the big “c”

I will never forget the surgeon pulling us into a consult room and saying the words that everyone hopes they never have to hear when they are being given a post-surgery update on a loved one – “we found the tumor to be cancerous”. It was in that moment that everything stopped.  I looked around the tiny little room that we were squished into and saw the shock, fear, and sadness on everyone’s faces.  My grandma, whom I lovingly call “Mammie”, was next to me and I can still feel the weight of her as she collapsed onto my arm.  One year ago today our lives changed forever. One year ago today, my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

We held it together while the doctor was still in the room.  My mind raced with all kinds of questions, and I was firing them at the doctor as fast as I could form words: “What stage is it?” “What is the five-year survival rate?” “Is chemo necessary?” “What about radiation?” “Are you confident that you got it all?” “How do we know it isn’t in other parts of her body?” “How long will therapy last?” “Did you check all of the surrounding lymph nodes?” “But really, all of them?” “What about surrounding tissues?” “When can we go see her?” 

The rest of my family – Dad, Mammie, Papa, and Husband – were silent and just let me fire away.  The doctor was very gracious to respond to all of my questions. He was doing his best to speak words of peace over us when just a minute before the words he spoke had turned our world upside down.  He got up to leave and told us that we were welcome to stay in the consult room as long as we needed, and left us with a box of tissues.  The moment he walked out of the room, we fell apart.  I can count on one hand the times that I’ve seen my Papa cry, and as we all huddled around in a circle holding each other, I could feel his tears falling on the top of my head as we prayed and cried out to God for help.  I’m not sure how long we stayed in that room, but we finally gathered ourselves together and put on brave faces as we walked out arm in arm to the waiting room, not very ready to have to share the news with the more than twenty friends that had gathered to support us during the surgery.

“It’s cancer.” My mom’s dearest friends immediately wrapped me in a giant hug.  Somehow spewing out all of the facts that I had gathered from the doctor felt like a way to make it better: “It is stage 1C, because the tumor had ruptured and spilled cancerous fluid into her abdomen.” “She has a five-year survival rate of 95%.” “While chemo isn’t necessary, going through it is what makes the survival rate that high.” “No radiation is needed.” “The doctor says he got it all.” “This type of cancer doesn’t typically spread at this stage.” “She will have six rounds of chemo, spaced three weeks apart.” “He removed all of the lymphatic tissue, her appendix, did a full hysterectomy, and removed some of the fat pad.” “He really is confident that he got all of it.” “Really – all of it.” “She is going to be in recovery for a while, my dad and I can see her today, but she won’t be ready for visitors until tomorrow.”

My dad went in to go see her first, as only one person could go into recovery at a time.  I waited for what seemed like an eternity.  He had to tell her that she had cancer.  I can’t even imagine what that conversation was like.  When I went in, she was awake and fairly alert because she was in excruciating pain.  I remember just holding her hand and thinking she had never looked more beautiful to me than she did in that moment, resting with her eyes closed, trying to pretend that she was fine.  She was worried about me, and asked if I was ok – such a Michelle thing to do. 

What followed through the rest of this last year was the most grace-filled, strong woman demonstrating what true faith looks like.  Not once did I ever hear her question “why is this happening?”  She never complained a single time. I’m not exaggerating – NOT. A. SINGLE. TIME. She was the strong one while all of us were so worried, fearful, and consumed with potential future scenarios.  We saw God use the tiny, unexpected human, that was only ten weeks old at the time, to be the perfect distraction and peace-bringer to our family.  Even still today as she is in daily extreme pain, due to side effects from chemo, she always has a smile on her face and an inspiring attitude.  She has touched so many lives in the last year, and I am so proud and grateful to be known as “Michelle’s daughter”.  

I never would wish this journey on anyone.  I hope that those of you reading this never have to deal with the anxiety that comes from awaiting bloodwork results, or the catch in your throat when a doctor says the unthinkable, but I do hope that you can find the positive pieces to the situation.  My mom has taught me to be thankful for the smallest things – like still having eyelashes when you don’t have any other hair – while walking such a difficult road.  I hope that if I ever face trials of that magnitude in my life, I will be filled with as much grace and hope that she has exuded everywhere.  

October 11th is going to be a day that we will always remember.  It’s the day “the big c” entered our lives.  Cancer is scary.  Cancer sucks. Cancer does not define you or your family. It can’t take away faith or love, and it can’t steal joy.