Cancer doesn’t happen to bad people.
I have never heard a story of cancer happening to someone who deserved it, like to someone who burned down hospitals and stole millions of dollars from charities. Cancer always happens to good people. The people who take care of others. The people who clean up the messes. The people who loved the most, who sacrificed everything, who gave so much of themselves, only to have more taken by disease.
My family always thought we’d be exempt from cancer. Not because we’re bad people, but because we’ve dealt with so many other chronic health problems and cancer isn’t as widespread in our family as it is in others. My dad had a melanoma run-in but had it taken care of quickly—we thought that was our designated family cancer scare.
This May, my mom was diagnosed with endometrial cancer. Even a month later and days before surgery, we don’t know exactly how widespread it is because it’s all tied to a poorly performed surgery 12 years ago. (My parents and the surgeons know more but I asked them to spare me the details, I can’t handle knowing everything.)
I’m still struggling with how to comprehend the news because put simply, my mom is my everything.
My mom is beloved by everyone.
At her graduation from Georgetown to get her Ph.D., she was so excited that she hugged every single person on the stage, including the sign language interpreter, and then danced off stage. She was the only person to get applause (and laughter) from the entire arena.
My mom is the life of the party. And if there isn’t a party to be had, she’s happy to sit around and find something to laugh at. That’s all she wants in this life—is to laugh at something.
My mom is the type of mom that would pull my brother and me out of school to go see the first showings of the Star Wars prequels when they premiered. She’s the kind of professor who throws pizza parties at the end of the semester. She’s the kind of aunt that welcomes her nieces and nephews to live with her whenever they need a place in the area. She’s the kind of parent who wanted her kids to have dogs so despite being allergic, adopted golden retrievers for her kids and took Claritin. She’s the kind of wife whose husband laughs at every one of her jokes after 30+ years of marriage.
My mom is the kind of person who says “thank you” in the form of handwritten cards and candy. My mom is the type of person who starts dancing to whatever is playing on the radio, wherever she is, much to my chagrin sometimes. My mom is the type of person who can make friends while walking in from the parking lot. My mom has more Facebook friends than I do.
She’s the kind of mom who will go back to work, even when she isn’t healthy, so her kids can see whatever specialist they need to and go to any school they want to. She’s the kind of mom who will fight tooth and nail with her child’s school administration day and night until they agree to grant them the Section 504 they deserve, even if it takes three-and-a-half years. She’s the kind of mom who will go to 7-11 in the middle of the night to get popsicles when her kid has a fever and can’t sleep. She’s the kind of mom who has journals full of notes she takes at her kids’ doctors’ appointments over the years, she’s there for every single one of them.
She’s the kind of mom who can be her child’s best friend.
My mom is the kind of mom who is a safe space, no judgment ever, love always.
She has been my primary caregiver for 23 years. (As well as the caregiver of my brother and my father.) And she’s damn good at it. She’s learned the ins and outs of every disease, disorder and syndrome I have. She’s tracked down the best specialists for me and has endeared herself to them so I get even better treatment. No one can say no to her.
However, anyone can be my caregiver. But only she can be my mom.
And because she’s so her, and such a mom, she does not want to relinquish her title of caregiver, even for a few days.
Even while she’s coping with cancer, while she’s preparing for surgery, she’s taking care of me. Checking in all the time. Making sure I’m OK, physically and emotionally. Letting me rant, which I tend to do a lot. Feeling my forehead to see if I’m too hot because there’s something wrong with the air conditioning. Making sure I’ve eaten and Shannon, did you really eat today or are just saying you did because you can’t remember?, and letting the dogs out so I don’t have to. Being present with me and making sure that I’m present, too.
I am so mixed with anger, helplessness and gratitude.
Anger that cancer is happening to my mom, a woman who gives so much of herself to everyone: her friends, her students, her family, especially her children.
Helplessness that there is nothing I can do besides sit by her side.
Gratitude that she has not changed, she is still my mom, she is still there for me in ways I can’t repay. That so many people love her the way she deserves and are expressing it in ways that help her feel strong. That she has good doctors she trusts and therefore I trust. That I have my own friends who are helping me feel less scared or at least more normal when I do feel scared.
There’s a chance that this surgery on Thursday can get rid of everything cancerous, and I pray to every deity that it does so she doesn’t have to endure any more of this stress and terror. All I want is for the person who has invested everything into my life and into my family to be safe, happy and healthy.
Update, July 7, 2016:
Mom had her surgery on June 23. It was complicated, it was difficult, but it went exactly as planned. There were no signs of “major cancer” but they removed everything and had to send it to lab for pathologies.
We went to her doctor for her post-op appointment and he said she was totally cancer free.
Best. News. Ever.
He told my mom that she really lucked out–he was so sure there was something there–but everything came back showing that she was in the clear. He said that she made his day because he finally got to give good news! And he rarely gets to give good news to patients.
Greatest day ever.
Thank you for love, for good feelings, for good vibes, for hope, for everything. I send all of them back, amplified times a million to people on similar journeys.