Cancer
I think that it's about time that I FINALLY get my mother's cancer story out in the open . . . but ONLY because it's getting closer and closer to the second anniversary of her death. I know a LOT of people are AWARE of breast cancer . . . but HOW aware are they? The Breast Cancer Foundation has done a good job of commercializing it. They've got pink ribbons, cute "breast cancer Beanie Babies," breast cancer umbrellas, breast cancer pens, and lots of other cutsie stuff EVERYWHERE. Even though I totally support the Foundation, and I buy most breast cancer merchandise (whether I need it or not) for the cause, I kind of resent the "cuteness" of it all. Breast cancer is not cute. It's the MOST terrifying and merciless parasite I have ever encountered.
My mother cam face-to-face with Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC) in October 2002. There was no warning whatsoever . . . she just woke up one morning and her left breast was swollen to the size of a football, with terrible bleeding cysts underneath. I don't think ANYONE (unless they have seen or experienced it themselves) can truly understand the complete horror I felt when I saw the bloody and inflamed cysts on my mother's chest. I was so shocked, I actually screamed. At first, my mother was in denial and tried to blame the "abrasions" on the under-wire in her bras . . . but the SECOND I saw it, I knew it was too horrible to be anything else but cancer.
Come to find out, Inflammatory Breast Cancer (which is the kind she had) is the fastest-moving and MOST aggressive cancer out there. It is SO fast and aggressive that even if my mother HAD participated in mammograms (which she didn't), the mammograms STILL wouldn't have been able to detect anything. Obviously, she had to have a mastectomy immediately, as well as chemotherapy treatments.
For the first few months after her chemotherapy, my mother was the same as she had always been--optimistic, strong, and seemingly unaffected by it. Then, one day as I passed by the bathroom, I heard her crying. I looked in to see what was wrong, and she showed me that whenever she tried to comb her hair, clumps of it fell out. Her tears made me feel hopeless. As much as I wanted to cry, I had to conceal it . . . I was unworthy of tears at that moment. Only my mother deserved the right to cry, all I could do was hug her.
Eventually, the horrible and unyielding IBC popped up on my mother's OTHER breast . . . and even after TWO mastectomies, those damned mocking cancerous growths popped up AGAIN on the mastectomy scar. There got to be more and MORE, and my mother got weaker and thinner. One night, when I was helping to change her bandages, I had to literally SQUELCH my reflex-reaction to gasp and cry when I saw the HORRIBLE mass of cysts that had replaced what USED to be a chest. The only way I can TRY to describe it is bloody hamburger meat . . . and even THAT description doesn't come CLOSE to giving it the horrific and terrorizing justice it deserves. That was the night when I looked into mom's eyes and she looked just as frightened as I was . . . in fact, she was looking to ME for comfort.
After that moment, I tried to be as strong as I could for her . . . and I was able to most of the time. I kept her company and I tried never to take it to heart when she fell asleep (due to COMPLETE exhaustion) while I was talking to her. I snapped sometimes, though . . . and I was ANGRY. I was angry because my mother, who is the strongest and most optimistic woman I think I'll EVER know, was getting eaten up slowly and painfully by something SO unstoppable.
The first time I remember snapping around my mom was when she started refusing to eat. I didn't want to take "no" for an answer . . . I kept coaching her, PRODDING her, BEGGING her to eat . . . even against her will. I was desperate to keep her with me--and I knew that if she only just ATE, she would keep more strength to fight the cancer.
My aunt finally told me that it was no use in driving mom to TEARS trying to make her do something she didn't want to do. The doctor had said that her body would be slowly shutting itself down, preparing for the inevitable death. At that very moment, I realized that for the past eight months I had managed to convince myself that my mom would soon be in remission, the cancer would disappear, and everything would be as it was before. After I learned the truth--that mom's death was imminent--I lost all emotional feeling and drifted into complete numbness.
On July 31st, 2003 (not even a YEAR since mom had been first diagnosed with IBC), the cancer won. Right before she died, I sang "Amazing Grace" to her by her hospital bed. I could hear her struggling to breathe as fluid filled up in her lungs, and I will probably never feel as scared as I did then. As she struggled to breathe, I can only describe the sound her lungs made as the sound a straw makes if you keep sucking and there is no drink left in the glass. I sang to her, trying to calm her and drown that sound out. A few seconds later, she died.
I was in shock for a LONG time afterward, and I kept myself insanely busy, doing everything I could to avoid thinking or feeling. I drove more recklessly than ever, I spent money as fast as I could get it, I overate, I gained lots of weight, and I hardly spent any time at home. My hope was shattered, and I did everything I could think of to try to find something to replace it so I could be happy again.
Cancer is an evil and disgusting parasite that never lets go. I never realized just HOW relentless it was until I experienced those disheartening eight months watching my mother die in one of the most torturous ways possible. Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC), as I have found out, is the cancer that doctors know the LEAST about. At West Florida Hospital, they didn't even have the right BANDAGES to put on mom's wounds! My aunt and uncle had to specially order them. Now, if THAT isn't a scary situation, I don't know what IS! What do you do when YOU know more about what needs to be done to take care of a patient than DOCTORS seem to do?! I can come to only one conclusion . . . there needs to be more REAL awareness of how terrible breast cancer (ESPECIALLY IBC) is. It's an enemy we all have to try and fight the best we POSSIBLY can, in remembrance for all those who have passed away from it.
