I've been struggling to compose this post for days now, but being that I've become unusually apathetic about my blog recently, I think I'll just settle with what is here. Forgive my sloppy, incoherent bouts of whininess.Recently, I received the devastating news that my sweet mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer. As I sat listening to my mother give us the grim details, I forgot to breathe or swallow for at least a minute, and did everything I could do keep it together in the company of a best friend and family. But as soon as I was alone in my car, the reality of the situation sunk in and it got messy.
I've wrestled with myself concerning the matter, asking myself whether telling a lot of people would be beneficial. For those few friends that know and love her, it's a no-brainer, but with newer friends, I find it constantly prying its way into nearly every conversation, begging to be unveiled, yet I've suppressed it thoroughly. Subconsciously, I think I want to talk about it, hear reassuring statistics about the disease, even gain a bit of attention. I desire sympathy, yet never allow anyone an opportunity to give it. Nothing new, I guess.
After several lengthy, in-depth and emotional conversations with my mom since she broke the news, I have definitely received a great deal of hope. The tumor is categorized as "Stage 2," meaning it is young and, fortunately, very treatable. She will undergo surgery sometime in March and after a complete recovery will begin the long and painful process of Chemotherapy.
Imagining my own mother without hair, eyebrows or eyelashes is unbearable. Picturing the countless hours of illness, sleeplessness and pain she will endure is devastating. This all comes at a time when my mom has been facing heartache and depression over two of her children: my eldest brother who has become somewhat estranged from the family due to his overbearing and spiteful wife, and, of course, me and my gayness.
Due to the latter issue, my mother and I's relationship has become a bit strained over the past year, and I feel a deep sense of guilt for not inviting her into my life more. If she were to die over the coming months, which is a very real possibility, I would be stricken with such regret, reminding myself that I was one who closed myself off from her, dodging the prying questions she has repeatedly directed my way. I dodge because I want to spare her the pain of knowing everything isn't okay, my testimony isn't as strong, and I'm not as hopeful as I make myself out to be. I want her to sleep at night.
My mom and I have always been very close, closer than some of my other siblings, in fact, and I have always considered her one of my best friends. I'm so sad for her and am absolutely terrified for these coming months. I guess I should expect the worse, but hope for the best. Story of my life.
***Update as of February 25, 2010:
Things were actually looking quite bright and hopeful, and I was pretty proud of myself for not dwelling on the negative. Then today happened. It seemed everyone I talked to about breast cancer today-- an aunt, an old high school friend, the internet-- introduced new layers and unsettling facts about the disease. There are numerous complications that can occur during the mastectomy, even during recovery, and depending on where the lumps are located, there might even be some that can't removed. I also learned stage 2 isn't exactly something we should be cheering about. That's stage 1. Stage 2 can potentially be fatal, as the tumors are wide enough to cause problems.
In other words, today wasn't the best day for my spirits, and even though I slept in, only had one class, and ended the evening with a choir concert, I have been feeling the severity of the turbulent test before my mother and our family, and let me tell you, it's weighing me down. Pray for me, but most of all, pray for her.
