Gosh, it seems like the last few months took forever to get through. We waited for test results, surgery, answers to biopsies, and a treatment plan. Well, we’re here already. Maybe it all went by faster than I thought it did. We have our plan.

Tomorrow, we put it in process. Mom gets her port placed tomorrow. Next week she starts radiation and chemo. Six weeks in all. Every day – Monday through Friday – we will make a trip to the hospital; either my mom and my niece will go or my mom and I will go. She will take radiation five days a week and chemo on Tuesdays for six solid weeks. Six weeks is doable. You can easily mark that off the calendar. An intense schedule but for a short period of time.

Six weeks after her last treatment, she will head back for another PET scan. We are praying AND believing that her scan will be clear. Should it not be, she will receive six more weeks of chemo only. We are believing after the first round, she will be in remission.

Thankfully, with weekly, smaller doses of chemo, her hair shouldn’t fall out and her immune system shouldn’t plummet quite so badly. The doctor has her on a regime to hopefully curb any nausea and vomiting and another regime to stop any potential allergic reaction from the chemo. He has to be careful because antihistamines are their first line of defense in case of an allergic reaction. Well, hidey ho neighbors, guess what? Mom is allergic to antihistamines – they affect her breathing. His response… “I will only use them in case of an emergency and THEN I will worry about your breathing.“ Isn’t that awesome??? J No worries, we’re trusting God in that area too.

Our oncologist is phenomenal. His name is Dr. Shaily Lakhanpal. And although I hope no one reading my blog ever needs an oncologist, if you do, he’s the way to go. A very kind man, a very smart man, and a believer. He hugged my mom twice. He hugged her when he came in and met her and hugged her before we left. You don’t see that much out of ANY physician.

The biggest concern for mom at this point is her use of oxygen. She hasn’t been able to come off of it since her hospitalization in December. Several years ago, they wouldn’t have even come up with a treatment plan with her on oxygen. But, as Dr. Lakhanpal said, “When you’re boxed into a corner, there’s no other option other than to box back.” I like him!!!

So… off we go into the land of oncology, a lowered immune system, and chemo brain. Praying that all goes fantastic. And should you ask why I so often say “we” instead of her… well it’s not just her battle – it’s our battle. We fight with her because, well, no one with cancer fights alone.

Sounds like life to me it ain’t no fantasy

It’s just a common case of everyday reality
Man I know it’s tough but you gotta suck it up
To hear you talk you’re caught up in some tragedy
It sounds like life to me
Sounds like life to me plain old destiny
Yeah the only thing for certain is uncertainty
You gotta hold on tight just enjoy the ride
Get used to all this unpredictability
Sounds like life
Man I know it’s tough but you gotta suck it up
To hear you talk you’re caught up in some tragedy
Sounds like life to me
Sounds like life

Those words are the chorus to Darryl Worley’s song “Sounds like Life to Me.” There’s a lot of truth in those words. If I’ve learned one thing in my 42 years on this earth, it’s this – life is a roller coaster and roller coasters tend to make me sick. J However, I have yet to find anywhere in the Bible that God says life will be a smooth ride like a carousel.

Really, when you think about it, which one is more fun? Sure, a carousel ride is predictable. The speed never varies. You stay on the same animal the whole time and that animal never leaves its spot. Sure there are some ups and downs but they are moderated and you know exactly when each one is coming. The music NEVER changes. It’s mundane, tame, and often monotonous. Now, how about that roller coaster? Completely different ride right there. Usually the ride starts out really slow while you’re climbing your first mountain but boy oh boy, when you reach that first peak – OFF YOU GO!!! That ride never slows down. You’re up, you’re down, zoom around a curve, maybe even a loop. Whew. There are screams, there is laughter. Each roller coaster is different. Roller coasters leave you breathless. I hate heights and roller coasters are very high – but I love breathless.

Breathless is what we prefer when you think about it long enough. Your first real kiss – leaves you breathless. Your first real love – leaves you breathless. That first married kiss – leaves you breathless. That first look into your newborn’s eyes – leaves you breathless. We love all of those things. There are other things that leave us that way. Our first broken heart – leaves us breathless. A crumbled marriage – leaves us breathless. The loss of a loved one – leaves us breathless. You know what? We survive it all and we move on to the next thing that leaves us breathless. Why, because life is not a carousel, it’s a roller coaster.

