Fuck this Shit (That's How I Really Feel)
My mother has breast cancer. These foreign words roll off my tongue and I don't know what they mean. My mother has cancer. What does that signify? What does that represent? What meaning can I possibly derive from these words except the end of life as I know it? My mother has cancer.
I've always known my mother was someday going to have breast cancer. Somewhere in my gut, I have been waiting for this conversation my whole life. Her mother died young, in her mid-40's , from the disease, and my mom has been vigilant about mammograms and tests and all the rest. It's as if we've all known it was coming one of these days and we've just been hoping to get the Paul Revere in time.
Oh, it's early stage, or almost pre-cancerous, or non-invasive, or something. "It's good that they caught it so early," my mother says. She's trying to cheer me up, she can hear me flipping out even though I try so hard to keep my voice calm and steady. She's worried that they may have to do the surgery during our planned family vacation in a few weeks. It eats me up inside that even as she must be dealing with the realization that the disease that killed her mother has come back for her, even as she is dealing with her own impending mortality, she is worrying about keeping my spirits up. About making sure my vacation is enjoyable and stress-free.
So I'm reading about stages, metastasis, survival rates. Breastcancer.org cheerily informs me that the 5 year survival rate for early stage breast cancer is almost 100%! (They note that after that the rates drop; they don't tell me how far.)
Five years! Five years. Five years is nothing. Five years is my brother only just turning 18. Five years and I'll still be a floundering 20something, still, I'm sure, as in need of my mother as ever. Five years is barely time to remodel the kitchen the way she's been talking about forever. In five years there's no time to go on the trips she's mentioned or read those books she's been saving for a rainy day. Five years is nothing. Thanks, Breastcancer.org, for trying to cheer me up. It's not working.
I was sitting on a bench in JP when I got off the phone with my mother. We couldn't talk about it much - she was at work and I know she didn't want to get into it. Besides, she goes to see the doctor on Monday to find out what the real scope is. What stage, what treatment, what chance of recovery. In the meantime it's all conjecture and the glass is half full.
It took me five minutes before I could even move from the bench. I wanted something, someone, some support, some lifeline, so desperately and I couldn't even figure out who I should call. That's when I realized that the person I really wanted to talk to, the one person who could give me the comfort I'm craving and convince me that it's all going to be okay, and the one person I couldn't go to right now, I couldn't be weak for...is my mother.
Right now, I just really want my mother.
I've always known my mother was someday going to have breast cancer. Somewhere in my gut, I have been waiting for this conversation my whole life. Her mother died young, in her mid-40's , from the disease, and my mom has been vigilant about mammograms and tests and all the rest. It's as if we've all known it was coming one of these days and we've just been hoping to get the Paul Revere in time.
Oh, it's early stage, or almost pre-cancerous, or non-invasive, or something. "It's good that they caught it so early," my mother says. She's trying to cheer me up, she can hear me flipping out even though I try so hard to keep my voice calm and steady. She's worried that they may have to do the surgery during our planned family vacation in a few weeks. It eats me up inside that even as she must be dealing with the realization that the disease that killed her mother has come back for her, even as she is dealing with her own impending mortality, she is worrying about keeping my spirits up. About making sure my vacation is enjoyable and stress-free.
So I'm reading about stages, metastasis, survival rates. Breastcancer.org cheerily informs me that the 5 year survival rate for early stage breast cancer is almost 100%! (They note that after that the rates drop; they don't tell me how far.)
Five years! Five years. Five years is nothing. Five years is my brother only just turning 18. Five years and I'll still be a floundering 20something, still, I'm sure, as in need of my mother as ever. Five years is barely time to remodel the kitchen the way she's been talking about forever. In five years there's no time to go on the trips she's mentioned or read those books she's been saving for a rainy day. Five years is nothing. Thanks, Breastcancer.org, for trying to cheer me up. It's not working.
I was sitting on a bench in JP when I got off the phone with my mother. We couldn't talk about it much - she was at work and I know she didn't want to get into it. Besides, she goes to see the doctor on Monday to find out what the real scope is. What stage, what treatment, what chance of recovery. In the meantime it's all conjecture and the glass is half full.
It took me five minutes before I could even move from the bench. I wanted something, someone, some support, some lifeline, so desperately and I couldn't even figure out who I should call. That's when I realized that the person I really wanted to talk to, the one person who could give me the comfort I'm craving and convince me that it's all going to be okay, and the one person I couldn't go to right now, I couldn't be weak for...is my mother.
Right now, I just really want my mother.
posted by Melissa at 7:45 PM
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