I say all this because November is Lung Cancer Awareness Month. Did you know that? We follow up the pink-themed October with recognition of a cancer nobody wants to talk about. Did you know that lung cancer is the second leading cause of death in the United States? It also causes more deaths than the next three most common cancers combined (colon, breast and pancreatic). Isn't that crazy? On top of that, the five-year survival rate for lung cancer is (scroll now if you don't want to know...) is "53.5 percent for cases detected when still localized within the lungs. For distant tumors the five-year survival rate is only 3.9 percent." ( U.S. National Institutes of Health. National Cancer Institute. SEER Cancer Statistics Review, 1975-2010.) 3.9 percent!
I don't say this to scare anyone. Really, I don't. I write this because it's still something I try daily to wrap my mind around - to understand the disease that took my mother's life and destroyed a part of mine. I say this because I just spent a whole month rocking my pink and supporting those who are facing the fight with breast cancer, but one page turn of the calendar and it seems mighty quiet, especially when you consider how many people lung cancer is going to claim this year (about 159,000). Do people even know what color the lung cancer awareness ribbon is? It's white, in case you're wondering.
I think my family did a pretty good job at keeping my mom's health underwraps. Not a secret, but certainly not broadcasting it. Looking back, I'm not sure we'd do it any differently, but now I feel like I want to share her story, or at least parts of it, for everyone to remember how strong she was; how insanely brave and optimistic she was.
-----------------------------------------------------
My mom was diagnosed with lung cancer in October of 2010. She had gone to the hospital because she wasn't feeling right and the doctors suspected pneumonia, only when they took the chest x-ray they found a mass on her lung instead. The scans in the following week showed that the cancer had not spread at that time, which was amazing. She was one of those rare cases where the cancer was caught in a very early stage and her prognosis was positive.
She underwent surgery to remove the lower lobe of her right lung in November (the week before Thanksgiving) and began "preventative" chemo treatments beginning in December. At that time, the doctors were confident all of the cancer had been removed. She finished her chemo treatments in March 2011 and was declared "cancer free" in May, mere weeks before my wedding.
I put cancer free in quotations because she was, in fact, not cancer free. In January 2011 my mom began seeing colored spots. She went to her oncologist who referred her to her eye doctor who said it was old age and gave her a new glasses prescription. In June, weeks after being "cancer free" my mom had a seizure. It was only then that they found she had lesions on her brain - five, to be exact. It turns out that she was deemed cancer free based only on a chest scan, not a full body scan. Doesn't that seem silly?
Because of the lesions, she underwent ten rounds of radiation to shrink them, and radiation, for her, was so much worse than chemo ever was. In early September, she went back to check the progress of the lesions and we received positive news - they were shrinking. Because the lesions were now smaller, the doctors decided to have her undergo yet another type of radiation known as Gamma Knife. This type of radiation is much more targeted and was completed in a single six-hour session, but required bolting a head stabilizer into her skull to keep her completely still. It was agony for her, but it helped shrink the tumors even more, so it was a successful treatment.
In October 2012, we received news that the cancer had spread to her liver where she had three small tumors. She underwent several more rounds of chemotherapy to target these tumors, and we learned at her next scan they were not responding. So, they immediately set her up with another, more aggressive chemotherapy. Finally, the tumors were shrinking. Then, she had another almost-seizure, and a scan revealed she had a plum-sized tumor where her other tumors had once been. Because of the size of the tumor and the fact that she had already had such a massive amount of radiation, the only option at this point was to remove it. On December 14, 2012 my mom had brain surgery to remove the tumor.
In summer 2013, the tumors in her brain were back. She went through another round of Gamma Knife involving the head stabilizer, but eventually they had to be surgically removed. She underwent that surgery on August 8, 2013, the day before my birthday. In November, my parents told us that the cancer had spread - it was now in her brain, liver, lungs, and her tailbone.
My mom spent the next few months fighting the good fight but the cancer took its toll. The steroids she was on caused her vertebrae to crack and she was hospitalized several times to undergo a procedure to fuse them together. She was in constant pain, and was losing movement in her legs. She used a walker, and eventually a wheelchair to get around, and in December she was admitted into a rehabilitation center to help regain use of her legs. She came home the week of Christmas, and was readmitted to the hospital New Years Eve. She moved from the hospital to a new rehabilitation center in January. Her stay at this rehabilitation center was difficult. She was undergoing physical therapy but found her strength to wane. She used to say, "When I get my strength back, I'm going to hold Finn." There was never any other option for her, even at the very end. I'm going to spare you the end of my mother's life. It's not something I find value in sharing, yet it's not something I'll ever forget either. Suffice it to say if you've ever seen a cancer patient's last days, you know how horrendous it is. It's haunting, to say the least.
