Bomb in My Belly

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.

*******

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.

*******

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.

*******

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.

Overdue

Considering the almost-several dozen emails and comments I've received asking for an update, I guess it's time to break the silence. I'm sorry I haven't updated or responded to emails or peeped to say Hi! I'm alive! but honestly, I've been pinching myself pretty hard these last few weeks to convince myself of this fact. I have bruises to prove it.

I think I've reached the end of what I can plausibly say is a normal amount of loss in, say, a six-month span of time. And it's kind of fucking with my head. Or that part we refer to as the heart, I don't know. All I know is that I'm tired, so very very tired.

I lost someone dear to me in November.  My mom announced her cancer diagnosis January 1st.  Somewhere between those dates a friend decided we weren't actually friends which made me sad momentarily but was ultimately pushed aside by Sadder and more Serious issues. It's a loss, certainly, but one I can't do much about. I wish I could, and it would have been nice to have her on my team right now, but she's not and I kind of understand why even if I don't agree with with it. Anyway, that's that. My mom had surgery, a couple weeks went by before the results came back, and when they did we found out she has invasive lobular carcinoma, grade three. She was told it was stage three but that there was no lymph node involvement, which confuses me. I would have pressed to find out more, but then two days after we found out her diagnosis, our friend passed away unexpectedly.

Gail was a friend of my mom's and her daughter, Jessica, is one of my best and probably oldest friends. She was only a couple years older than my mom. I saw her when I went back for my mom's surgery. Jessica dropped by her mom's house when they were supposed to go out one night, Gail didn't feel well so decided to stay in, and when Jessica dropped by a couple hours later her mom was dead.

Gail was my other mom, the other woman in my life who was always there. She took us to the beach, and introduced me to Havarti and lentil soup, and spent two hours with me on the phone while I sat in a closet to get away from my roommate. She was loving and funny and vivacious and caring. And now she is gone.

This is the thing -- my mom's diagnosis was worse than we expected. My surrogate mother died leaving one of my best friends completely bereft. And I haven't been able to cry about either situation. Fuck, I haven't even been able to feel sad.

I don't feel anything right now. A bit angry, I guess. But otherwise . . . nothing. I literally haven't had anything more than slightly damp eyes for Gail. Intellectually I feel terrible for Jessica and everything she is bound to go through, I feel bad for myself, but I can't actually feel the loss. My mom starts chemo in a few weeks for a cancer which is rather aggressive and likely to show up in the other breast, but I don't even think about what that might mean. And when I do, I'm detached.

When my friend was killed in November, I spiralled into such a depression, I scared myself. When I found out my mom had cancer, I was devastated. But I think I've reached my capacity. I can't process any more bad news. And it worries me. I think it's keeping me from experiencing emotions I should probably be experiencing. I can't even imagine what it must look like to other people. I can't even imagine how it might play out in the future.

Sometimes when I find myself talking to people about what's been happening in my life lately, I wonder if they think I make it all up. Because it just seems like too much.