Where Do We Go From Here? by: Laura Gonzalez, Mixed Media, 2019
So I Guess Cancer is a Thing
So I guess cancer is a thing. I still wonder how I could have been so naïve to its commonplace existence. You know, when it’s diagnosed, it actually doesn’t happen like it does in movies. For us, it started off with a CT scan, then an MRI scan, and when they finally decided they had to open up the skull, they removed the tumor, sliced it, and sent one of those slices off for examination. “We’ll see you in 10 days,” they say, sympathetically. Just like that.
During those 10 days, you keep it cool. You just know the tumor is going to be benign. They’ll tell you it was a random growth and after she heals from the surgery, everything will return to how it was. You don’t allow your mind to go the other way. There’s no point. No point in worrying about what hasn’t been said. 10 days later you show up, and sign in as if you’re at your annual checkup. In a way, that’s what it feels like because you just know it’s all going to come to pass. You smile at the receptionist, thank her for checking you in. Smile at the nurse as she takes you to a room and hands you an envelope. “Don’t open it until after the doctor has spoken to you.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? After that, the memories move in slow motion. Brain Cancer. Glioblastoma. 11-15 month life expectancy. Personality changes. Seizures. Sleepiness.
Against my better judgment, I’ve Googled glioblastoma over and over again. Sometimes just for the heck of it because I want to make sure I still remember the facts clearly. The results are the same, every single time. Some cancers are so rare that there are only about two hundred thousand cases per year in the U.S. Two hundred thousand. What constitutes something being rare? I wonder if the other 199,999 families dealing with this, this year, wonder that too. Rare are albino alligators or that last white, male rhino that just died last year. This doesn’t feel rare at all. It feels…real.
You know what SHOULD be “rare”? Rare should be having to see your mother’s reflection as she sees her neatly stitched, baseball resembling, blood-crusted scar and buzz cut for the first time. Seeing her briefly look in the mirror and turn her head to get a better view of all that’s changed. Then looking away quickly for the fear of letting out more of her emotions than she cares to. Rare should be having to squeeze your mom’s stomach like a burger, daily, in your hand while you inject her with medicine that’s supposed to prevent a clot. You know, she’s always hated needles, and now it’s you having to inflict this pain for what’s supposed to be the greater good. Every week there are more and more bruises of all different shades of black, purple, and green. Oh, but the bruises don’t stop there! Take a look at the insides of her arms. Of course, when undergoing radiation and chemotherapy you have to get your blood drawn weekly to make sure your white blood cell count is looking okay. Rare should be having to see your mom lying on the ground, seizing, as her body jerks as if her whole body is gasping for air, fighting against itself. I don’t even know if it’s fighting with or against her. Rare should be having to see your mother’s reflection as she sees herself, once again, neatly stitched, baseball resembling, blood-crusted scar, but this time, there wasn’t hair to have to shave off.
Do the other 199,999 families ever get used to this? Or are they like me and feel that every poke, every cut, every pill, every jerk, every doctor’s visit is like digging a knife deeper into a still very fresh wound? Despite that feeling, I’ve come to accept that I may lose my mom at a young age. I’m not even old enough to have wrinkles fully formed on my face. As I stop and stare at my daughter, I think about how just in her lifetime there have been two million people diagnosed with glioblastoma. Just 6 months ago we were living with her grama and granpa. Mi mami y mi papi. I can only assume that as we moved out of my parent’s house it never crossed her mind that we may be leaving one of them behind, possibly forever.
Now, though, I’d rather just focus on the soul that still remains within her and who my mom is, and always will be to me. My mom is strong. Always has been. I knew that the moment I was old enough to realize all that she left behind in her country, in order to take a chance at starting a family with the love of her life, in a new land that held many unknowns. I knew it when I was old enough to see the courage it took to show up for every single event your child was a part of at school, even if you had no idea what was being said. The humility it took to allow your child to translate the conversation with a teacher, because you wanted to be a good parent and be involved. She got her license to be a public accountant in Mexico, but here, that meant nothing, especially not as an undocumented resident. So humility it took once more to start cleaning houses, in order to help provide for your family. I don’t even like cleaning my own damn restroom.
This month marks 11 months since my mom was diagnosed. I’ll continue to hope and pray, along with the other 199,999 families in this country.