing painful – just not comfortable. It persisted for awhile, even after a phone consultation with my doctor produced the suggestion that I take Miralax (for the bowel issue) and Prilosec for possible acid reflux.

I’ve always been grateful to be healthy. Yes, I should exercise more and eat better, but despite that – I have a rock-solid constitution, no fear of flying, no issues with motion sickness and can sleep through the night just about anywhere (though I prefer at least a business class seat these days). My good health has certainly been an asset in my career.

Whenever I fill out one of those health forms with check boxes asking yes or no next to dozens and dozens of possible ailments, diseases, surgeries, allergies, etc. – I breeze through that list like nobody’s business:  “No. No. No. No. No.” Another reminder to be grateful for what doesn’t ail me.

Even menopause was easy. (Please don’t hate me . . .)

So this persistent discomfort was unsettling in more ways than one. I wondered, “Is this what it’s like to get old?”

I scheduled a doctor’s appointment, where the nurse took my vitals and I discovered that I was an inch shorter than I used to be. Really???

After hearing my litany of symptoms, the doctor recommended a CT scan and colonoscopy, for which I was due anyway. They took six vials of blood that day, and called the very next day to tell me there were no abnormalities in my blood. And last week’s cat scan fascinated me with a cute little LED screen showing me when I was to hold my breath and when I could let it out. As for the colonoscopy? Well – that one would wait till I got back from a major European travel program I was handling.

Two days ago, on Tuesday morning, I got a call from my doctor’s nurse.

“The doctor would like to meet with you to discuss the results of your cat scan.”

Uh, oh. Didn’t like the sound of that. “I’m leaving for Europe on Wednesday afternoon for 2 1/2 weeks. I could come today or tomorrow morning. After that, I’ll be gone till July 25th.”

“The doctor’s not in today. But I’ll put you down for 8:50 on Wednesday morning. You’ll be his first appointment of the day,” she said.

I wondered, “Why does he need to talk to me? Why don’t they just tell me everything checked out okay?”

I texted my husband and asked him to come to the appointment with me. “Is this what’s it’s going to be like getting old … going to doctor appointments together?”

Tuesday was a short night – finalizing arrangements for my most important association client: a complex program which includes a pre-trip to Belgium for 40 people, a 4-night itinerary in Amsterdam for 160 and 54 people extending on an 8-night post-trip to Paris plus a river cruise to Normandy. Lots of people, lots of moving parts, lots of puzzle pieces: flights, transfers, hotels, tours, timings, meals, meetings, museum admissions, special diets, deviations, VIPs, etc., etc., etc. It’s what I’ve done for my entire career, and – for this particular client – have been doing annually since 1989.

I started working on this particular project in February of last year. After all those months, two site inspections, hundreds of registration reports, thousands of emails – I would finally get the big payoff – and see it all come to fruition as 160 happy people enjoy the gala farewell party I’d lovingly planned for them at the Koepelkerk in Amsterdam.

(In case it’s not obvious: I love what I do!)

But right now, here I am . . . sitting in the examination room at Kaiser. Clock is ticking. 8:58. 9:05. 9:12. Grrrrr.

“I’m his first appointment? I’ve got to go home and finish packing! Doesn’t he know how busy I am?”

I say to Scott, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

“Then go,” he said. “It’s your turn to keep him waiting.”

The bathroom is just around the corner. I must tell the doc that I’m pooping normally again.

It’s about 9:20 when he comes in and logs onto the computer. Reading from the screen I hear him say, “Pelvic mass; pleural effusion around the lungs; carcinoma cannot be ruled out; 18.2 centimeters by 10.8 centimeters . . .”

I stop him there: “Doctor, did you say 18 centimeters??? Not millimeters???”

Jeesuz! That’s like a little Nerfball! And I cup my hands together in the shape of the little foam football that my brothers used to toss around the backyard. (I guess that’s what I mean by ‘funny’ – why did I conjure up that image, of all things!)

Doc pulls out a measuring tape from the drawer. “Yeah, that’s about 7 inches by 4 inches.”

He keeps reading from the screen. “11.6 centimeters transverse in the conglomerate measurement obscuring the uterus margin.”

(insert expletive)! This is not going the way I expected.

