So this is the situation. Mom met with her oncologist the other day. Turns out she has not one, not two, but three different tumour types in her breast. One is a grade three ductal tumour, non-estrogenic. One is an estrogenic ductal tumour (not certain of the grade). And one is a borderline lobular tumour. She is stage two.
The details may be somewhat off, but what can you expect with three different tumour types? She meets with the oncologist again in two weeks to discuss the exact chemo regime she will undergo -- it will be aggressive, and the only reason it has been put off is because of an infection in one of her incisions.
This much we do know -- she will have a double mastectomy and bilateral oopherectomy five weeks after she finishes chemo (four months worth). She will not need radiation.
The treatment makes everything sound worse than it is, but I am fairly confident that everything will work out well. The treatment is aggressive to help ensure (as best anyone can) that Mom doesn't need to go through months and months and months of treatments. She will go on Tamoxifen. She will have reconstructive surgery. As per Emma, she will insist on a minimum standard of life during treatment.
I don't really feel anything specific about this. It is happening and we have to deal with it, but that is about it. I go through my days, I am happy for the most part, and I know that my mom is about to undergo treatment that will likely devastate her. There is no way around that. As much as she will try to be strong, I know that there will be something lost in all this. It is inevitable. It isn't a bad or good thing, it's just a thing, and it sucks and I wish she didn't have to go through this. But she does, and there isn't much I can do or say to change the outcome.
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There is a woman who comes into my work. She is 35 and just finished treatment for breast cancer a few months ago. She has a baby son and we laugh darkly about everything surrounding our histories and present lives. We have to, she says, since there's not much else we can do.
I think this may be why there is an expectation of people dealing with life-threatening illnesses to be happy and positive and life-affirming. People see us laughing and think it is a sign of our embracing of the world and all it has to offer. The truth is much darker; there is a bitterness latched onto our laughter which others often mistake for happiness. "Margaret is such a happy person," my coworkers say, and I am confused because I don't interpret her that way. Yes, I see her joy and vivacity, but I also see her anger and sadness. She is too complicated to reduce to a single emotion. I am too complicated to reduce to a single emotion. I think most people are, but we try to reduce them anyway because it makes it easier to engage in what we think is understanding.
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Tonight I sat up with my roommates until almost 4 a.m. We didn't do much of anything but talk about shit and laugh at the shit we were talking about. We drank whisky and some of us smoked cigarettes. "The only time I ever get drunk in this house," one of them said, "is when I'm sitting in the kitchen with you two." That could mean something or nothing, but it doesn't really matter. It's just something I'll remember because I wrote it down.
I was talking about reading over submissions for the magazine I'm working on, and I mentioned that the most frequent comment I make is, "Who cares what you think?" I said I needed to find a better way of phrasing it. One of my roommates suggested that I tell the writers to be less obvious with the subjective bent of their articles. I think that might work.
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I'll try to write more often. I feel bad for not writing everyone back and thanking them for their thoughts and prayers and advice -- I do appreciate it, even if I don't always say it. I just want you to know that.
