My Momma is cracking up herself up in my kitchen. “Organic mustard?” “Why does your mustard need to be organic?””
Momma is staying here with me because we are meeting with the Liver Specialist later this afternoon, the brilliant MD who will advise us on how he believes that I best need to navigate and treat the “small amount of metastasized breast cancer” discovered right smack dab in the middle of my liver during last Monday’s PET scan. My Momma has left the blissful comfort of her own home in “God’s Country” (better known as The Woodlands, Texas) and abandoned her soft comfortable bedroom setup to trudge down to Baylor with me, yet one more time, to hear the latest details on how the MDs plan to manage my metastasized cancer. She is a trooper, my Momma, sleeping in the rock-hard bed of my generous son and dragging herself away from her remote control and the good satellite channels that I don’t have, to climb up and down and up the three stories of my town-home to cook, to hug and to comfort. Just last evening Momma was hand delivered to me by a kind friend, a woman who dropped everything going on in her busy and full life with just a moment’s notice and rearranged all of it just to allow me to have Momma here when I need her the most; such a “such a sweet precious woman” my Momma tells me after my friend leaves – they had been complete strangers when my friend arrived in God’s Country, but only 45 minutes later they are fast friends.
My son, who himself has been absolutely Saint-like during this entire four-week-and-counting ordeal is up from the sofa he is sleeping on a lot these days and is already at the office at his desk at work, waiting anxiously for my call to come in after this appointment; as Momma continues to go through my kitchen contents, planning the favorite southern dish from my childhood which she knows will feed my soul: organic condiments, organic dairy, organic vegetables, organic fruits, organic canned soups, organic canned goods, organic coconut oil, organic bread, organic peanut and almond butters, organic jam, organic coconut sugar, organic beans, organic coffee…
“How in the world did you of all people get cancer?” she marvels. “Here I buy what’s on sale at the Kroger; I shop with coupons and I eat nitrates.” “You eat five-dollar free-range omega 3 eggs and are the only kid of mine who’s never, ever smoked; how?”
I really don’t know. And neither do my various physicians, though I’ve asked this specific question at least a dozen times and in a dozen, different ways over these last 28 days. Is it my fault? Could I have prevented it? Did I cause this? I mean, I read the Food Babe for heaven’s sake!
I adore the Baylor Liver Specialist. He introduces himself to me, to my Momma and then he starts off by asking all sorts of questions while listening intently. “What do I do for a living; how do I like doing that; how am I feeling right now; How was my first chemotherapy treatment?” I am quite honestly caught off guard. In the course of my 20-year healthcare career I have personally worked with, closely at times, scores and scores of various physicians across the United States. To this date, I have never met a doctor with a more compassionate and thoughtful bedside manner. Small gifts… little moments…
My Liver Specialist begins to talk to us about my cancer and when he inserts the very disconcerting information that PET scans aren’t able to pick up all the cancer cells in various parts of the body so the liver tumor we can see may not be the only one, my blood goes cold and I catch my breath. Fear. Research shows fear can literally make one “air hungry.” I fight my lizard brain and refocus.
He doesn’t want to remove this cancer by surgery immediately as I had assumed (and everyone else assumed) would be happening RIGHT NOW. Apparently after surgery the body attempts to start rejuvenation processes at the cellular level in order to repair the damage that was done to the tissues during the surgery. So not only the “good cells” but the “cancer cells” fight diligently to grow and to flourish. He goes on to tell us that sometimes surgery in the liver and elsewhere will cause the cancer cells to spread because of this rejuvenation progression. Well that’s not good. As he continues talking, internally I’m seriously wondering if my two breast biopsies and my lymph node biopsy three weeks ago may have contributed to the cancer cells spreading to my liver. (Because after thoroughly inspecting the Liver Specialist’s charts in his office, Momma and I now know that the liver is right up there below the right breast towards the back– up there where my very large multi-centric grape-like clusters and my affected lymph nodes are located. Crap.)
So here is the Liver Specialist’s plan of care, which by default is now mine, if all goes accordingly: have another PET scan mid-way through my (hopefully only) seven remaining chemotherapy treatments to monitor if the chemo is successfully shrinking the tumor. Immediate insertion of a marker to track the cancer already in my liver (probably next week). Then possible liver surgery around the time of mastectomy if any cancer is still visible. Then radiation. Then… In the back of my mind there will always be a dark place with haunted visions of deformed black ugly tumors lurking dangerously.
I call my son. Then I call my ride-or-dies. They cancel and reschedule flights; they cancel entire calendar days already pre-planned around their five young children’s needs. They completely rearrange their personal schedules, once again, to show up exactly when and how I need them. They do this just for me. They tell me it’s their pleasure. I am truly amazed and filled with gratitude.
Momma and I take two elevators, pay for parking and get back into the car to head home. I am suddenly ravenous. And I am finally not nauseous. A wonderful combination that I have missed for an entire week. “Momma, I think there’s a Whataburger down the street. You want to go?” She smiles. We order juicy non-grass fed burgers dripping with non-organic mustard on non-organic buns and filled with crisp non-organic veggies. We share a small order of fries with non-organic Ketchup and we share a small, REAL, chocolate ice-cream shake. I eat every non-organic bite and try to remember the last time I even allowed myself Whataburger. We laugh, we chit-chat; it is the nicest “normal” I have had in 28 days. We go home to take carb-induced (and in my case chemo-induced) naps.
And then suddenly, my Saint-like son walks in two hours early from work, just because he wants to “sit next to me on the bed for a while” as he remotely finishes his last few (something I don’t even vaguely understand) work responsibilities. I count and slowly breathe in and out, five times just like I’ve taught my middle-schoolers. Small gifts… little moments…
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Life In Introspection 
Jules, what an amazing way to chronicle your journey, while allowing others a view into your experience – for those who love you and be kept abreast of what is happening, and for those who may be going through their own similar diagnosis and treatments. To know our hopes and fears (and downright terrors) are not ours alone can be a therapy of sorts that’s hard to articulate, and even a small amount of not feeling so alone can make all the difference. ❤️
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