When the clock read 3:30pm today I said a little prayer to myself and forced myself to think about other things.
Like cleaning the garage, filling up the sandbox, being outside with the kids on a gorgeous 95 degree day.
I wouldn’t let myself think about my mom and her appointment with the oncologist.
I wouldn’t let myself think about what any outcome would be.
I did, what I am very good at, keeping myself busy.
Keep moving, on to this and that. Don’t stop to think about it.
By the time H awoke at 4pm the appointment was far from my thoughts.
At 5:40pm when a family member called and asked if I heard anything, I was irritated. Don’t remind me. Don’t make me think about it. Let me be.
T’s baseball game started as the clock rolled to 6:30pm and again my mind was gone.
At 7:30pm I had a message and I knew it’d be best to call back.
Sitting at the baseball field, I called and heard my dad’s voice.
She’s been admitted. She starts chemo tonight.
This cancer is aggressive and at the worst stage. It was either start chemo ASAP or get hospice for six weeks.
Samara, this is terminal.
Two years, maybe.
But don’t forget, God makes miracles.
God has a plan.
Yeah. I said through tears.
And I sat in my chair and cried as I listened to my mom for a minute try to act like this is normal.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked.
TOMORROW? Are you kidding me? I thought.
“Nothing. M has a doctor appointment. That’s it.” I humor her.
“Oh good, I hope that those meds have been helping her.”
Me too, mom. Me too.
And as I sit in the chair, between my husband and the kids mom, with tears coming out underneath my sunglass covered eyes, I am so sad. Scared. Mad.
And I finish talking to my mom and again to my dad. Say our goodbyes and I love yous.
Hang up. Wipe the eyes and think about something else.
As T comes over to get a drink he looks at me and asks why I’m crying.
“I’m not. The wind blew some sand in my eyes.” I lie wincing inside at the fact that I am lying to a child that we are trying to teach not to lie.
J, nor the kids mom L, said anything. They give me the grace and space they know I need in those moments.
And the three of us adults sit there at the game in silence.
I look at H who’s getting discontent in his stroller. I know if I look long enough at him, I will be able to smile or laugh about something.
Because so many have asked, my mom has terminal carcinoma in her lungs. It is cancer in the lymphnodes of her lungs that has spread to her liver.
I said before I won’t say much about this here, and I’d like to think I won’t.
I’ve spent the last several days feeling many different things.
One moment I am laughing my head off at something one of the kids says or does.
Another moment I am saddened about my mom. And then I’m saddened about my dad because I know he’s heartbroken too.
Then another moment I can smile with M about her kindergarten days and listen to T read his school reading book. I can watch H speed crawl across the house.
Yet I find my patience is short.
And in the morning, I just want to hit snooze or pretend this whole cancer thing was all a bad dream.
So far, it’s not.