“I think it’s not advisable for you to go away on vacation for 2 1/2 weeks. I’d like you to get some more tests.”

“Doctor, I’m not going on vacation! I’m in charge of 160 people. This is my business. I’ve got to go. In fact, my flight leaves in 6 hours.”

This can’t be happening. Not to me. I’m healthy as a horse. I’m even pooping regularly again!

Scott asks, “Doctor, what happens if she puts off the tests for a couple of weeks? Will it make that much difference?”

At this point, the Doc is supposed to say, “Well, sure. I suppose that’ll be fine. You go off and do what you have to do and we’ll get things scheduled when you come back.”

But he doesn’t say that.

(insert expletive)!

The doctor continues. I’m half listening. He pats me on the knee. “I’m sorry to have to deliver this news.”

This is NOT happening. This CANNOT be happening. I cannot NOT go to Europe. “Well, okay,” my mental negotiation began, “Howard could handle the river cruise part of it . . . so I’d only be gone about half the amount of time.”

And I hear Scott saying gently, “Honey, I know how important your customers are, but you’ve got to take care of your health first.”

The doctor pipes in, “I could talk with the gynecologist oncologist and get her opinion . . . ”

(insert expletive)! Did I hear him say oncologist? Seriously????

“Yes, Doctor, please go call her.”

For several minutes Scott and I are alone in that examination room. I let the expletives fly and the tears flow. “This CANNOT be happening!” He holds me and comforts me as I rage against this unbelievable and unexpected news.

And I silently wonder if my Dad was in the examination room at St. Mary’s Hospital back in 1967 when my Mom was told that she had breast cancer and needed a radical mastectomy.

Scott continues, “You know your staff can handle this, honey.”

“I know, but . . . ” I can’t finish the sentence.

“Give me my phone, please. I’ll call Gabriel. But you might have to talk to him,” I said, blowing my nose and trying to compose myself.

I dial his cell phone – knowing he’ll pick up.

“Hi, Marilyn,” he says brightly.

“Hey,” is all I manage to say, and quickly pass the phone to Scott. He explains where we are, plus one or two sentences about what the doctor has recommended. Nothing more than that.

“No worries. We’re on it!” Gabriel assures him.

And that’s it. Decision made. I’ve surrendered. My fabulous team will pick up and take over – and the program will run brilliantly without me – and I won’t be there to see the final night gala party I’d planned – oh, and I need to advise my agent which floral arrangement I prefer – and I won’t see the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on Bastille Day – and I won’t get to see the beaches at Normandy – and (now this is the really funny part – at least I think so . . .) – I don’t have to pack!

A palpable flood of relief overcame me. Something akin to joy. I don’t have to go home and pack!!!

It’s funny what you (okay, me…) think about at certain times. As much as I love to travel, I hate packing. Never knew quite how much I hated it until that moment.

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Two hours later, I was in the office, briefing Gabriel on everything he needed to know. He’d already called a team meeting, advised our DMC, booked himself a flight and a hotel room, cancelled my flight, advised his family that he was cancelling everything on his personal and social calendar for the next ten days – and god know what else he had managed to do.

I often call him my Angel Gabriel. Everyone who knows him would agree.

And I can say the same thing about everyone on my team. There isn’t anything any of us won’t do to support each other. It took me a whole lotta years to attract such a stellar group of employees. A whole lotta misfit employees before I figured out how (finally) to attract, hire and retain the right ones. I’m so blessed.

The last 24 hours have been a gift – a state of heightened consciousness, greater gratitude, deeper sleep, longer hugs and sweeter kisses, opening doors for two different people in wheelchairs, tender support from my closest girlfriends, pastor and hubby, wonderful acknowledgement from my client about having built such a great team, an unexpected opportunity to see my Florida-based grandkids who are in San Diego this weekend.

With Gabriel and Howard gone, me and the girls on my team went out for a 2-hour lunch today. I ordered a dirty martini (extra olives!), a burger and ice cream. I feel fantastic and am pooping normally.

Tomorrow I’m supposed to hear something from Kaiser about the bloodwork and find out what’s next in the course of treatment to rid myself of my little Nerfball. But that’s tomorrow. I’ll take tomorrow as it comes – tomorrow.

All I know is that today was a very good day. And I am grateful.