Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

5 months have passed since we found out about Mom’s uterine cancer.  I know there is evil and tragedy across the world, but nothing is more close to home than cancer and one of your own.

We were lucky- as far as luck and cancer goes.  From what they medical people could see, the yuck had all been cut out, and the chemo was the power shot to smack it out the field.

And so, the chemo took place, every third week: after the first session Mom’s hair fell out in clumps.  She took herself off to the only hairdresser open on a Sunday, in a Joburg suburb- the barber- who shaved it all off.  My poor 3 year old niece was privy to this, and immediately decided that she no longer needed her hair cut.

In the week following that, Dad decided to go clean in solidarity.  Since he doesn’t actually have much hair on his head, he took the beard off as well.  In the 37 years of my life, I can only barely remember the image of my beardless dad.  Funnily enough, he’s decided that’s his image from now on- a retired, bald gardener.

We were staying with them between session 2 and 3, and I have to give my mom kudos for being strong in those 2 weeks.  It couldn’t have been easy at all, and my Dad was amazing- made meals and babysat when necessary, read books and did homework with Alex, went walking with Beth (and allowed secret trysts to take place after she’d been instructed NOT to hitch a ‘carry’ if she tired of walking).

But the 3^rd, 4^th and 5^th sessions was when the chemo started taking its toll.  I would hear the information via, via, via, so whether it was filtered or embellished slightly, I will never know.  But each time, Mom took to her bed more and more.  Phone calls between us almost ground to a halt, and messages were replied to at intermittent intervals.  At the same time, my sister and I would spend more time on Skype or FaceTime, which I have to confess, has been really great.

And then, in the week before what should have been her 6^th and last chemo session, she went for regular bloodwork, and a follow-up CT scan.

What followed has been one (another?) long drawn out stress filled time.  There it was- a mass on her lung.  According to Mom, they noticed it in October on previous scans, but this mass had neither grown, nor shrunk.  Since they couldn’t tell what it was- could even have been scar tissue from something along the way- they had to do a biopsy.  The last chemo was put on hold so that she could get her strength up for surgery, and then they decided to err on the side of caution and remove the mass at the same time.

Having learnt to not expect the worst, because it will simply drive you to places you’d rather not be, we just waited.  After all, how could the mass be cancer after 5 sessions of chemo?

But that’s just the shit that is cancer, isn’t it?  A cold walk across a glacier, a hot walk across a dessert- there is nothing nice and easy to understand about it.

I have spent 2 weeks looking at the situation from so many angles- from the perspective of a hopeful daughter living far away, from the perspective of a daughter living closer to the bone, and from the perspective of a clever son, whose medical background could be the most realistic of all- that tertiary (is there such a thing?) cancer is never good.

Added to this, Mom and Dad have decided that the effect of the chemo on Mom’s quality of life is not great, and have told the doctors ‘no more chemo’.  Instead, her oncologist (who she has been with since 1999 for unrelated cancer issues) is happy to put her on hormone medication, treatment typical for breast cancer patients.  There are no side effects, except for the minor fact that it doesn’t actually kill the cancer, it keeps it at bay.

That being said, the doctors cannot see any other masses on the x-rays, and there is nothing indicative in her blood-work to confirm our fears.  As siblings, we were quite horrified that there was more cancer in her body than the uterine cancer discovered in October last year.  And then we were saddened by the fact that Mom didn’t seem to want to fight it with chemo.

However, given the hours I have spent wiping tears from my eyes, I have decided to take this perspective:

• Since the doctors can’t actually see what to treat-ie, there is no visible evidence of other masses, preventative action is probably better than other options.
• Her oncologist is good at what he does- he would suggest something else if it was necessary.
• Nobody is just sitting back thinking the cancer has disappeared. Mom will be monitored regularly with CT scans and ongoing blood tests to assess developments.

It has become easier to speak to her on the phone now, and she sounds so much better.  She says she feels better than she has in a very long time, and that makes the world of difference.

What has been difficult is the waiting.  We wait for appointments to happen, we wait for results, and now we will continue to wait.  If I am to admit it here (and it’s not easy), I don’t think her body will ever be rid of cancer anymore.  That’s bloody awful to consider, even more so when you’re sitting on the other side of the world, and you can’t take her hand in yours and tell her to her face how much you love her.  A lesson to be learnt here is to never take any situation for granted.

Mom, I know you won’t get to read this today, and forgive me for ‘putting it out there’.  But sitting on the other side of my computer screen are many of my dearest friends, who have walked with us in the last few months, and have asked me often how you are doing.  They too are all sending you love and hugs today especially as you celebrate your birthday.  For some of them, they will get to see you on Friday, and with every hug they give you, know that I am in their arms, reaching out to you too.

Mom, I love you so much.  Hope you have a great birthday week, all our love,

Xxx