Wing and a Prayer

Yesterday began with my dropping the girls off with Amber, then picking mom up for her appointment with the radiation dr. When I walked in her door, I was alarmed at her appearance. She was MORE pale. MORE skinny. MORE fragile looking. She looked like she felt horrible. I asked "are you okay?" and she responded with a nod. I knew she didn't. She didn't even feel like answering me aloud. We rode to the clinic pretty much in silence. She shivered a bit, though my heat was full blast. She held my hand the whole way there. Her hands were smooth to the touch, yet cold and bony. I held on like a child crossing the road with her mommy. After all, that is kind of what it felt like: the two of us standing side by side, hand in hand, waiting to walk into a scary, unknown, yet threatening situation--like on coming traffic. I held on for dear life, and so did she. Once at the clinic,  the wait for the doctor was a long one. It seems he became tied up with an emergency type situation. Mom has been that emergency situation before, so we didn't complain. Mom was sound asleep in her chair. I was making a mental note of all the things in my life that I need to be better at. Parenting, house keeping, teaching preschool to Neva, potty training Nori, cleaning mom's house, (the list goes on and on). After about an hour and a half of waiting, he walked in the door, which is great, because I was becoming overwhelmed with my to-do list.

He examined mom's body. I was frightened when she lifted her arm. I could see the cancer sticking out of her ribcage from across the room. I let out a little gasp, then dropped my head to fight my tears. He explained that mom would need to do simulation(setting things up) today (Thursday) and begin radiation immediately next week. We were told the side effects would be minimal, but we are always skeptical about that statement.

On the way home, mom seemed more alert. She bombarded me with possible scenarios where my pregnancy is negatively affected by my "running so much". Basically, she was telling me that I need to take it easy. That I am going too much. I assured her I am fine. As fine as a girl can be with an extra 25 lbs. hanging off the front of her. I dropped her off, picked up the girls, and headed to Shipley's. Half way there, Ms. Kathy (the"chemo lady") from Jefferson Medical called with mom's scan results. Her voice was quiet and calm, yet kind of hesitant and sad. "I wish I was calling with better news", she began. My heart hit my stomach. I snapped into the backseat for my giggling girls to "be quiet!". Ms Kathy continued, "There has been some growth. There is significant growth under the arm and on the right side of her ribcage. There is more  progression in her liver, and in her bones." The phone went silent. I began to tear up. " We will begin two new chemos as soon as possible" she finished. I asked, through a cracking voice, "Level with me, Ms. Kathy, in all honesty, what are our chances of this medicine actually working? Does it have a high success rate? Does anything ever work when two others have failed?" She hesitated for a minute, then responded the most optimistic, yet honest way that she could: "I wish that I could give you statistics, I really do. But each case, each patient varies due to their individual body and their unique cancer....That is the honest truth." I accepted her response, though I secretly hoped for something more concrete....Preferably POSITIVE concrete. But I knew she could not predict the future. Unfortunately, none of us can. I turned the radio up. The kids sang along to the Itsy Bitsy Spider and giggled amongst themselves as I cried the whole way to town.

We returned to mom's house afterwards. I put the girls down for their nap there. Mom was surprisingly still awake after the girls fell asleep. She looked a little better than earlier. I sat down on the couch next to her and asked her how she felt about the news. She said "I don't know what you want me to say. Why does the medicine work on some and not on others? Why isn't it working on me? It don't make sense". I could sense the hurt and confusion in her voice. "I'm not excited about radiation, but I'm not going to stop fighting. I thought I would be God's miracle, but maybe he has other plans for me." We hugged for a while and watched as the girls slept angelically on the living room floor. Then, in typical mama fashion, she looked at me and started lecturing me, once again, about taking care of myself.

So there it is. The news I have been dreading for 8 months. The cancer is definitely spreading, rather rapidly. At this point, all we can do is take each moment, for what it is: a blessing. We will face each dilemma and set back as it comes our way. While we are hopeful this chemo will work, we fear that it won't. We feel prayer is the only "medicine" that can help us right now.