Pain is Temporary, Life is Forever

I have never been one to worry much about diseases. I was raised around adults my entire life. Diseases were common in my life from an early age. My grandmothers all suffered from diabetes, high blood pressure, angina, or some other common diagnosis. I watched each of them suffer their entire lives. Never once was my Grandma able to run and play in the yard with me, her diabetes took over her circulation before I was born. Never once was my Granny Jo Ann able to power walk the mall without rest breaks and pain killers. Her muscles and joints were deteriorating far before I was even thought of.

So when my father was diagnosed in 1995 with diabetes, it honestly didn’t bother me. I was used to seeing insulin in the fridge and syringes in the cabinet. Luckily he was able to control his with pills and diet for a long time. However, this year when my mother told me he would be taking shots now, for the rest of his life, it hurt me so deeply I couldn’t explain it in words.

My. Daddy. Doesn’t. Get. Sick.

However, I know that he will be ok. Yes it will be uncomfortable for the first few months, his body will react differently and things will take time to even out, but he will be ok.

He’s my daddy, nothing will ever harm him. He’s invincible, immortal even.
Trust me, I know it.

The one time in my life I couldn’t handle a disease, didn’t understand how it could happen, and didn’t have the slightest idea on how to deal with it was last December.

My mother confided in me one afternoon that she found a lump. EXCUSE ME? I didn’t hear you correctly. You must be kidding, and that’s not a funny joke.

Only she wasn’t joking. She was actually crying. My mother was so serious it instantly pained me to look at her. I don’t do well with family emotions. I would much rather fight with my family because it’s easier to forgive harsh words than to console heartbreak or pain.

I asked her if she had made a doctors appointment and she told me she was going in the beginning of January. I asked her if she had revealed her secret to my father and she laid another doozy on me. She told me that she didn’t want him to worry until she knew for sure. Thanks for making me the lucky one Mom, love you too!

I knew her reasoning; December means death in our household. My son, Nicholas, died in December. It has become a month that will never be received with warm feelings. I knew why she didn’t want to add the extra stress to my father.

I went home with a promise that night. My mother and I shared a secret that was killing me. I held something in my heart that hurt so bad it burned a hole in my head and chest. I was sworn to secrecy by my mom. She asked that I didn’t reveal it to anyone and I honestly didn’t.

I began calling my mom 8 or 9 times a day. I sent her text messages. I dropped by her house as often as possible. I was running on the thought that if I could keep tabs on her constantly, that nothing would happen to her. I began holding her hand every chance I saw her. I hugged her to the point of strangulation when I was forced to leave her. I was bugging her to death I am sure, but I couldn’t let her slip away alone. She needed me to be there to hold her. She needed me to be there to listen to her fears. She needed me to just be there, and I was more than willing to do whatever it took to make her comfortable.

Finally a few days after Christmas, my mother pulled me into her bedroom and told me that she had revealed our secret to my Dad. Thank. Heavens!

I didn’t think I could look him in the eye any longer and not tell him that his wife needed him to hold her and hug her and console her. She was terrified.

I can only be there for her for so much. I share ALL my secrets with my mom. She tells me things that no one will ever know about her life. We are best friends, and even closer to sisters, but I could not give her the support she desperately needed from her partner, her husband.

When her doctor’s appointment drew close, our little family unit tightened the ranks. We were going to soldier through this together. We held hands and prayed together, because that’s how we are. We aren’t very religious, but we know when it’s time for some divine intervention.

I didn’t go to the doctor’s appointment with her. My father took her. They called me as they drove there and called me as soon as they were exiting the building. My mother was scheduled for surgery 4 weeks after her first doctor’s appointment.

Mom told me that she didn’t want me at the surgery.

That killed me. I cried many nights about not being there for her. I couldn’t sleep for weeks for nightmares that haunted my rest. I dreamt that everyone around me was dying. I dreamt that my mother was talking to me from heaven. I dreamt that I was dying. My brain wouldn’t stop picturing death or dying. I cried each afternoon on the way home from work. I yelled at my husband for touching my breast as it made me think about my mother. I bought thousands of dollars worth of breast cancer “souvenirs”. I had pink ribbon t shirts, mugs, picture frames, and calendars. Each purchase was more of a bargaining tool with God. If he would only allow this to work in our favor, I would donate my entire life to the cause. I would run marathons, donate my pay checks, purchase pink m&m’s, and get monthly mammograms. Whatever it took to make God understand I couldn’t lose my Mommy.

