My original intent with this blog was to avoid any topics that are simply emotional. I was attempting to post about topics in the news that relate to my life and to explain how it impacted me or what my take on it was. This blog entry, however, is not of that nature. This is the entry in which I break my own rule. This is when I share too much and really show you a piece of myself. Not that it is all that interesting or unique, of course, but it is me.
I have already written an entry about my mother’s breast cancer. It was a challenging post to write, from both a logistical and emotional standpoint. I wanted it to be well written with a central point without turning into some sort of fucking emo pity party. When it comes to cancer, or any potentially terminal illness, detachment eludes me. I often find myself overwhelmed by grief and gravity, unable to speak.
Tomorrow, I throw myself into the lion’s den. Tomorrow is the Susan Koman Race for the Cure, and for the very first time, I am participating. I am terrified.
My mother, being a survivor, wants me to participate; and to be honest, I want to as well. However, I do not want to feel and experience what happened at the last fundraising event we attended. No, no one became a money grubbing prick amidst the survivors and physicians. We have that much to be thankful for. What I did experience was something so foreign to me, I did not understand where it came from nor how to process it.
What I felt was overwhelming grief and guilt.
I was in a huge tent, likely a tent that contained more fake breasts than a porn convention of equal attendance, and as each woman got up to tell her story, as soon as I heard the tone, pitch, and rhythm of her voice, my heart ached and my chest shrank, my eyes teared up and I struggled to breathe. Each woman had a different tale to tell, some triumphant and inspiring, some reserved and determined, but invariably, my response to it was the same. And it completely overwhelmed me. After each woman had spoken, and I stood up to leave, I had the feeling a strong breeze would blow me away; I felt hollow inside.
Since that day, I have tried so hard to understand why that was my reaction. Even now, as I type this, I feel it. I think I have reached some conclusions, although the totality will never be fully clear to me.
I am immensely proud of these people. I remember going to chemo with my mother, doing my best to entertain her, and knowing that in two days she would be a ghost of herself, angry, sick, hungry and tired. I saw the other people there too, most alone, trying to forget the IV, the port, some looking so frail. Yet my mother, and so many others, take these near lethal doses of medication in order to fight the cells inside that threaten to kill them.
I am angry for them. Angry that there is no decernable rhyme nor reason to what triggers cancer. There are plenty of theories, of course, but no one really knows why. No one knows if a cancer patient is random, or if their children are destined to have it. No one knows how to prevent it. At the most recent event I attended, I was appalled at how many patients had been treated previously. There was a woman that had a double mastectomy and then discovered she had ovarian cancer seven years later; she walked with a cane and was undergoing chemo at the time.
I am sad for the patients, and sad for their families. Again, no rhyme nor reason to the disease. My mother, at the age of fifty-five, had never been put under for surgery. Never. The most invasive procedure she had was giving birth to me. When they told her she needed a port, and explained what it is, she nearly fainted. The port was just the beginning of the drugs, incisions, tests, procedures, and appointments she would have. She was scared and overwhelmed, and it all happened so quickly. No matter how much you are there for someone, they still simply have to do it all alone, and no amount of my personal strength could make it all better for her. I was powerless, and my mother was feeling every pinprick on her own.
Lastly, I feel guilt. It seems silly to feel guilty for not having cancer, but I do. All the things a cancer patient goes through, and despite being right next to one for every step, I still cannot begin to grasp how that feels or what one goes through emotionally, physically, or psychologically. I feel badly for attempting to comfort or relate to someone dealing with so much; it feels almost an insult. I also feel guilty that my mother is alive.
Which brings me to tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will be surrounded by survivors, supporters, family members, sponsors, and such. Tomorrow I am going to the local breast cancer Mecca. My mother will be there, her oncologist, her surgeon, her friends from chemo, and so many other people whose lives have been affected by cancer. And I am scared.
I know it is supposed to be a celebration. It is supposed to be inspiring. And it is. But it also makes me remember seeing all those shells of human beings in the infusion center, and the one closest to me, on my left, is my mom.
