At eighty, my abdomen had grown so large that my family became worried. When doctors found a large fluid-filled mass, they also found a twelve-year-old record connected to my late husband. My son Daniel recognized the name on it before I understood what it meant.
My name is Margaret Whitmore. I had raised three children, welcomed seven grandchildren and watched four great-grandchildren become part of our family. My husband, Robert, had been gone for twelve years. We were married for fifty years, and after his death I stayed in the house where we had raised our children.
For a long time, my life was quiet in the ordinary way. My family visited, my neighbors checked on me, and I got used to doing things at my own pace. Then, about six months before I went to the hospital, my waist began to change. I blamed age and weight gain. When my favorite trousers stopped fitting, I switched to loose dresses. I kept telling myself it was nothing serious, though bending down and sitting comfortably became harder.
One Sunday, my daughter-in-law, Sarah, looked at my stomach and asked, “Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Have you spoken to your doctor about the swelling?”
I laughed a little. “Sarah, I’m eighty. My body doesn’t work quite like it used to.”
She didn’t laugh with me. “Margaret, I really think you should have it checked. Please.”
“I’ll call,” I said.
I meant to. I also kept putting it off. I hate admitting that I would rather have worried my family than hear a doctor tell me something was wrong. Three nights later, I woke with pressure in my abdomen and an unfamiliar fluttering sensation. I shifted, then stopped moving because the feeling came again. I pressed my hand lightly against my stomach. Something seemed to move beneath it.
I could not explain what I felt. I only knew I was frightened enough to call Daniel the next morning.
“Mom? Is everything okay?”
“Could you take me to the hospital? I think it’s time I found out what’s happening.”
He came over shortly afterward. He looked at my abdomen, then back at my face.
“Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten this bad?”
“I didn’t want to worry anyone.”
“Mom, that’s what we’re here for.”
At the hospital, Dr. Helen Parker examined me, asked about the swelling and reviewed my medical history. She arranged an ultrasound. The technician studied the screen, adjusted the equipment and looked from one angle to another. Then she stepped out to speak with the doctor.
I turned toward Daniel. “Do you think something’s wrong?”
“Let’s hear what the doctor says,” he replied, and held my hand.
Dr. Parker returned with another specialist. She told me the ultrasound showed a large fluid-filled mass in my abdomen.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“We need additional imaging to understand exactly what it is and how best to treat it.”
“So that’s why I’ve been feeling pressure?”
“It could be. We need to finish the examinations before we draw conclusions.”
I appreciated the care in her answer, but the word mass stayed with me. A couple of hours later, she invited Daniel and me into her office. The team wanted to review some earlier health records, she explained. Then she asked if I had ever received medical consultations through a private research facility.
“Not that I remember.”
She opened a folder.
