Dead Mom Walking

I've been in my little hidey-hole for the past couple of days. It all goes back to that darn lung. nodule. The comparison CT came in and was, well, compared. Unfortunately, that darn nodule was not on my CT at diagnosis in 2006. When the oncology office called me about it, the nurse started in with the "good news" and then stopped. Apparently her mouth was off and running before her brain caught up with what she was reading. And, in my experience with oncologists (this IS my third, after all), the nurses don't give the bad news. So we had these moments of fluster where she is trying to figure out how to get off the phone with me without spilling the "bad" news, she's apologizing - for the situation, the policy, and her flubbing, I presume. I finally say something encouraging like, "well, that cat's out of the bag now!" so she takes a deep breath and tells me and then tells me that she is going to go and put this on the doc's desk as it's not clear on her end whether the doc has even seen it yet.

I get a call back later in the day from the P.A. (Physician's Assistant), Erin. Now, this is the woman who chased me down the hall after an interview appointment way back at diagnosis to give me a scrip for a supercalifragilistic anti-nausea med because it's expensive and docs don't go there first usually (as in, they make you prove you're going to SUFFER before they'll give it to you???), but she was worried about my "nausea history". Well. Who'd a thunk? My nausea has a history. So, I like her. I find her to be truthful, conscientious, caring, and all those other things you'd want from someone treating you through a bad time. We have this big talk about how it's small (I SWEAR she says 3mm - that's what I write down), the doc thinks it's most likely to be scar tissue -from what?? And why not there 3 years ago?? These are questions with no answers. The doc thinks it is small enough to have been there, in fact, three years ago but not seen because it could have been on the cusp of the slice - CT lingo for you! So, the advice is repeat the CT in 3 months. I ask lots of questions like, remember agressive cancer.... isn't small better - in terms of surgery, in terms of containment, etc. Essentially, the response is that it doesn't really matter. Now this is part of a treatment philosophy, I think, that I have never really been able to wrap my head around. We've talked about it before in terms of routine scanning for follow-up in the absence of symptoms. Because I've never really "got" it, I can't be sure I'm doing it justice here, but it goes something like this. Early detection only counts the first time. Once it's back, you can treat it (but not cure it). I'm pretty sure the doc said once that early detection of a recurrence made NO DIFFERENCE in survival. Which, of course, begs the question. Why do anything? Why all this follow-up at all? Why scan even WITH symptoms? Obviously, I need to explore this a bit further with the practice. And, are there other philosophies out there? What are they?

So, in the background of all this, my copies of the reports come in the mail. I recovered enough in that very first conversation with the nurse to ask her to send them to me. They say the nodule is 6 mm (double what I thought I heard) and, ho by the way, there is a spot on my ribs. That was never mentioned in any of the phone calls.

Maybe this is needless to say, but I have been in the deer-in-the-headlights mode. I have not had an easy time of it with medical practices during this cancer journey. And, I'm sorry to say that cancer has NOT made me a nicer person. And, don't you kind of have to go to that place when something keeps happening again and again, where you have to turn inward and explore your own culpability in the whole thing. Do I expect too much? Maybe it's the swearing. I mean, for god's sake! Rene gives her surgeon sweet Alaska books for her children (she was pregnant when Rene first met her) and emails her oncologist (with quick and friendly responses) somewhat regularly. I took flowers once.....

It's hard not to feel like it's all my fault somehow. And that is all before thinking of the kids. Cancer, I'm sorry to say, has not made me a nicer mommy either. More like uptight, control freak. All of our best qualities come out during times of stress, don't they? Yesterday, the first day back to the routine after 3 weeks out of school and away from normal life, things were going along swimmingly - despite the 2-hour delay for Asher's school (requiring me to drive Elia to school 30 minutes away, drive back to take Asher to school and then repeat). Until we tried to get out the door. Elia was diligently carrying all her own things, the puppy (smelling LUNCH) jumped on her, knocking her off balance into her brother who drops the door which smashes into me and causes me to drop my bagel. All the while, Elia's lunch box opens spilling it all onto the porch. And there she is. Tourette's mommy.

You see, the less publicized version of the whole "cherish the moments" theory of cancer as self-improvement is that there are less moments. And you know it. So they all become imbued with this significance that can be rather microscopic. On the one hand, this is how you are exhorted to "let go of the little things". On the other, what are you supposed to do with the Tourette's moments? And, meanwhile, guess what? I haven't written that meaningful letter to each of my children that will communicate my love and carry them into their adult years without fear of loss, inability to form attachments, etc. You know, make it all better for the fact they lost their mom when they were youngsters. Nor have I made them, with my own hands, the family heirloom that they will always have as a symbol of my love and undying devotion, around which they can tell sweet mom stories to their friends, partners, and loved ones. And, because I'm the one taking the pictures around here, they don't even have many loving, fun pictures of themselves with me. Poor Elia doesn't even have her birth pictures in a book yet! So, I ask you. What's to stop them from primarily remembering Tourette's mommy?

Meanwhile, life has to go on. Regardless of what it all means (or doesn't!), the kids are up. Breakfast must be obtained and lunches made. There are drives to be made. And, maybe. Just maybe, I can get Elia's birth pictures into a little book before her birthday at the end of this month.