I grew up with the word. Diagnosed when I was ten, my mom, Jenny, suffered from a malignant brain tumor for over a dozen years before it finally took her away from us. Standing in the garage Friday afternoon, in the company of chickens, I wasn’t at all prepared for that word to be spoken, but there James stood, reading off the back of one of my completed crossword puzzles. “Malignant melanoma” he said.

“Okay,” was my entire reply. “Okay.”

He had been to the dermatologist after being referred there by another doctor. He had been having pain and a sore in his ear that kept swelling. It would bleed at the slightest touch, making it quite difficult for a man who wears ear protection every day at his job. The “ear infection” diagnosis had apparently been quite wrong as James continued to read for me the results of the biopsy.

“It’s skin cancer. In my ear.”

“Okay,” I repeated. Though absolutely nothing was okay. Nothing.

He went on to tell me that the doctor was quite concerned as the portion they removed was of “significant size” and due to its location was particularly problematic. The doctor had basically said, in more medical verbiage, to run, not walk to Ann Arbor as the “best ENT’s in the nation are at the University of Michigan.”

“Okay,” I said once again.

Over the next few days we learned several things. First, don’t google this stuff. Second, we needed far more information and had no hope for getting any until July, when we were tentatively scheduled in Ann Arbor for further testing.

After spending the weekend digesting and trying to live with this news, James and I both agreed that we couldn’t wait until July to get further answers. Before he could even make phone calls on Monday morning, however, U of M called him.

He recounted the conversation to me when I got home. A surgical ENT nurse from U of M had called him. She had received his initial information and wanted to talk with James further. She was all but telepathic, knowing how concerned we must be and immediately expediting the process and moving up the doctor’s consult to next week. She answered every question James had, shared her direct line number and told him if he needed absolutely anything, he should call her directly. James looked at me and said, “Her name is Jenny. The nurse. Her name is Jenny.”

As he told this to me, I started to cry. For the first time since the news arrived, I felt the tears roll.

Of course it is. Of course it is.

We have no idea what we are up against. We know how suddenly this came on and how concerned the dermatologist is. We know that a referral to U of M means you NEED the very best and yet, we are trying with every ounce of ourselves, to not get ahead of anything, to not rush into worry, but to take things one step at a time. Easy for me to say, I’m not the one with a raging ear infection/cancer that’s causing such discomfort that it sent my husband to the ER today just for relief from the pain and pressure.

“Okay,” I keep hearing myself say. “Okay.” Trying to will myself to be calm, rational and level-headed – not the three most frequently used adjectives to describe me for sure. But okay. If Jenny is here to guide us through this process, I cannot help but believe we are in the best hands. Whatever it is, whatever it turns out to be, however small or large or difficult or straight-forward, we are going to be okay. If I learned nothing from all the years my mom battled her own “malignant” diagnosis it’s that worry will get us nowhere but faith will get us to exactly where we need to be. Jenny’s got this. And I have to believe that’s not a coincidence.