If there's one thing I've gained from dealing with my own cancer diagnosis and fallout, it's talking about cancer without crying too often. It took awhile, but I'm pretty good at it now. It involves a weird swallowing exercise and a little rolling back of the eyes into the head, but I can usually get my emotions under control pretty quickly. Tears are generally brief and I often move past them with aplomb (or so I like to think). This is especially useful for all those times spent explaining related situations to people (i.e.. I need time off work). I've been able to carry this over (somewhat) when telling people about my mom. This isn't to say I don't cry -- I cried on the phone last night and when I came downstairs I cried a bit with my sister. I hate this, I said. Let's drink. And we did.
It's a lot harder watching my sister go through this. She doesn't have the same skin I do, the one you eventually grow because the alternative is constant dehydration and red eyes and the inability to talk about anything without snot running down your face. It isn't a bad thing to not have this skin -- I'd rather no one ever have to grow it, that grief could be felt and expressed wherever and whenever, but when you're dealing with days, weeks, months, and years of grief, you have to figure out a way to feel it and still function.
But it's hard to see her lying on the bed watching Oprah and crying. I know that, touching as it is, it isn't the Oprah she's crying about. And it's hard to see her come home from work crying and talking about her panic attack and how she was almost sent home. She's my baby sister and this is probably harder for her than it is for anyone else. I want to make it better for her.
I talked to my mom last night about technical stuff -- what they'll do in surgery (frozen section, removal of lump and lymph nodes, double mastectomy if the grade is high), reconstruction options, adjunct treatments. And I started crying at one point and when mom asked what was wrong (why do we feel the need to ask questions to which the answer is obvious?) I told her I was scared. And I am, but more than that I'm sad that she has to go through this. Sad that we have to go through this, and sad that I know how this fucks with you, and sad that I can't do anything to take it away. She told me not to be scared, that she wasn't, that she would be fine. Later she sent me this email:
My dearest AliciaI am sorry I didn't let you finish what you had to say tonight. How unfair! I ask you to talk to me and then I shut down. I know you are scared. I just want you to know that it is okay. I can't be so self-absorbed to think you are just scared for me. I want you to know that I realize this is a very frightening thing for yourself too and I understand how lonely you must feel with everything that has happened to you. No one can stand in your shoes. I can't take away your fear, either for me or for yourself. But one thing I have learned is that the mind is a great thing. What you dwell on is too often what happens. At least that seems to be the way my life has turned out. So I am going to be only positive in everything I do and think from now on. And I want you to do the same. I love you so much. I love all you girls so much.So... the next time I ask you to talk, or you just want to talk, I promise to listen. And I will try real hard not to try to make everything better. Cause I know I can't. That is just a nervous thing I do. Sorry! Lifetime of habits to unlearn.I also want you to know how much I appreciate the research you are doing for me. I find it a bit overwhelming to find what info I need from the net. Especially the good info - not just the hype.So, remember I love you and that I am a long ways from perfect.
Love Mom.
That's my mom. She's pretty great.