The Friday before the surgery, I was driving home from work on the long empty two lane road between my house and the interstate. I was listening to the country music station and they began playing these songs that only made me feel alone. I pulled over on the side of the road and cried my eyes out. I had this horrible feeling rush over me. I felt like I needed to rush to my mother and tell her how much I loved her and how much I needed her. I felt like I would never again get to see her bright blue eyes twinkle as she laughed at her own jokes, or listen to her snore as she fell asleep watching the evening news.

My mommy was not going to make it, I was certain.

I tried calling her to talk. But she was unavailable. I am not sure of the exact reason she was busy, but I know it was something that her and my dad were enjoying together. Later that night she told me that they were off doing some activity that seemed completely normal for the two of them. But in my head it seemed insane that she wasn’t as worried as I was.

My co-workers found out about the surgery that weekend. The guy that I am close to in the office told me that if he saw me at the office the Monday of the surgery, I would be fired. I explained to him that my mother refused to allow me in the room; he informed me that he was certainly more apt to follow through with his promise than she was with hers.

I woke up late that morning, ran into every traffic light possible, and rushed into the hospital with only 30 minutes to spare before her surgery.

I held her hand; told her I loved her, told her that everything was going to be ok. My mother looked deep into my eyes, told me that she loved me, and then smiled ever so sweetly as she let out the loudest burp I have ever heard.

She wasn’t going to let this cancer stuff keep her gassy. They wheeled my mother away to the surgical room as I grabbed my dad's arm and didn't think I would ever be able to let go.

My father and I usually talk non stop from the moment we wake until the moment our heads hit the pillow. My father and I never run short of things to say to each other. The topics vary from parental advice or guidance to the ionosphere affecting amateur radio waves. On this day, neither of us could say what the other needed to hear. We made small talk about work, Kaylah, Joe, and the weather. I finally couldn’t stand to see his eyes filled with so much confusion, so I walked outside to smoke a cigarette. I am certain that makes no sense to anyone. Here I am worried to death that my mom might die and I am outside inhaling cancer into my own body. My father actually took no cheap shots about smoking toward me that day. I think that he was well aware of my coping mechanism that morning.

I don’t know how long it took for the surgery to be completed. I was oblivious to any clocks in the room. I know when the nurse called my fathers name, I sprang toward her faster than she expected.

My mother was fine! She was resting. She was groggy and had to stay for the usual 1 hour observation. Dad and I breathed a collective sigh of relief that could have initiated a hurricane.

Once we got my mother to the car and into the house, she rested for the better part of the afternoon. That evening started an entire new fear deep within her.

What if…

What if the biopsy results came back malignant?

We prayed and held onto our faith the entire two weeks it took for the results to return. Only the two weeks were not without worry.

One afternoon while showering my mother felt something she hoped would not be what she knew it was.

There was a second lump.

She called the doctors office and explained her finding. They told her not to worry that the doctor would look into it at her appointment.

My mother called my father and me both to explain. Neither of us took it as well as she expected. They had her laid out on the operating table less than a week ago, they had ample time to look around and make sure the job was done.

The second surgery was scheduled for 4 weeks later. This time my mother insisted I not be there. She said it would only anger her for me to be there wasting my leave time for her to go in and out in just a few short hours. I trusted her this time. I knew it would be ok the second time around.

My mother’s result appointment couldn’t come quick enough. When she finally went for the results, I called her and my fathers cell phones so many times that they eventually turned them off. They were running out of excuses as to why it was taking so long for an answer. Finally a few hours later, my mother called and said that the results were back. Then she began telling me about her and my father going to lunch; I knew in that instant that my mom was going to be fine.

One acting skill my mother never learned well was trickery. Her voice had a sound of relief to it. She was almost giggling as she talked about their afternoon.

My mother’s lumps weren’t cancer. They were more like calcium and fat cell deposits.
They were hard and shiny in nature where cancer is usually more porous and dull.

That’s my mother, bright and shiny. Clean as a whistle.

My mother didn't have cancer, but I know if she would have we would have taken the Lunsford family approach on it. We would have kicked cancer's ass in our nice shiny shoes, clean underwear, and loud gaseous noises.


***This was originally posted October 19, 2006 by Cricky. It is reposted today to remind everyone:

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.
If you know a survivor, hug them tightly.
If you know someone who is waiting for results, pray for them as if your life depended on it.
If you have lost someone to breast cancer, allow yourself to be hugged.

If you are a woman, age 30 or older, or with a family history (not just immediate family anymore) of breast cancer, please, go get checked. Mammogram’s may be physically uncomfortable, but it sure beats the alternative.