My mom, Marie K. Brant, was born in 1935, so some people might think, “it’s her time”.
No, it isn’t.
Seemingly basically healthy, having upper abdominal pain that was getting pretty bad, she went in to her doctor (finally) the other day. He got her a CT scan, and when the results were in, he called her immediately; she was shopping for a mini-vacation with her sisters- and brothers-in-law. The doctor said that there was “something that didn’t belong there” on her pancreas, and that she should get tested.
This abdominal pain was really getting her down, so she decided to get tested the next day. Dad canceled their trip up north; he and mom had wanted the others to go ahead and go, but they decided to stay, saying that without mom and dad, it wouldn’t be much fun. Mom called me that evening to ask if I could take her downtown to get her test; dad wasn’t comfortable driving downtown. I agreed.
I called my brothers’ families to let them know the news. Then I looked up the best way to get to the medical center downtown, watched some TV, and went to bed, sleeping peacefully.
I am very fortunate to have a boss who lets me work from home two days a week. At short notice, I had emailed him to tell him I’d need a half-day off to take my mom to the doc; it was fine with him. Thanks, Dave.
Mom and dad got to our house around lunch time, and we went downtown to HCMC. I am sometimes not a good listener (everybody, say “sometimes?”), so didn’t realize that the test mom would be getting would be an endoscopy, and that they would take a biopsy of the mass on her pancreas. I might have taken a hint when the doctor explained that there would be pathologists in the room to immediately examine the biopsy, but I still didn’t clue in to the urgency.
After mom had sufficiently recovered from the anesthesia, the young (maybe 30 years old?) doctor explained that the mass was a) a tumor, b) was wrapped around the artery that supplies blood to the small intestine, and c) was partially necrotic, but still partially viable. She didn’t say “cancer” until mom, looking only semi-shocked, asked her. I think it might have been the doctor’s first time delivering this kind of news.
Pancreatic cancer is sometimes known as a silent killer, because most of the time, it isn’t diagnosed until it’s too late. It simply doesn’t get around to causing symptoms until it’s fairly advanced, as is my mom’s case.
Mom had “known” this was coming. Two of her siblings, brother Ed and sister Lou, had died of cancer, although not specifically pancreatic cancer. She didn’t seem surprised as the doctor’s words washed over us; she seemed … relieved? Almost resigned? I couldn’t really tell.
As for me, I nearly vomited with the surprise. I had not expected this at all. Dad, too, looked … unbelieving.
The initial shock wore off, and mom asked some questions. To me, the questions indicated that she did, indeed, intend to fight. She plans to make sure her doctor gets the word as soon as possible, so he can go about the business of planning her care, and get her to an oncologist. The doctor at HCMC said that surgery wouldn’t be possible because of the artery-wrapped tumor, but that chemo and radiation could slow it down. She indicated that the tumor hadn’t metastasized, nor did it have any lymph-node involvement, both of which are good things, but that the tumor was a “4″ due to its size and … wrapping ability, I guess.
Today is the day after the diagnosis. Life goes on; when we left the hospital yesterday, we went to my dad’s sister’s home where family members had gathered, and where mom announced that she had pancreatic cancer (nobody was surprised, having been told that “we’ll tell you when we get there”).
Life goes on.
One of mom’s least-favorite seasons is upon us. Autumn only holds associations of winter/snow/cold for mom; we’ll have to see if we can change that.
Life goes on, mom.