July 25, 2011. I made my mom go to the doctor to get an inhaler because I was convinced she had asthma and needed it…so she would stop coughing…even though she was really coughing because she’s allergic to my rabbit. Anyway…
July 26, 2011. I will remember that day forever. I went to work and sat behind my computer. I left work at 3pm to go downtown (D.C.) to pick up my passport with my visa for India. I came home and poured myself a glass of wine. Around 6:40, my mom and my aunt came home and went up to my mom’s room. About 20 minutes later my uncle came in and sort of made small talk with me before going upstairs to my mom’s room where my mom and aunt were (this was the first thing that seemed sort of weird…except they all went to high school together, so I didn’t think it was THAT weird).
About 10 minutes later, they all came downstairs. My mom asked me to go sit next to her on the couch. My aunt and uncle took seats in the recliners adjacent to the couch. My mom took my hand, and I stared straight ahead out the window watching the woods that make up our back yard. That’s when I KNEW something was wrong.
“I went to the doctor yesterday, you know, for the cough…but I also had this little lump in my side that I asked him to check out. He told me I should get a CT scan, so I did, and then I had to go to another doctor today. They have found a mass; it’s about the size of a cantaloupe, and my oncologist – who I really like – told me that he’ll have to take it out and he’ll run tests when he does, but he already knows that it is likely not benign… Do you understand? I have stage 3C Ovarian Cancer.”
My thoughts went something like this:
So this is what this feels like…I've seen this scene a hundred times, but this is not what I thought it feels like…this doesn't even feel real.
HOW IS THIS REAL?
I can’t race. I can’t leave my mom. What the heck is stage 3C Ovarian Cancer?? THE SIZE OF A CANTALOUPE? HOW does a tumor get to be the size of a CANTALOUPE without your knowledge?
…Okay. So, what happens next?
“The doctor says we need to do something pretty fast. He wants to take out the tumor on the 15th and then we’ll start chemo when I’m strong enough for that. It will be the kind where I’ll lose my hair.”
I for sure can’t race. No way. NO way can I walk out the door and say, “okay, mom, see you in a year, hope chemo doesn’t suck too bad!”
…stay tuned for part 2.
