Shock
Here comes heartbreak.
February 2022
My mom came to stay with us for the month of February. Both my husband and I had travel commitments and she happily agreed to watch Peanut. Being in school with other toddlers, she regularly came home with a runny nose or cough. My mom seemed to have acquired it this time, with a hacking cough and cold that didn’t go away even when she returned home to the north. It was nearly 6 weeks until she felt better, just in time to turn around and come back down to spend my birthday with us. One Sunday, we all woke up and began to prepare to meet my brother for brunch. As usual, I was the last one getting out of bed. I heard my husband scream my name and I went running to the family room.
My mom was shuffling down the hallway from her room to the couch, gripping her side, breathing heavily, and squeezing her eyes shut. When I asked what was wrong, she could barely speak. She was pointing to her flank area and trying to explain that she was in tremendous pain, the worst pain she had ever felt in her life. She could barely move without feeling like she was being stabbed. When it didn’t subside at all, I knew we had to go to the hospital. My husband managed to guide her slowly into my car. I flew to the ER about 10 minutes from our house, my mom’s left hand gripping mine, her right hand gripping the door handle willing the pain to stop. We checked into the ER and were put in a bay. Doctors ran tests, did scans, drew blood. Hours later, a surgeon came to the room and asked her questions: have you fallen lately? No. Have you experienced any trauma to your side? No. Have you been under extreme stress? Yes.
The official diagnosis at the time was an adrenal hemorrhage. Given that my mom hadn’t fallen or experienced any sort of physical trauma, the doctors attributed it to intense stress. The last several months had been especially difficult with the passing of my grandmother, and she hadn’t been getting along with her brother. I had been unhappy at work and of course she worried about that; in true mom fashion she always wanted the best for me and wanted me to be happy. But this type of diagnosis indicated that she had literally stressed herself into the hospital. That weight she was carrying threw her hormones into chaos and now she had internal bleeding from her adrenals, putting her at increased risk for adrenal insufficiency, a life-threatening crisis where the body can’t produce enough cortisol. Horrible as this situation was, we hoped the experience would resonate with her and encourage her to employ some stress-relieving tactics or see a therapist. She had suffered with anxiety most of her life and the events of the last several months only exacerbated it.
Mom seemed to improve for some time. She was prescribed mild painkillers for the stabbing pains that would occasionally revisit but were not as severe as those initial ones. Not until the end of April when she was back home.
Then, they returned with a vengeance. The medication was no longer helping and other symptoms had manifested: extreme nausea, overwhelming exhaustion, an inability to keep food or even water in her body. The persistent feelings of sickness were taking a toll. My mom had always been a social butterfly; now, she had become somewhat of a recluse, staying in pajamas all day, much of the time in bed, and declining invitations from friends. There were many times she didn’t even answer the phone when we called which was a particularly bad sign. She always answered when we called and if she did for some reason miss the call, she would call back or text instantaneously.
We were on the phone one day during the week and my mom sounded terrible. I could almost feel her pain enveloping me through the phone from 2000 miles away. Hearing her voice try to fight through it was excruciating. I told her if nothing was helping the pain she should probably go back to the ER. Finally, she acquiesced and her close friend, a former neurologic nurse, drove her. She was subjected to more tests, scans, visits from specialists.
The news came on Saturday, April 30th, 2022. Under the pooling blood that appeared on previous scans as an adrenal hemorrhage was a tumor. Actually, two tumors, one on each adrenal gland. They spread there by way of the tumor in her lung.
That miserable day, my mom was diagnosed with Stage IV Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer.
The kind, female doctor who had been tracking my mom called me from the hospital room and broke the news to both of us at the same time. All I could hear in the background was my mom saying, “Oh my G-d. Oh my G-d.” I had taken the call in my bedroom and was walking aimlessly around my closet. My hands were sweating and shaking. When the doctor told me this, I grabbed the wall and sank to the floor. I didn’t cry right away because I wanted to hear what she had to say; but when I heard “Stage 4,” everything went to hell. My head exploded. My heart shattered. I felt numb, heavy, and hollow all at once.
The doctor had sounded as shocked as we were. My mom had exactly no risk factors for lung cancer, had never smoked a day in her life. She was otherwise completely healthy. How could this be?
The doctor gave the phone to my mom and I completely lost it. Through sobs, I remember saying, “Mom, you’re going to be ok. I am so sorry this is happening. You don’t deserve this. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. You’re going to be ok. I love you more than anything in the world.” She couldn’t reply. She didn’t cry. She said she was going to speak with the doctor and would call me back.
I sat, hysterical, in my closet. Guttural sounds escaped my throat but I couldn’t speak. My husband and Peanut sat next to me and hugged me which only made me feel worse because I consider myself a strong person and them seeing me reduced to a sobbing, helpless, vulnerable mess made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t yet ready or willing to expose my one-and-a-half-year-old to the horrors of adulthood, and I hated that she was seeing me so upset without me being able to contextualize it. She had just arrived in this world and I wanted her to see and experience love, happiness, humor, joy… certainly not sadness, tragedy, or grief.
I realized I had to call my brother. He had no idea the doctors had found the tumors and made a new diagnosis. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. I took a minute to acknowledge that this may be one of the hardest phone calls I’d ever make in my life. Though we’re both in our 30s, my brother is five years younger and will forever be my “little” brother. I knew telling him this would break his heart just as it did mine. Our mother is our everything.
When I told him, he replied with a deep breath and said quietly, disbelievingly, “What the fuck?”
He didn’t cry while we were talking but asked some questions and told me later the waterworks came fast and freely as the realization set in.
After we hung up, I crawled in bed, sobbed, and began to research.