I feel like I have been on 37 roller coasters in the last week and a half. I’ve had to kick my daughter out of my mother’s home. That left me breathless. I received custody of my beautiful, beloved granddaughter. That left me breathless. I watched my mother go into surgery. I watched her come out. I watched her struggle through pain and hallucinations. I’ve waited for results of biopsies that have yet to come. Breathless, breathless, breathless. I took her to a doctor’s appointment and watched a doctor marvel at how far she’s come in a week. I’ve watched him look at a tough 71 year old woman who is widowed, lost two children, fought and beat lung cancer once, and who is now fighting it again, with fresh eyes and a different attitude from when we started. I watched him have a new sense of positivity because of her toughness. Breathless.

My God is in control of this crazy life I live. He is the Author of every breathless moment I experience. For every positive breathless moment I experience, I thank Him. For every negative breathless moment I experience, I know He is holding me and molding me. I have had a lot of positive breathless moments and I have had a lot of negative breathless moments but each experience on that roller coaster has made me the woman I am.

In my infinite impatience, I had a nurse I work with look at mom’s pathology reports since we have yet to see the oncologist (that’s next Tuesday). My nurse used to work in oncology and actually worked with the oncologist we will be seeing. J She feels that mom’s cancer is Stage IIb. If she is correct, mom’s cancer is still in the “early” stages and is treatable. BREATHLESS! If she’s wrong, we’ll walk the path God has laid out before us holding onto His hand. Each and every moment of this journey – good or bad – will prove to be breathless.

If you knew you were dying, if you knew your time was limited, what would you do? Would you go places you’ve never gone? Would you do things you’ve never done? Would you mend fences with people that have never been mended? Would you offer forgiveness and accept forgiveness? Well… guess what? We’re all dying!!! From the time of our birth, our earthly body begins to decay, begins to break down, begins to shut down. None of us will live forever. We all have an appointed day, hour, and minute that we will breathe our last breath. Shouldn’t you be doing all of those things now? Why wait? You may not have the privilege of knowing that your time is drawing to a close. Make memories. Offer forgiveness quickly. Say I’m sorry. Say I love you. Live BREATHLESS!

Whew, what a long day. Not a particularly good one in my eyes. We spent most of the day waiting in one capacity or another. The surgery itself was short. They couldn't remove the mass but got enough for a biopsy. The results should be in within a few days.

Maybe it's my medical background, maybe it's my practical side trying to prepare myself for the worst but to me the surgeon didn't seem overly optimistic. After conversing with my aunt, she told me that if the biopsy staged out high my mom had already said she wanted to enjoy her time. Even thinking that makes me want to throw up.

I've worked for hospice for 13 years. I know that quality is better than quantity. My brain knows that. I will be strong enough to deal with whatever decision my mom makes. However, my heart is screaming, I'm not ready for this. To be perfectly honest, it pisses me the hell off.

There were five of us total. I lost my brother in October of 1996 when I was 25. Then in January of 1997 I lost my dad. I was still 25. Then in November of 1997 right after I turned 26 I lost my sister. My mom and I are all that's left. I am 42. I do not want to have my entire immediate family gone. Am I whining? Maybe. But that's just where I am.

Sometimes I just don't feel grown up enough for the life I'm having to lead right now. I mean I know I'm old enough. I'm married. I've raised one child already and now I'm raising a grandchild. But somehow I don't feel adult enough to handle this. I am not ready to face my mother's mortality.

I need this to be treatable. I need her to fight. I need her to want to fight. And then I have to remember that this really isn't about me. It's about what she wants and what she needs. The thought of my mom being gone freaks me out. The thought of her suffering freaks me out more. So I guess I'll just sit here and wait some more and be miserable until we find out the answers.

Well, mom's PFT's were yesterday. The lady performing the test said she did well for a woman her age. She was a little shocked that mom was 71. That's all she could tell her though. So we've just been hanging out waiting some more - because we all love that. We should get a call from the doctor tomorrow with a yes or no to the surgery.

The intelligent part of me, the medical field part of me knows we need this surgery. We need to know exactly what we're fighting and exactly what stage we're at. The daughter in me that looks at my 71 year old mother and wishes I could just do it all for her... well, that part wishes we could just skip that surgery stuff altogether. I remember, well, what that first one was like. The recovery was brutal and this time we add chemo and/or radiation. This is the part that sucks.

Then I remind myself that I am strong. That came from somewhere. That came from her and her mother before her and her mother before that. We come from a long line of strong women - physically, mentally, but most of all spiritually. God has this. Good, bad, or indifferent, He has gone before us into tomorrow. He's paving the way.

So whether she has surgery or not, I will trust that He knows what He's doing when nothing makes much sense to me. I will hold onto those that are holding onto me. We will be strong together. We will be weak together. We will laugh together. We will cry together. We will pray together. We will do it all together. Why? Because no one fights cancer alone.