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Home / Etcetera / One Way or the Other, I Want it to be OK (UPDATE: It *is* OK!)

One Way or the Other, I Want it to be OK (UPDATE: It *is* OK!)

Etcetera

I’ve had mammograms every year since I was 30. That’s 11 years of mammograms. Once or twice, something suspicious was found, but quickly dismissed, and I go on for another year hoping I’m OK. I watched my mom die from breast cancer, and each time I enter the breast care center, I sense her spirit with me, holding me up as we did her in the final days. Each time I go inside the medical building, I cry.

 

It’s been 22 years since my mom was first diagnosed. She was 47. Her breast, ovaries, and uterus were removed. Her tumor was fed by estrogen and so the course of treatment was to take out all obvious hormone makers. I remember her grey face most of all when I visited in the hospital. She didn’t look like my mom. But she recovered from the surgery and was apparently cancer-free. Depressed, anxious, sad, yes, still I thought she was all better.

 

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February 22, 1989

My family acts like I am well now. I’m back to being a full-time mother. Cooking, shopping, laundry, bills, errands. And I am only 47 years old. My body is mutilated. I shopped for a prosthesis — that was hard — that was another long time and energy consuming mess which still isn’t resolved. So I went to Nordstroms to buy my fake breast. They didn’t have the right size. While I was sitting in the dressing room alone, my salesperson made telephone calls to other stores. I sat there, looked at myself in the mirror and fought off the tears. It was a real low point for me. I wanted to be sitting there waiting to see if a new dress or outfit was in stock, not a new fake breast.

 

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In 1990, I graduated from college, celebrated my mom’s 50th birthday with friends and family and went on with life. She did, too…moving to San Francisco with my dad and living in the city where they’d met and married. It was a happy time, because my parents had realized each other’s worth after some years of taking for granted. They held hands and laughed more than I’d ever seen before. I moved to Chicago and my mom sent me supplements and literature telling me to take care of myself. She didn’t want me to be sick like she’d been.

 

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January 1, 1990

Hey, I made it to the ’90s. Last year I wasn’t sure that I would — I may not see the end — but at least I’m here for the beginning.

 

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It was 1996 when I received the phone call from my parents — one voice on each extension. My mom’s cancer had returned — this time to her bones. Seven years ago, the radiologist picked up two shadows on her sternum and backbone, but declared them not a concern. But that’s where the cancer was. And where it stayed.

 

She died on November 10, 1997.

 

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The last page of her journal carried these words, written by her father:

Life is eternal the good Lord said, so do not think of your loved ones as dead. For death is only a stepping stone to a beautiful life we have never known, A place where God promised man he would be eternally happy and safe and free. A wonderful land where we live anew, where our journey on earth is over and through. So trust in God and doubt him never. For all who love him live forever. And while we cannot understand just let the Savior take your hand. For when death’s angel comes to call, God is so great and we’re so small. And there is nothing you need to fear. The faith in God makes all things clear.

 

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She believed until the end that God was waiting for her. Most of all, I remember the rosary she clutched; the one I carry now.

And so tomorrow I go for an ultrasound to check a breast mass my doctor found today. And I think of my mom, I think of my mom.

 

And her faith that wherever the road led, it would be OK.

 

UPDATE: All went well. More on that soon.

 

Sure I’d love to see you again

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  2. She will be with you. And you will be with you. And if you call, I can be with you too. I will be just down the street, so easy for me to come by, tell a nasty joke (do you know the one about the dog and the bar?) and head on my way again.

    Sending you lots of love and positive vibes.

    Reply

  5. I am so sorry you are having to go through this. Your mother is with, as is God. But you already know that.

    I recently(in June) found out that I too have a mass in my breast… a large one on the right and a smaller one on the left actually. I go back for a follow up mammogram this month… they want to see if it has changed at all.

    I don’t know you but my thoughts and prayers are with you…

    Reply

  11. Keeping positive thoughts for you!! I know it is impossible not to worry, but remember the boobs get lumpy the older we get. Hang in there. And please let us know as soon as you know.

    Reply

  12. You brought me to tears. TEARS.

    Thinking of you today, tomorrow. Hoping and praying that all is just fine. Just lumpy. Just saggy like mine.

    *wink*. *hugs*. *xxx*

    Reply

  16. And I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow. This is beautiful writing. Pure and simple and very beautiful. I know this has the potential to torture your mind. I was there earlier this year, and thought it was fine then, I still find myself wondering for how long. For how long will it be fine? I want it to be fine forever. I want it to be fine for you, too.

    I’ll believe it will be.

    Reply

  17. Oh sweets! I am sending you all kinds of positive thoughts and prayers. I go in for my first mammogram this month. My aunt died of breast cancer 19 years ago. Please let us know how it all turns out. xo

    Reply

  18. What a beautiful post. I just found your site through Twitter. I’m a San Diego Momma too. I’ve been reading through your posts and they are all amazing. This though, was my favorite. I’ll be sending positive thoughts your way. Keep us posted.

    Reply

  19. Wow. Just WOW. Thank you for sharing your mother’s writing with us all, and for being brave enough to write about your fears. I had a scare (again) not long ago, and was too chicken to post about it.

    I am thinking of you, and sending you warm love and hugs. Please call on me if you need anything…anything at all.

    Reply

  23. Hugs, love and good thoughts are all focused on you right now. I lost my mom to breast cancer as well and have had a jazillion mammograms. Sometimes with no issue, sometimes needing follow-up. I know exactly how you feel right now, and I’m sorry. Because it sucks. xoxo

    Reply

  29. Tears running down my face now. Geez Deb. I don’t have anything useful to say except, I will say a prayer for you that all goes well! <3

    Reply

  30. It goes without saying how much I love you. I would be happy to have tons more guys never call me back and abandon my ass then have to have you go through this crap for even a day.

    xoxooxoxoxoxoxo

    Reply

  34. Walking through these hard moments in life makes is stronger in the end. Cliche, right? But it’s so true! And I hate that it’s so true! I’m sorry you had to walk through that, and sorry you have to go get your boob squished tomorrow : ( I guess I should start getting that done, too, since I have lots of cancers (breast included) in my fam.

    Reply