The Good, The Bad, The Ugly Truth & A Mother's Love

Those who have seen me and spoken with me recently tell me that I look and sound surprisingly well. The good news is that I am as cheerful as I sound most of the time, all things considered. I am gratefully ensconced in the care of my family and friends, so how could I be otherwise? As for my looks, I am taking everyone's word for it since I have not yet lost much weight and I don't expect to lose any hair during treatment.

The bad news is, the side effects are manifesting like a furtive assassin after three full weeks of daily radiation and chemotherapy. General Fatigue has always been there, the foe of many mothers who have young children. Compound that with Major intravenous poison of chemo and the Private discomfort of radiation effects and the result is a bone-crushing exhaustion that no amount of sleep seems able to fix. There are days where the battle creeps up on me like waves dragging me slowly under, demanding that I rest. Other days, it hits me hard and fast and I fade out like a machine that has been powered down, lights going dark, the barely audible sigh of energy being sucked out. The daily radiation beams literally sunburn me from within, an attempt at shrinking the 4cm tumor and controlling any microscopic metastases before surgery later this year. The treatment itself does not cause pain, but the side effects certainly do. Truth be told, the pain is terrible at times, but not totally unmanageable. No part of cancer is fun, despite any cheerful and humorous attempts to mitigate the ugliness of this disease.

The physical battle can be fought with good strategy, the right equipment, and a competent team behind you. The emotional battle, however, can be the more difficult campaign. I've always told myself, and I really believe, that the power of positive thinking will get me through this. That the good energy of family and friends will lend itself to a sound mind and a hale body. But I would be lying if I told you that in the midst of my blithe and cheerful outlook, there weren't moments of slight, stricken panic, of compulsory depression, and of requisite grief. I am not in denial of my disease-- I am just choosing to count my blessings above all else and trying to stay cheerful so that I don't scare my children, my family and myself. But that doesn't mean that I haven't given in to weeping privately. I am not sad for myself, because in some ways, I've always known that cancer would be in the cards for me.

Rather, I'm thinking always of my sons, Rowan and Spencer. They are 28 months old and too young to grasp any of this. Hopefully they won't remember any of this at all, so that if I go into remission they can grow up without this dark cloud over their bright childhood. But when the depression takes hold, I succumb to morbid thoughts like whether they will remember their mother at all if I won't be around to help them grow up. I was 23 years old when my own mother died, and nothing in the world could ever hurt that much again other than the thought that I might lose my sons. I am fighting this battle for them because I am selfish enough to want them for the remainder of my lifetime, however long Providence deems that to be. I want to know that the sum and success of my entire life will be in seeing my two boys grow up to be good people who are content in life. To know that I raised them right and left a respectable legacy; that they will be a credit to all my efforts. That they know a mother's consummate love can transcend even the expiration of her life, just as I know my mom's love endures for me.