CANCER | FAMILY | MENTAL HEALTH

My Eyes Tell the Story: Lymphoma Blurs the Now and Later

Slammed by cancer and the ripple effect on the family

The eyes in the mirror aren’t mine — they can’t be.

They seem similar but tired and older.

In a mere seven weeks, everything we knew shifted to prove we know nothing at all.

Lymphoma revealed itself in early December, declaring that it would now control more than just one future, but three.

My mom’s summer-long neuropathy pain and discomfort ended with the discovery of a muscular tumor in her back that caused a lesion at her T3 vertebra.

An immediate team of cancer specialists formed and used the words, “Diffuse large B cell lymphoma, garden variety, treatable, Stage IV, aggressive, and curable.”

My mom is 84 years old and a fighter.

She chose to take on the insidious disease and prove her strength.

My mom’s plan includes temporary assisted living with around-the-clock skilled nursing care — she moved on Monday, January 23 — while she continues chemo treatments through early May. Follow-up radiation is a future determination.

I packed up my grandson, Ian, and warm clothing right before Christmas for an assumed few weeks, leaving Florida in our rearview.

Never assume.

When cancer comes knocking, there is no weekend visit. It calls the shots and eats at a body physically and mentally.

The quiet of this morning allowed me to write after a missed month.

A month.

I sit at my mom’s computer desk with my laptop shimmied next to hers. A man wearing an Eagle’s hat and matching gloves, bracing himself against the chill, walks by her window with his dog.

A misty cloud emits as he breathes. It’s freakin’ cold in New Jersey.

I despise the cold.

I am living my mom’s healthy life. I pay her bills, tend to her home, and organize some areas that were neglected due to illness. Mom’s neighbors are given updates.

I prepare her taxes, enroll her autopay, and keep her home as if she’ll walk through the door at any moment.

Medical bills, insurance calls, pharmacy pleas, and Medicare confirmations drain most of my emotional resources. Ian gets all I have left to give.

I will address mom’s irrigation system repair in another month or so. Pipes freeze and burst when cancer sidelines you to become the top priority.

Anxiety taps on my shoulder.

At times, it sucker-punches me in the gut. A vice grip grabs hold of my heart and squeezes.

At night, my lungs are tight, and my heart races.

It’s not just cancer which can be all-consuming with its nastiness.

It’s also that I walked away from running my own life and that of Ian’s.

The sinking of my spirit increases with a lack of fresh warm air, sunshine, daily writing, exercising, and excursions with my grandson.

Where are the palm trees?

Levity hides in the background — somewhere underneath all the seriousness enveloping us.

I lay in bed at my mom’s house, exhausted from a day of doctors or nurses, visiting with my mom, schlepping a 5-year-old and his provisions, with delusions that I would sleep well.

Any chance of slumber wrestles with looming obligations in my brain.

The darkness fills my head with visions of my over-flowing mailbox in Florida, the State requirements Ian is tied to, and the warmth my mental health requires for wellness.

Enrollment dates for kindergarten have slammed closed.

I will find an open door.

We are displaced and floundering under neglected responsibilities.

I finally write in the quiet of this morning when awakened with clarity and a plan.

Maybe it’s not a perfect plan, but cancer leads the way.

I can only work with what I have been given — looks like we’ll be in New Jersey longer than I anticipated.

Not only does my mom need me, but I need her.

I will stand by her side and cheer her on.

Good days and horrible ones are part of this God-forsaken journey.

It’s been a long seven weeks. Cooper Hospital, rehab facility, and now assisted living, all while transporting back and forth to chemo. I marvel at her drive and focus.

Strength for my mom, and me, comes from the love of family. My cousin, Kristin, with her husband and kids has been great support from day one.

Family.

Love.

Strength.

Have I mentioned that cancer sucks?

My mom is 84 years old and a fighter.

I will take her lead and fight, too.

For her life, mine, and for Ian.

I am proudly my mother’s daughter.

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