The Big C
August 13, 2012.
The Day. We’ve all got one. That’s mine. The day that divides your life into ‘Before’ and ‘After.’
Before is the blissful ignorance of normalcy. Content with your lot in life. Happy, even, amongst the trivial annoyances of your day. Broken appliances, rush hour traffic, burnt dinners, crying babies.
And that day was an extra special day. It was my baby girl’s thirteenth birthday. In the chaos of our crazy world, I’ve raised three beautiful, well-adjusted teenagers who don’t hate me. Glorious.
And, as expected on this summer day—baby girl’s day—the phone rang. Nana and Pop Pop calling for the celebratory call and birthday song sung to rival a couple screeching cats . . . all in good fun, of course.
But Nana is unusually quiet tonight. Somber, even. Once I have her on the phone, she tells me she went to the doctor that day to see about her nagging cough. He did an X-ray. There was a spot. It didn’t look good, so he sent her immediately for a CT scan. She spoke softly. Matter-of-factly. But in that moment, I knew my life would not be the same.
This was my After.
CT results two days later showed large tumors in her lungs near her esophagus which explained the cough and some difficulty swallowing. I drove in to go with her and Dad to her specialist appointment and saw the look on that man’s face when he scheduled the biopsy. Stage IV. Not good.
Within a couple weeks we had her down to the gurus at MD Anderson, and in a well-orchestrated flurry of specialists and scans and blood work, they reviewed her case and wanted to start her on an aggressive chemo regimen.
“What is the prognosis?” I asked her doctor finally, when it wasn’t forthcoming.
He glanced at my mother. “Do you want to know? Some patients don’t like to know.”
She nodded. “Yes. I would. Please.”
With kind eyes, he leaned in. “Now, some people do better, some people do worse, but, with your type of cancer, the median life expectancy is approximately ten months.”
Silence.
Ten months?
My mother looked down at her lap as tears filled her eyes.
Ten months?
She finally looked back up and moved on. My mom is a strong lady. I mean, really, what are you gonna do?
So, we got the rest of the information and sat through their MD Anderson video about chemotherapy and the potential side effect. OMG.
That was enough to make her cry over her salad at lunch. “Why should I even do this?”
I got that. She’s just been told she could only have ten months left and now they want to pump her full of toxic crap that will give her diarrhea, fatigue, mouth sores, anorexia, AND she’ll lose her hair. Awesome.
Well, she bucked up, did her drugs, and was a rock star. She sailed through chemo and rocked that bandana. Hardly any of those stupid side effects. She did so good, the tumors shrunk in fear by nearly 90% and she became a candidate for radiation. That? Now, that’s not so much fun. But, she got through it, and her cancer is at bay now. A speck of its monstrous, soul-sucking self. And I think we learned a few priceless things along the way . . .
Yes, cancer sucks, but not living sucks worse.
A turkey sandwich shared tastes better.
Someone at MD Anderson could be a closet perv. See the sign. 
Bandanas with skulls and crossbones are definitely WAY cooler.
Faith works.
Be grateful. Someone’s always hurting worse than you.
Tears are okay, but smiles are better.
Bald is cute.
God really does put angels in your path right when you need them . . . doctors, nurses, even the lady sitting across from you in the waiting room. Try to be one in return.
Moms are gifts God gives you. Hug yours and sing Adam Lambert songs with her.
P.S. It’s been ten months now and my mom is happy and beautiful and wonderful. Every day from here on out is a new After.
