The Pembroke Regional Hospital – which I suspect is one large building or a series of conjoined buildings constructed successively as the need arose – is compartmentalized into access by buildings A, B, C and D. The entrances are all located within sight of one another though obviously different distances from one another and from the parking lot. B and C are central and the most popular. The overall effect is that the entrances to the various departments are approachable and comfortable.  We were received immediately upon arrival today then told to sit in the waiting area until collected. The receptionist was exceedingly buoyant and pleasant to deal with. We hadn’t long to wait. Things were on schedule.

Seated in a row of chairs directly before me were three voluble ladies who, it turned out, were awaiting the return of another from the bowel of the building. When she finally re-emerged – walking with a stick – they greeted her with the exaggerated cheer of a chorus welcoming a returning heroine.They assembled about her and together ushered her into the bright cold winter air outside.

Behind me, a gentleman with a walker shared family gossip with a woman who appeared not to be a patient. It was manifestly clear that both the man and woman knew many of the same people; and, it evolved that they were both from the immediate area. Their accents were distinctly Ottawa Valley.

A nurse strode past with the confidence of someone deeply knitted into the hospital’s fabric. She wore a festive red bow in her hair, though beyond that small indulgence she was all business. She vanished down a hallway. Nearby, a volunteer in a cobalt-blue vest – Volunteer emblazoned in yellow across the back – sat perched on the edge of a desk chair, gently swivelling as she surveyed the room. She rose now and then to assist the next elderly arrival to the correct destination, doing so with an easy familiarity.

Soon I was distracted from my patent curiosity when my name was called by a woman who suddenly appeared in the second hallway facing the waiting room. I was uncertain whether she were a nurse or not.  It unfolds that she managed today’s nuclear investigation (or whatever it is properly called).  As I struggled to follow her down the corridor and around a corner to an empty waiting room, I asked her, “Where are you from?” When she replied, “Here, in Pembroke”, I expressed my affirmation because I told her I heard a distinct Irish flavour. It was then she told me she was originally from Cape Breton – to which I dutifully exclaimed, “The Sacrament of Heaven!” with which she similarly concurred.

She had me remove my shirt and sweater, lie face down on a narrow platform, and then injected me twice with whatever solution the procedure required. Thus fortified, we moved into the imaging chamber. I lay face up on a moveable bed—something like an MRI table—while the machine worked over me from neck to groin. The scan lasted forty-five minutes; I drifted asleep for much of it.

Now I wait for next week’s pre-op consultation by phone, followed the week after by an in-person meeting with the anaesthetist, and then, ten days later, the surgery itself. I’ve had surgery before, but never such a parade of preliminary appointments. Yet each step has been worthwhile. I’m still piecing together the exact choreography of the surgical day—various references to procedures, injections, or preparations immediately before or even the day prior have left the script a little blurry. For that reason, we’ve already booked a local hotel for two nights. I’ll let the pre-op specialist settle the final details.

What matters is that the process feels deliberate and competent. I assume today’s images will be reviewed by the surgeon – if not by some other authority – to determine how wide a margin must be excised around the melanoma. Whether the surgeon repeats any of today’s injections on the day itself is unclear. But I’m relieved to have reached this point. Last night I found myself spinning in circles, rehearsing uncertainties without direction or purpose. That restlessness has now dissipated. I don’t yet have all the answers, but the methodical pace of modern practice reassures me that clarity will come.

What I anticipate now is the straightforward part: the operation—and, if I am honest, the inexpressible narcotics. As for the carcinogenic science behind it all, I’ll endure the lecture when it arrives. For the moment, the waiting is over.