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Independence, MO —
This conversation – more or less in its actual form, but with some literary license – took place in late August between my mother and me. On page 5, you can read her reflection, following this conversation, on a breast cancer diagnosis. She learned Oct. 6, that she will need several months of chemotherapy.
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Mom had her mammogram on a Saturday. Normally I go with her. It’s all routine. You pop in to the medical office, get your X-rays and your pink ribbon, and that’s it. This year, however, I was sleeping in after working a night shift, and my son drove his grandmother to her appointment. So I wasn’t with her when the technician said “Um, could you wait here for a few moments? The doctor is going to want to talk to you.”
There was something suspicious going on in Mom’s left breast. It was only a 30 percent chance of it being cancer. But that was enough to scare me, and Mom’s reaction scared me even more. She has often just ignored life’s unpleasantness. She will walk away. Go to the privacy of her bedroom and shut the door. Cope through silence. And that seems to be how she intended to deal with whatever is going on inside her body. Oh, there are things that she has dealt with medically. She’s had back surgery, cortisone shots in her knee, a horrible staph infection that we feared might kill her. But for some reason, she wanted to give cancer the silent treatment.
Her family physician’s nurse called her first thing Monday morning and said she needed to get in and also see a surgeon for a biopsy. OK, I told Mom, how about tomorrow? “No,” she said, “maybe next week.”
Now, why on earth would she want to wait that long? Why? Because my son was leaving for college that week. She didn’t want to interrupt his packing and farewells.
Hey, he leaves Wednesday, make the appointment for Thursday, I said. And find out if your insurance covers the cancer center where my doctor is and where I get my chemo.
You know what she said? “No, because if it is cancer I’m not going to do anything about it.”
What? WHAT? What do you mean you’re not going to do anything about it?
“I just don’t want to go through that.”
This conversation – more or less in its actual form, but with some literary license – took place in late August between my mother and me. On page 5, you can read her reflection, following this conversation, on a breast cancer diagnosis. She learned Oct. 6, that she will need several months of chemotherapy.
---
Mom had her mammogram on a Saturday. Normally I go with her. It’s all routine. You pop in to the medical office, get your X-rays and your pink ribbon, and that’s it. This year, however, I was sleeping in after working a night shift, and my son drove his grandmother to her appointment. So I wasn’t with her when the technician said “Um, could you wait here for a few moments? The doctor is going to want to talk to you.”
There was something suspicious going on in Mom’s left breast. It was only a 30 percent chance of it being cancer. But that was enough to scare me, and Mom’s reaction scared me even more. She has often just ignored life’s unpleasantness. She will walk away. Go to the privacy of her bedroom and shut the door. Cope through silence. And that seems to be how she intended to deal with whatever is going on inside her body. Oh, there are things that she has dealt with medically. She’s had back surgery, cortisone shots in her knee, a horrible staph infection that we feared might kill her. But for some reason, she wanted to give cancer the silent treatment.
Her family physician’s nurse called her first thing Monday morning and said she needed to get in and also see a surgeon for a biopsy. OK, I told Mom, how about tomorrow? “No,” she said, “maybe next week.”
Now, why on earth would she want to wait that long? Why? Because my son was leaving for college that week. She didn’t want to interrupt his packing and farewells.
Hey, he leaves Wednesday, make the appointment for Thursday, I said. And find out if your insurance covers the cancer center where my doctor is and where I get my chemo.
You know what she said? “No, because if it is cancer I’m not going to do anything about it.”
What? WHAT? What do you mean you’re not going to do anything about it?
“I just don’t want to go through that.”
You mean you want to just lay down and die, like your mother did?
My grandmother died of breast cancer when she was only 54 years old. Her only son had been killed in a truck wreck three months after graduating from high school. Grandpa worked long hours at the Lake City Arsenal, so Grandma was suddenly alone at the farm. When she suspected she had breast cancer, she chose to ignore it. By the time she finally acknowledged it some three or four years later, it was too late. She died when I was 8, and it tore me apart.
Good Lord, Mom, what if I had taken that attitude when I was diagnosed with cancer?
“That’s different. You were young, and you had a little boy to raise.”
Well, I’m not so young now, and my son is raised and heading off to college, but I’m still fighting through a relapse. I’m not giving up.
“I just don’t want to go through that.”
What? Are you afraid of losing your hair? A mastectomy? Mom. Mom. What do you think it would do to your g randson if you just gave up?
“I’m 83 years old.”
So? Half the people in the chemo parlor are your age. They’re fighting.
“Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. It might not even be cancer.”
That’s true. But please don’t just give up. There are worse things in life than chemotherapy. I know; I’ve been through about the worst of chemo. Granted, I wasn’t 83. But Mom, you can be a fighter; I’ve seen you. You don’t have to give cancer your silent treatment.