My mother cam face-to-face with Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC) in October 2002. There was no warning whatsoever . . . she just woke up one morning and her left breast was swollen to the size of a football, with terrible bleeding cysts underneath. I don't think ANYONE (unless they have seen or experienced it themselves) can truly understand the complete horror I felt when I saw the bloody and inflamed cysts on my mother's chest. I was so shocked, I actually screamed. At first, my mother was in denial and tried to blame the "abrasions" on the under-wire in her bras . . . but the SECOND I saw it, I knew it was too horrible to be anything else but cancer.
Come to find out, Inflammatory Breast Cancer (which is the kind she had) is the fastest-moving and MOST aggressive cancer out there. It is SO fast and aggressive that even if my mother HAD participated in mammograms (which she didn't), the mammograms STILL wouldn't have been able to detect anything. Obviously, she had to have a mastectomy immediately, as well as chemotherapy treatments.
For the first few months after her chemotherapy, my mother was the same as she had always been--optimistic, strong, and seemingly unaffected by it. Then, one day as I passed by the bathroom, I heard her crying. I looked in to see what was wrong, and she showed me that whenever she tried to comb her hair, clumps of it fell out. Her tears made me feel hopeless. As much as I wanted to cry, I had to conceal it . . . I was unworthy of tears at that moment. Only my mother deserved the right to cry, all I could do was hug her.
Eventually, the horrible and unyielding IBC popped up on my mother's OTHER breast . . . and even after TWO mastectomies, those damned mocking cancerous growths popped up AGAIN on the mastectomy scar. There got to be more and MORE, and my mother got weaker and thinner. One night, when I was helping to change her bandages, I had to literally SQUELCH my reflex-reaction to gasp and cry when I saw the HORRIBLE mass of cysts that had replaced what USED to be a chest. The only way I can TRY to describe it is bloody hamburger meat . . . and even THAT description doesn't come CLOSE to giving it the horrific and terrorizing justice it deserves. That was the night when I looked into mom's eyes and she looked just as frightened as I was . . . in fact, she was looking to ME for comfort.
After that moment, I tried to be as strong as I could for her . . . and I was able to most of the time. I kept her company and I tried never to take it to heart when she fell asleep (due to COMPLETE exhaustion) while I was talking to her. I snapped sometimes, though . . . and I was ANGRY. I was angry because my mother, who is the strongest and most optimistic woman I think I'll EVER know, was getting eaten up slowly and painfully by something SO unstoppable.
The first time I remember snapping around my mom was when she started refusing to eat. I didn't want to take "no" for an answer . . . I kept coaching her, PRODDING her, BEGGING her to eat . . . even against her will. I was desperate to keep her with me--and I knew that if she only just ATE, she would keep more strength to fight the cancer.
My aunt finally told me that it was no use in driving mom to TEARS trying to make her do something she didn't want to do. The doctor had said that her body would be slowly shutting itself down, preparing for the inevitable death. At that very moment, I realized that for the past eight months I had managed to convince myself that my mom would soon be in remission, the cancer would disappear, and everything would be as it was before. After I learned the truth--that mom's death was imminent--I lost all emotional feeling and drifted into complete numbness.
On July 31st, 2003 (not even a YEAR since mom had been first diagnosed with IBC), the cancer won. Right before she died, I sang "Amazing Grace" to her by her hospital bed. I could hear her struggling to breathe as fluid filled up in her lungs, and I will probably never feel as scared as I did then. As she struggled to breathe, I can only describe the sound her lungs made as the sound a straw makes if you keep sucking and there is no drink left in the glass. I sang to her, trying to calm her and drown that sound out. A few seconds later, she died.
I was in shock for a LONG time afterward, and I kept myself insanely busy, doing everything I could to avoid thinking or feeling. I drove more recklessly than ever, I spent money as fast as I could get it, I overate, I gained lots of weight, and I hardly spent any time at home. My hope was shattered, and I did everything I could think of to try to find something to replace it so I could be happy again.
Cancer is an evil and disgusting parasite that never lets go. I never realized just HOW relentless it was until I experienced those disheartening eight months watching my mother die in one of the most torturous ways possible. Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC), as I have found out, is the cancer that doctors know the LEAST about. At West Florida Hospital, they didn't even have the right BANDAGES to put on mom's wounds! My aunt and uncle had to specially order them. Now, if THAT isn't a scary situation, I don't know what IS! What do you do when YOU know more about what needs to be done to take care of a patient than DOCTORS seem to do?! I can come to only one conclusion . . . there needs to be more REAL awareness of how terrible breast cancer (ESPECIALLY IBC) is. It's an enemy we all have to try and fight the best we POSSIBLY can, in remembrance for all those who have passed away from it.