Since most of the readers of this relatively lame cancer blog are strangers to me, you'd have no reason to know that I married someone who is 12 years older than I am. We also waited for about 10 years to have a baby together, so I was 34 and he 46 when the whirlwind we call the girly arrived.
She continues to be the light of our lives; the glue that has held us together for at least all of her 16 years. She is bright and funny, beautiful and caring. And for years, I proclaimed the wisdom of waiting until you're old enough to afford and appreciate them before you bring children into the world. And because my husband was older, and oh--just happened to have a long family history of lung cancer--I always assumed that in the end it would be her and I, alone against the world.
When my cancer moved from a passing concern to an ever present monster in the room, she clung to the thought that it would be her and her dad--somehow managing to live without me doing everything for them (guilty--aren't all moms, at least of my generation?).
She is now living the nightmare of knowing that not just her momma, but both of her parents are dealing with a terminal cancer diagnosis.
You see, the prostate cancer was the least of our worries. The recurrent anemia and overwhelming fatigue was finally nailed down as being related to a mass in his small intestine that, upon removal and biopsy, was determined to be metastatic lung cancer. A matching mass in the lower lobe of the lung and just for kicks, a coordinating spot already living and growing on the hip bone.
So over the past few weeks, this picture has gone from hazy and grainy to brilliantly clear.
Absolutely crystal fucking clear. If you know anything about cancer, you know that this level of metastasis rules out surgery, rules out radiation. Do no pass go, do not collect $100. Go directly to a chemo chair. A fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, let alone on my best friend and the salvation that was to be the keeper of my girly when I throw in the towel. Stage 4 lung cancer is not curable, especially if you don't have one of the two gene mutations that can be quickly arrested with an effective new drug, and especially if the "titch" of cancer has already meandered through your bloodstream and taken up residence in far flung locations.
I can't even find the words to explain the devastation. It's not the knowledge that he will have a tough, ugly fight that in the end most likely won't end like we want it to, nor is it the knowledge that I will either be right before him or right after him. We're grown adults; we've had a terrific life. But the heart wrenching knowledge that we're leaving our beautiful girly behind in this world at such a (potentially) young and tender age is so painful that the moment it enters the brain, you push it back down under the surface quickly lest it make you nuts.
I feel like I've won the lottery. Some rotten lottery no one really wants to win. Congratulations--your family is the grand prize winner in the Cancer Lottery! Deal with it! Tell all your friends! Get ready for the looks of pity (BOTH of them!), the rude comments (OMG, what is in the water there?), the condescending opinions (Hmm, former smokers, aren't you?) Tired of all that already, so we hide out. We tell only those people who absolutely need to know. We continue to live our lives like we always have, ignoring the monster when we can. For now we can get by with it. But we know that so many choices, so many decisions, so many actions we really don't want to take, are looming. Will need to be dealt with. Sooner or later.