My mom succumbed to her cancer on March 8, 2014, after fighting for nearly three and a half years. In that time frame, she was nothing but positive. When faced with the fact that she would lose her hair, she said, "Hopefully I'll have blonde curly hair next!" She read her devotional every day. She reiterated to those around her, like me, who were afraid that she was, "in God's hands, one way or the other." She was my calm during her own storm.
I miss my mom every single day. Every single day I am aware of her absence in a way that is hauntingly physical - like a weight that just can't be lifted. I think of her all of the time. The other day I flipped through the pages of a new book and the smell took me right back to the Goosebumps books she used to buy and read with me as a kid. When they turned Goosebumps into a TV show, she was so excited she made us t-shirts and a graveyard cake to celebrate.
I made cookies the other night and when I opened the bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips I immediately thought of making Toll House cookies at Christmas and how she was too impatient to let the butter soften so she'd melt it in the microwave. I used to make fun of how flat her cookies were but would sneak them right out of the freezer when she wasn't looking. The weird shape made them the best to eat frozen for whatever reason.
Nathan and I got into an argument a few weeks ago, and she was the one person I needed to talk to about it. I would sit in her bathroom on the step of her tub and she would lean against her counter as I rambled on and on about whatever issue I was having. She would listen so patiently before offering up advice that I typically hated because it was right.
She did my taxes, listened to me whine, and made me dinner every Wednesday and Sunday. She visited my classroom just to see it, and growled when she was really, REALLY pissed off. My mom was strong, brave, and one hell of a woman. And lung cancer is what took her away from me.
I bet some of you had no idea the extent to which my mom fought, the agony she went through to continue living the life she loved so much with the people she loved unconditionally. I share my mom's story because she is worth sharing. Her battle is worth sharing, and her strength worth remembering. When you see me rocking my white ribbon this month, know I'm doing it for my mama.
In summer 2013, the tumors in her brain were back. She went through another round of Gamma Knife involving the head stabilizer, but eventually they had to be surgically removed. She underwent that surgery on August 8, 2013, the day before my birthday. In November, my parents told us that the cancer had spread - it was now in her brain, liver, lungs, and her tailbone.
My mom spent the next few months fighting the good fight but the cancer took its toll. The steroids she was on caused her vertebrae to crack and she was hospitalized several times to undergo a procedure to fuse them together. She was in constant pain, and was losing movement in her legs. She used a walker, and eventually a wheelchair to get around, and in December she was admitted into a rehabilitation center to help regain use of her legs. She came home the week of Christmas, and was readmitted to the hospital New Years Eve. She moved from the hospital to a new rehabilitation center in January. Her stay at this rehabilitation center was difficult. She was undergoing physical therapy but found her strength to wane. She used to say, "When I get my strength back, I'm going to hold Finn." There was never any other option for her, even at the very end. I'm going to spare you the end of my mother's life. It's not something I find value in sharing, yet it's not something I'll ever forget either. Suffice it to say if you've ever seen a cancer patient's last days, you know how horrendous it is. It's haunting, to say the least.
My mom succumbed to her cancer on March 8, 2014, after fighting for nearly three and a half years. In that time frame, she was nothing but positive. When faced with the fact that she would lose her hair, she said, "Hopefully I'll have blonde curly hair next!" She read her devotional every day. She reiterated to those around her, like me, who were afraid that she was, "in God's hands, one way or the other." She was my calm during her own storm.
I miss my mom every single day. Every single day I am aware of her absence in a way that is hauntingly physical - like a weight that just can't be lifted. I think of her all of the time. The other day I flipped through the pages of a new book and the smell took me right back to the Goosebumps books she used to buy and read with me as a kid. When they turned Goosebumps into a TV show, she was so excited she made us t-shirts and a graveyard cake to celebrate.
I made cookies the other night and when I opened the bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips I immediately thought of making Toll House cookies at Christmas and how she was too impatient to let the butter soften so she'd melt it in the microwave. I used to make fun of how flat her cookies were but would sneak them right out of the freezer when she wasn't looking. The weird shape made them the best to eat frozen for whatever reason.
Nathan and I got into an argument a few weeks ago, and she was the one person I needed to talk to about it. I would sit in her bathroom on the step of her tub and she would lean against her counter as I rambled on and on about whatever issue I was having. She would listen so patiently before offering up advice that I typically hated because it was right.
She did my taxes, listened to me whine, and made me dinner every Wednesday and Sunday. She visited my classroom just to see it, and growled when she was really, REALLY pissed off. My mom was strong, brave, and one hell of a woman. And lung cancer is what took her away from me.
I bet some of you had no idea the extent to which my mom fought, the agony she went through to continue living the life she loved so much with the people she loved unconditionally. I share my mom's story because she is worth sharing. Her battle is worth sharing, and her strength worth remembering. When you see me rocking my white ribbon this month, know I'm doing it for my mama.
No Comments Yet, Leave Yours!