I wrote in my last post about my mom being sick. She was diagnosed with Stage 2 ovarian cancer in September, which is, ironically, Ovarian Cancer Awareness month.
I am child number 4 in a family of 5, but I was elected to accompany my mom when she went to the hospital for her hysterectomy. After looking at all the test results, the gynecological oncologist said he didn’t think the tumor growing on my mom’s left ovary was cancer. When the surgery went past two and a half hours, I knew he was wrong.
I alone sat in the little consulting room with the doctor hearing the news that my 80-year-old mother had cancer. I alone listened to the odds of her living 2 more years, 4 more years. I felt oddly calm as I wrote notes so that I could later explain everything to my Mom, Dad, brothers and sisters. I felt a huge responsibility to not fall apart at that moment. Maybe that’s why I was elected to go with her.
It felt surreal texting my brothers that Mom was out of surgery and that the tumor was cancerous. My brother K wrote back a one word reply that summed it all up – “Shit.”