When I found out about Mom’s Cancer my first thought was, “Oh no! I wish it could be about something great I’ve done with my life.” To have my soft underbelly exposed was difficult. Then I realized I was still anonymous—just “Mom” unless I chose to tell someone. My pride in Brian’s work and fascination with the depth of the story made the telling worthwhile. He also made me look a lot better than I felt!
People thought we were crazy when we moved to southern California. But it was important for me to take charge of what was left of my life and do something that could actually add to its quality. I wanted to be somewhere I felt vibrant and alive, with sunshine, great food, cultural events, and good friends planning fun things to do. I never felt I was leaving the old hometown or all of my dear friends and family for good. I was just expanding. We found a beautiful home in a quiet, caring, established neighborhood where people wave and call each other by name. It feels more like home than home did.
It’s too soon to know what I’ve learned from all this. I know the most important person for me to take care of now is me, so that I will be around to help others later. Of all the things I’ve done, I am least proud of smoking—and now that’s what I’m getting recognized for. It’s hard to separate that in my mind and remember that Mom’s Cancer is about the process and, most important, the family. What got me through treatment was an almost blind determination that I could win out over a cigarette. It was not going to take me down! I have good days and bad days, and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. But I’m learning not to expect so much of myself. I’m learning to be more grateful for the body parts that do decide to work on any given day. And I’m still looking for Mr. Right.
The fatigue I experienced was the worst of my life. I got so bone-tired I didn’t know how many more windmills I could fight. Day after day, it took all I had to raise my hand or shift position. The biggest surprise for me was that I didn’t feel like myself as soon as treatment stopped. Remission doesn’t mean you’re going to be who you were. During the process of chemotherapy and radiation, the doctors take a lot of the good cells, too.
Asking for help is hard but necessary. Anyone confronting a life-altering health issue should delegate as much as possible from the very beginning. I just knew I could wash my own laundry, find something to eat, and keep doing it all. But suddenly I couldn’t even count out my meds for the day, balance a checkbook, or take a phone message. I hadn’t realized how strong the drugs were, how fast they’d built up in my system, and how unlike myself I’d become. How dense the fog really was (and still is). I thought I was doing fine. Instead, I leaned way too hard on my two closest caregivers, my daughters. They’ve been right beside me all along, so willing to lend a hand, and I let them. Worse, I expected them to. It seems that it took all of us to keep me alive. Now, hopefully, all of us can have a great new beginning to our own dreams and goals.
Technology is moving so quickly and lives being saved so miraculously that doctors can’t keep up. More and more people are living, but with less and less quality of life. We’re limping around in foreign, broken bodies, filled with “chemo brains” and radiation, wondering where our selves went and if we’ll ever come back. We need cancer treatment programs that include detoxing, physical and occupational therapy, exercise classes, pampering, and understanding. We need honest information on how to take care of ourselves when fingernails sheer off until they bleed. What to do when our hands and feet tingle until we want to cut them off. What to do when pain rips through our brains like a tornado. We need the truth.
Cherish rest, laughter, friends, and prayers. Trust in yourself and make a peace treaty with your Higher Power. Have a Hero to never let go of and help you through the terrifying nights. Take frequent baths to get rid of the scent of toxins. Watch a lot of comedies. Keep your mind and hands busy. Then just breathe for as long as you can, knowing that others are helping to hold you up.
“Mom”
Hollywood, California
2005