Friday, March 30, 2012

And the shoe dropped....slightly

Well, as I said in an earlier post, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or, if I didn't say it, that's how I've been feeling. I got a call from mom last night at 9 (which never happens) telling me that my sister found a lump in her breast. In my Zoloft haze, I know that I told my mom that everything is going to be fine and that I would give little sister a call to make sure she schedules an appointment.

I immediately called her and made sure she knew that I knew and asked when she was going to make an appointment - she is supposed to be doing that today. My mom discovered a lump in her breast in her 30s and it turned out to just be a cyst. I am sure that this is going to be with the case with little sister as's just that you never know. Little sister unfortunately has a mom with breast cancer and an aunt. I guess thankfully, I am not blood related to my aunt, although I feel like I am. Took me a second to realize I wasn't.

So I called mom this morning and let her know that I talked to little sister and that she is going to be making an appointment. Mom seems to think that she will go because her big sister told her so. Mom thanked me for being a good sister - that felt good.

So the waiting game begins. Cyst or more?

Wednesday, March 28, 2012


At this point in the whole cancer process I feel very numb and disconnected to the disease. I've been on Zoloft now for about three weeks and I guess I feel like a robot. I can talk about my mom's diagnosis without getting upset. My heart doesn't clench when someone asks. I feel like people think that I must be very callous to talk about mom's cancer in such a mellow way.

I am very conflicted by how I feel. On one hand it feels great to not be crying everyday. To feel no hope. To be able to get out of bed. On the other hand....shouldn't I be feeling something? I feel like I am being lulled into a sense of security that is going to start crash, crash, crashing down on me any second.

We were told at mom's oncology appointment on March 16 that she will not be getting another PET scan for at least two months. Her hormone treatment needs time to work. I found this frustrating because it seems foreign to me that a pill is going to make her better when there is cancer coursing through her body. She has agreed to go for a second opinion after her May PET scan.

This past weekend was my birthday and I kept wondering if this is the last one I am going to have with my mom. Even while writing this, I feel like a robot. Like someone has invaded my body. I feel almost emotionless. Is this good? What will happen when I feel again? I can't stay on this medication forever and I also know now that my mom can't live forever. What a nasty conundrum this is.

Just for the future when I look back on this, mom is still walking with a slight limp. She says she is feeling better, but I am curious as to how truthful she is being with this.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Game Changer

Walking into Cleveland Browns stadium on Thursday, August 26, 2010, I got a phone call that would forever change my life. It was mom on the other end saying that the doctor thought they found breast cancer. That one simple sentence has radically changed how I view so, so many things. I had no idea that in the next year and a half, my family would be put through hell.

I remember sitting on a bench outside of the stadium with my husband, in shock of what I was hearing. I had to shake it off and head into the Browns pre-season game. I chose to have a couple beers, leave early and then call my friend Sue at 11 pm and have her talk to me about breast cancer. I was a wreck.

In the next few weeks we got the diagnosis, stage 2A breast cancer localized in the left breast. Beatable with chemo, radiation and hormone treatment. If only we had been able to follow through with the original plan, we wouldn't be sitting here in March of 2011 with mom having stage 4 metastatic breast cancer that has moved to her bones, spine, ribs and lymph nodes under both arms.

Stupid breast cancer.