The Big C

On March 11th, 2010, my mom and stepdad showed up at my dad's house. My sister and I were watching TV when they came up the stairs and asked us to come sit with them for a second. My heart pounded as I remembered eight years before, when my parents told us they were getting a divorce in the same living room. Right then, I knew something was wrong.

"I have to have some surgery soon," Mom said, delicately.

"Oh, for your cyst right?" I chirped, trying to keep my spirits up (she has a benign dermoid - unrelated).

"No, honey." She looked at my stepdad, and then back at my father. "Girls, I found a lump in my breast." My heart fell.

My mom had been diagnosed with Invasive Lobular Carcinoma (ILC) the day before. I pulled my body over to the couch, next to her. I was completely numb and we both cried. My stepdad bit his lip and my dad left the room. My sister played with the cat.

My mom had her first surgery on March 26th: a bilateral mastectomy. After some minor problems with her blood pressure, she was sent home the following day with two drains in her side. She was so weak that we'd have to pull up the foot rest for her on the recliner in the living room. I learned how to change her bandages, programmed all of her appointments into my phone and went back to school on Monday as planned, as it was spring break when she told us the news.

After many more tests and a few missed days of school, we were told that the cancer had already spread to the lymph nodes under her arm. The next surgery was on April 21st. They removed 28 nodes, four of which were cancerous. She was diagnosed with stage 3 ILC. Her tumour was six cm by the time it was removed. Now, she's had five of her six chemotherapy treatments. She gets one every three weeks. Her hair has fallen out in clumps, as well as her eyebrows and eyelashes. She starts radiation soon after her last chemo treatment, and she starts hormone therapy around then too.

Seeing my mom go through this has been the most devastating event in my life, by far. You can try to imagine how it would affect you, but there is no way to understand the heart-wrenching pain that grips me every time I think about her. About losing her.

A few weeks ago, we were up late watching TV when she turned to face me and said, "Look. I don't plan on going anywhere. I plan on seeing you get married, have kids and I intend to bother you and stick my nose in your business until the day I die, when I'm approximately 345 years old. But just in case, I just feel the need to teach you all these life lessons. I want you to tell me your favourite meals and I want to show you how to make them. I want to teach you how to play poker, and how to properly set a table. I want to teach you how to drive, and manage your bank account."

I looked at her. "The truth is, I don't know how long I have left on this earth. I want you to grow up and be a strong, successful woman. I want you to be able to stand on your own." She gathered her thoughts again. "I just want you to be able to make it, with or without me."

I bit my lip and told her "Ah, we've got time for all of that. You think I'll be able to remember all of it when I go off to university? You'll have to teach me all of that when we're both older. When you're watching my nine kids while I'm working."

She laughed and told me she was going to bed. I hugged her good night and cried in the bathroom for two hours.

To everyone who is dealing with cancer right now and to anyone who reads this and can relate: I need you all to know that the only way you will make it through this experience is to talk to someone. A dog preferably, because they don't judge and will happily sit with you when you're upset.

You need to hear yourself say out loud, "We're gonna make it through this." I wish I could say it gets easier, but I still cry whenever I hear Beside You by Marianas Trench. You try to stay positive, but you still have bad days. You're gonna cry and you might just wanna hit things. You need to express yourself. You need to watch sad movies and listen to sad songs, it's all apart of the process. I was so angry in the beginning I used to beat the walls in the garage until my knuckles turned white and bled.

Everyone reacts differently. I cried and cried and cried. My sister separated herself from our whole family. She's always out with friends now and we never even see her. Everyone is like a decaf version of themselves. No one is the same; we're all just shells of what we used to be, weighed down by fear and hurt.

My mom has a 60 per cent chance that the cancer will come back in the next five years. We did nothing to deserve this. She survived abusive relationships in childhood and in marriage, she worked herself to the bone to be where she is now and this is how she's rewarded. There is no cosmic balance that we all secretly hope is in play. Karma is nothing.

A lot of the time, I found myself thinking about how hard I would cry at her funeral. Although I'm still crying, writing about this, I changed. I don't think about her funeral. I think about how hard we're gonna party at her five year mark, when she's declared cancer free. I think about her hugging me after I graduate, helping me pick out my wedding dress and helping me name my kids. I think about how mad she's going to be when I inevitably stay out too late with the car.

I live every day like it is not only my last, but hers too. She's my best friend. She's all I have. I love her more than anything. I wish I could have gotten this cancer instead of her. I know, that's just my guilt talking... But I would give anything to see her as happy and healthy as she was last year.

Bottom line: There is no manual for this. It doesn't get easier. Now, I cry when I'm happy too because I just have so many emotions bubbling and boiling beneath my skin. Cancer changes everything. My mom isn't the only sick one. Our whole family is ravaged, traumatized and betrayed by every ounce of stability we once had. And I hate to break it to you, but friends don't know what to say. No one does. It's been six months since my mom was diagnosed, and even though so much has changed, only a handful of my friends know.

So everyone. Call your parents, tell them you love them. Hug them, spend time with them. Let everyone in your life know just how you feel about them. Because every second, somewhere someone's life is being destroyed by cancer. Two in every five women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. Women you know will be attacked by this murderous disease. Women you know will have to fight an uphill battle against their own bodies, just to stay alive. All we can do is try. Try to save each other, all the while trying to save ourselves.

There's no graceful way to deal with it. Life is gray for us. No matter how happy we can be, it's always there: the fear, the hate. All we can do is love each other while we can, and soldier on.