Course, Can, Can’t, Courage…Change. Cancer was a silent intruder. The other “C” word. We had heard of it. Even knew a few people who had battled it, but we did not know it up close and personal. It still crept in like a thief in the night. And it took away more than we knew.
The news wasn’t good that day. And I remembered very little of what the doctor said afterwards.
I remember our optimism on the way home, and thinking the diagnosis was absurd. The doctor wasn’t all that hopeful. In fact, he was fairly discouraging, but that fell on deaf…and reeling ears. I remember the drive home. The trees were beautiful. A new season was upon us…Change.
That was the day we got on the ride. Oh, yeah. Cancer is like that. I call it the roller coaster. There were lots of highs, lows, ups and downs and twisty, winding turns, all the while we held on for dear life. Sometimes with eyes closed…sometimes holding our breath. We didn’t volunteer to get on the ride, and none of us knew in the beginning, when or how we would ever get off. In many ways we are still on it.
Mom was 43 years old when her Breast Cancer was diagnosed. She was a smoker for as long as she could remember. We saw a side of Dad that we had never seen before. He was amazing. The radical mastectomy was scheduled for the week before the Superbowl in 1986. It was the Patriots vs. The Bears. Mom’s surgery went well, and she was very optimistic. Heck, we all were. We didn’t know any better. Can.
Of course, the Superbowl went on like nothing happened. Life is like that. Ready or not, life goes on and the world keeps on spinning. We had some friends over, and we ate, and watched the Patriots lose to the Bears in a huge blowout. Perhaps it was an omen…but more likely than not, the Bears were awesome and the Patriots were just lucky to be in the game. But Mom was right there cheering, and eating and doing her exercises…working at regaining the use of her arm. The surgery was brutal. She showed us the scar.
Mom did the prescribed chemotherapy and radiation for the degree of cancer that they had found. She had it, the chemo, for several weeks. She lost her hair, and she lost weight. She was tiny to begin with. She worked at K-Mart and never lost hope. She wore wigs to work, and bandanas around the house. She managed to keep her Lucille Ball-like sense of humor. Discouragement was not a part or our collective family personality…Courage.
It was early September of 1986, her hair had grown back and she was in remission. She was still working. She had gained weight. That was huge for her. She looked good, and felt better. We were still on the ride, and what a view from up there. The cancer was gone…for now.
I don’t remember when it came back. I think it was September, again. 1987. I remember they found a spot, in a check up, in her lungs. Yes, she still smoked. So did Dad…and my younger brother. We rode the highs, and the lows, expecting that there would be a happy ending…Always hoping.
She went back on the chemotherapy. When the prescribed dosages were not able to retard the cancer growth, she had to have a permanent valve inserted. Chemotherapy would run from a drip, 12 hours on, 12 hours off. It was aggressive. We learned more about it than we ever wanted to know. It was painful. She could barely eat. Tomato soup hurt to swallow. She had an oxygen tank at home, and still she smoked. We had to help her walk. Dad and I slept in shifts, he worked nights, and I worked days. We made sure she was never home alone. It was nearly the darkest part of the ride. I say nearly, because in December of 1987, just when we thought the ride could sink no lower, it took another dip…Can’t.
Mom went into the hospital just before Christmas. Debbie and I did the Christmas shopping. I did Christmas baking for the neighbors.
And Mom was fighting that ugly “C”-word still. This time, it was in her brain. And she knew it. Her older brother, Duane, had passed away five years earlier, with a brain tumor. I think, at that point, she resigned herself to the fact that hers was a battle she could not win…Cancer.
She came home for Christmas. It was probably the best one we ever had as a family. Mom was now the child. Since she hadn’t done any shopping, it was all a surprise to her. She went downhill quickly following the holiday, and passed away on January 14, 1988. She was 45, I was 25. My sister was 24 and my brother was 21. Dad was 47 and when he lost her, we started losing him.
Cancer hides. It’s like that. It hides behind other common symptoms…a cough…unexplained pain anywhere, and sometimes it doesn’t show itself until it’s too late to catch. Cancer is what it is…Angry? You betcha! Alarmed? Perhaps…Panicked? No.…But it never goes away…or rather the shadow of the possibility doesn’t….Ever.
The Strength of an Elephant 
