Warning: Some might consider this post in the category of Too Much Information. But I hope you will read it anyway. This is one topic on which I don’t want to stay silent.
Five years ago tomorrow, I lost my mother, my best friend, to breast cancer. The photograph of her below was taken by my dad the summer before she died. Mom told me that this setting in Big Sur, California must surely be a glimpse of Heaven itself.
A few months ago, I found a lump. Having lost my mother to breast cancer, I am diligent about my self exams and regular mammograms. The day I found the lump, I had twinges of fear, but I’m also one to analyze and debate with myself, and I convinced myself it was nothing. Just to be safe, I would call my doctor. But surely it was nothing.
Two days later, I was sitting in my doctor’s office, in that awful paper gown, with goosebumps on my arms from the cool office temperature. Twelve seconds into the exam, my doctor stopped right at the same spot and said, “Oh yes, you mean this right here, don’t you?” My heart began pounding. She wasn’t supposed to find anything. She was supposed to tell me she only felt normal tissue, and that my paranoid imagination had gotten the best of me. She was supposed to pat me on the back for my caution, and send me home with a smile and tell me not to worry.
But she didn’t. She felt the lump a few more seconds, and then told me to get dressed. She said she wanted to send me for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound to find out more. As she briefly stepped out, I started to cry. She was back quickly with my referral paperwork with STAT written in red ink across the top. She told me to call for the appointment right away, and if they didn’t work me in within a day or two, to call her back. She didn’t want to wait on this.
As I left, the crying began full force. It took me a few minutes to pull myself together enough to call my husband with the news. Then I called my dad. By the time I got home, my husband had left work and my dad, along with our good friend Gail, had come over as well. They had the same pale faces and looks of concern.
The mammogram was scheduled for the next morning. For those 24 hours, my husband and I maintained our brave faces and carefully avoided any serious conversation. Yet both of us played through the frightening scenarios in our heads. I remembered all too vividly sitting next to my mother after her biopsy, when the doctor uttered those horrible words, “You have breast cancer.” I remember what the cancer did to her after that. The painful scars from her mastectomy and reconstruction, the chemo, the radiation, the hair loss. I saw and felt the renewed terror with each 6-month body scan. I remember the most the tears – not the tears from sadness, but the tears from chemo. You see, the last chemotherapy drug my mother had to take destroyed her mucous membranes and the lining of her eyes, which caused her eyes to water chronically. For four months, what would turn out to be the last of her life, my mother appeared to be constantly crying. She dabbed at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief for months.
And I remember the joy, the elation, the relief when her doctor told us in March, 2003, that her scans were clean! She was in remission! But the body scan was only performed from the neck down. Though our emotions were soaring higher than ever, Mom was still in pain in her back and legs. Though the painful side effects from the drugs had worn off, the aches did not. And six weeks after that glorious report of clear scans, on April 30, 2003 Mom was gone. She died from carcinomatous meningitis. The cancer all this time was in her brain and spinal fluid. They never caught it.
I hate having that memory of her crying for months. I hate that breast cancer stole her from my children before they even had a chance to even form a memory of their beloved Nana. I hate that this lump would turn into a terrifying mountain, making me wonder if all those things would be happening to me. And most of all, I hate that I had to think about what I would leave my children. Yes, I was afraid I was going to die. I thought of the unfinished scrapbooks, the Halloween costumes I would never make, the school plays I wouldn’t attend. I thought about teaching Chris how to style Erica’s hair because her Mommy might not be there to do it. I thought about the letters I should write to my children, just in case I wasn’t there for their milestones like graduation, their first job, their wedding day.
Overreacting? Yes, probably. But when you have lost someone to this evil disease, a lump is magnified into something all-encompassing.
I am so blessed to say that my mammogram and ultrasound showed only benign, fibrocystic tissue. My family and I were able to enjoy our weekend with a sense of relief and renewed hope.
But so many women, too many women, don’t have that outcome. And that is why I have chosen to walk this year in the Atlanta Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk. When I think about what I would give to have my mother back, to even have 3 more days with her, it is immeasurable. What would I give to improve my odds of seeing my children get married? Of seeing my grandchildren devour their first ice cream cone? What would I give to ensure that my daughter will one day hold her grandchildren and great-grandchildren? Would I give three days if I thought it just might give her a lifetime? You bet I would.
So now I turn to you, my family, friends, and clients, for your support. I hope you will join me in one (or both!) of two ways: by supporting my walk financially and by praying with me. My financial goal is to raise $2200 which will fund projects for breast cancer research and education through the Susan G. Komen Foundation. Your donation is tax-deductible, and please know that any amount you can give, even $5, helps tremendously. Both your monetary contribution and your prayers will help us make a difference in defeating this disease, so that our daughters don’t have to be terrified when they find a tiny lump. My dream is not necessarily to eradicate breast cancer. It is to render it powerless against us, to find the cure, to secure hope.
Please click the link below to donate to my journey. I appreciate your support more than words can express. Thank you.
