Cancer. It's a word that has been in my brain like...well, like a cancer. In the last few weeks, I have been plagued by cancer...both directly and indirectly. I had a constant pain in my breast that was making me nervous. I went to my doctor, told her my symptoms, and she immediately got on the phone referring me for a mammogram. I listened to her as she argued with whomever was on the other end of the phone, explaining my mother's history of breast cancer and how I must have a mammogram. She huffed and puffed, hung up the phone, and explained that I'm too young for a mammogram so I'd be going for a sonogram instead. I didn't really care what kind of test it was...as long as it meant I was getting to the bottom of whatever was wrong. Cancer was the last thing I thought it was, but I figured a sonogram would surely tell me something about what was going on.
I showed up at the breast imaging center and checked in. While filling out my paperwork, there was a woman in the waiting room who was a accompanied by a nurse. She kept bursting out with, "Oy vey" over and over again. I couldn't help but think of my mother. She reminded me of my mom during one of her many manic depressive espisodes. I looked at the woman and smiled tenderly, trying to convery the message that I understood where she was coming from. But she just looked back and screamed, "Oy vey," again. And again, I thought of my mother. My mother was 46 years old when she was first diagnosed with cancer, a diagnosis that would eventually go terribly wrong and metastasize...leading to a mastectomy...chemo...radiation...and 3 reconstructive surgeries. But, despite all of this, my mother is a cancer survivor. She is still in my life today...a gift from God that I sometimes took for granted until I met the guy I'm currently dating...and frequently blog about.
He lost his mother in her battle with cancer. He had little time to prepare for her death and she was one of his very best friends. And this past week was the 3 year anniversary of his mother's death. Since we started dating, we've spent a lot of time together. But as the anniversary drew closer, we grew further apart. Maybe that's an unfair assessment...we didn't necessarily grow apart, we just spent significantly less time together. His phone calls and texts grew further and further apart. I finally sent him a text message asking if he was still interested in me...his elusiveness had shaken my confidence. I just couldn't understand why he would want to be alone that much....or exclude me from what he was going though. In all fairness, we are two very different people in that regard. When I'm at low points, many times I need people around me to distract me from allowing myself to get so low that I can't get back up. Why didn't he want me around to help pick him back up?
The answer became abundantly more clear a few hours after I started writing this particular blog. I started writing this blog post on Saturday evening. I stopped so that I could get out of my house for a while and go distract myself from my self-absorbed thoughts of me, me, me in the context of my relationship for a while. I don't mean to skip around so much, but I need to rewind a few weeks back at this point.
I don't remember if it started with a text or a phone call...but I do know it ended up with me on the phone with my old college roommate, getting the news that her father's bladder cancer had returned...and spread. I stayed on the phone with her, listening to how everything had unfolded. Occassionally, I would interject my words of hope based on my own father's battle with bladder cancer. My father is also a cancer survivor. He is a smoker, a recovering alcoholic...but most of all, a survivor. I sent her texts everyday, checking on the progress of his battle. His prognosis sounded fairly promising, but I still made sure to take a day and spend it with her while he was in the hospital. Things sounded hopeful...he was supposed to be discharged at the end of the week so he could get home and start full-body chemo. We all watched the World Cup together, drank iced coffee, and he ate the first solid food he had been able to in days. It was a good day.
Fast forward back to this Saturday. As I mentioned, I went out and hung out with my friends so as to avoid wallowing in my own self-pitty for the evening. I drank some beers and played an entertaining game of Scrabble with a few friends. It was a low-key night, but it was just what I needed. On the way home, I spoke to the kid I was dating again...and found more frustration. I pulled up in front of my house and took a look at facebook on my blackberry. I saw a haunting status update from my old roommate and paused...It's 2 a.m. Do I call...is it too late? Do I text her...is that too impersonal? Does her update mean what I THINK it means? I decided to text a general "thinking of you" text just to test the waters. Her response broke my heart and confirmed what I thought to be true. Her father had lost his battle to cancer that night.
Within seconds of getting her response, I called her...not knowing what words I could possibly say that would be able to offer her consolement. Her voice was calm as she answered the phone and explained the events of the evening. I sat there in silence ...just trying to figure out what to say. What words are there for someone who loses a parent? Sometimes the only thing you can say is that you don't know what to say.
I got off the phone with her....and sobbed. I cried so long and so hard that I lost track of time. I cried for all the things he would miss in her life. I cried at the thought of if it had been my father. I cried for her mother. I cried for her sister. And then I cried because I realized how insensitive I had been to the guy I'm dating about grieving the loss of his mother. I made myself physically sick from crying so hard. At some point, I got myself together enough to get into my house...so I could cry some more. And cry, I did. I cried at the thought of how strong my friend was being at such a tragic time. I cried about feeling guilty that my parents had survived. I cried for everything that had gone wrong...and could possibly ever go wrong in the future. I just couldn't get a hold of myself...and then I yawned. Yawns are magical. I feel like yawns are God's way of stopping you from crying when you can't stop yourself. I yawned...and just like that, it was God's reminder that I was still alive and to get a grip. So I did...and went to sleep.
The next morning I woke up...and I cried again. I sent a text to the guy I'm dating and explained what happened. I needed to see him...and not be alone...and tell him that I think I finally understood...kind of. Afterall, how much can you really understand that until it happens to you? I don't ever want to know...but I know it's inevitable...no one gets out of this alive.
I spent the whole day with him...living life instead of crying about the things that are so far out of my control that they could make me cry forever. I called my parents and the woman I consider to be a second mother. I told them each that I love them and that I was grateful that they are still here in my life. I talked to my friend today and she asked me how I was doing. I didn't know how to answer....if I said I was good, would that make her feel worse? If I said I was bad, would that make her feel worse? Instead, I chose honesty...I told her that her father's death had made me realize how lucky I am to have my parents in my life and to not take anything for granted....and to always remember to LIVE my life instead of thinking about it so much. She seemed happy that a lesson was learned throughout all of this. She said it's what her father would have wanted. And after she said it, I realized that's what all of us should strive for...to leave a legacy that reminds others to value our lives and one another...and to live everyday as if it might be our last...because you never know.
