Here’s the last chapter that I’m sharing for free. If you’d like to read more, the remainder of my memoir will be available to paid subscribers - BTW - I’m offering a 50% off discount right now.
I’m still not sure of the title, so for now I’m calling it:
Memoir of a Cancer Created Introvert.
Note:
This chapter is as hard to share as it was to write because my mother passed away in April of 2022. But her reaction to my news is an important part of the story. Sharing a diagnosis of any type of cancer with the people you love is almost harder than learning about it yourself. I never realized that I was going to have to manage other people’s feelings too.
My mother and I had a good, but complicated relationship. Growing up, I often felt invisible being the fourth of the seven children she raised. But, by this point in our lives she and I were getting along great. That’s why her reaction surprised me.
I pulled this chapter after publishing it a few days ago because my oldest friend (and now editor) convinced me to tell the unvarnished truth. I held back on the original version because I was afraid someone in my family would be offended. She reminded me that memoirs are better if you don’t sugar coat things.
Here’s the new, edited version:
Chapter 4
Journal Entry
6/11/21
This weekend I’m babysitting my two grandsons because my sons and their wives are going away. I didn’t tell them about anything yet, including the biopsy. The site is still a bit tender with a large bruise surrounding the area, but I feel strong enough to take care of the kids.
Today, I’m going to tell Mom what’s going on. It’s going to be hard because she’s still grieving Dad, who died only 6 months ago. Lately, she’s also mentioned she hasn’t been feeling too good. Something about urinary tract infections and stomach pain.
I’ve asked Janis (my sister) to be there. I told her about my diagnosis yesterday over the phone, and we both thought it would be better if I told Mom in person. Our brother John will be there too, because he moved in with my parents during COVID and is still there.
I’m pretty nervous, because you never know how Mom will react to things. Like the time when my sister was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and our mother said, “At least it’s not cancer.”
Guess she can’t say that to me since Myelodysplastic Syndrome is classified as a type of leukemia. OMG – am I really concerned that my mother won’t think my disease is lethal enough to cause concern?
I can’t believe I’m worrying about Mom thinking that I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Guess that’s how I was trained from a young age. Don’t try to call attention to yourself. Suck it up, buttercup.
I’ll take my grandkids because their presence will lighten the mood. Mom’s better with babies than full-grown adults.
Her face never changed as I spoke the words.
It was cool in the family room as I sat on the floor. My grandsons crawled around playing with toys while the adults commented on how big they’d gotten.
Two-year-old Max focused his attention on a stacking puzzle toy. He squinted his eyes as he picked up each piece, turning it to view from different angles. His eyebrows pinched together, creating a crease, he sucked in his bottom lip as he pondered the objects. It was a familiar expression I’d seen on his father’s face many times.
“Well, I guess it’s time I pull off the band-aid,” I said, turning to Janis.
“Why are you talking about Band-Aids?” Mom asked. She scrunched her face up like she’d smelled something sour.
Oh God, here it comes.
I took a deep breath, looked at her, and began, “Well, my primary care doctor sent me to a hematologist because she didn’t like the looks of some blood work. The new doctor did additional blood tests, and then he took a bone marrow biopsy yesterday. He said the results will take a couple of weeks, but he’s convinced I have Myelodysplastic Syndrome like Dad did.”
As I talked, she never stopped watching the children play. Her expression didn’t change.
“Why is he thinking that?” she asked, still not looking at me, her face breaking into a smile as the baby crawled over to his big brother and stole a toy.
I began to describe my symptoms and the results of the blood work showing the things the doctor called “circulating blasts.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and legs as she listened. She glanced over at me from time to time, but mainly focused her gaze on the boys.
Next to me, I could hear the sobs of my sister.
John broke in to ask, “Is that what Dad was getting the Procrit injections for?”
“Yes,” Mom immediately said. “They called it ‘smoldering leukemia,’ but I don’t think the shots really helped. His red blood counts never improved.”
Her blue eyes still focused on the children, she said, “It sounds like we’re just going to have to wait and see. No use in borrowing problems. From what I understand, there are lots of medicines to treat things like this, and you’re young and healthy.”
“What’s the prognosis?” John asked softly. His eyes squinted with the same seriousness as my grandson viewing his complicated toy.
I took a deep breath and said, “From what I understand, MDS is life-threatening, but can be put into remission if I have a stem cell transplant.”
I stole a glance at Mom as I said this. She leaned back in her chair and thoughtfully wiped the corners of her mouth with two fingers, her eyes still dry and unreadable.
She finally turned to me and said, “Don’t let me forget to give you that box of Matchbox cars to take to your house for the kids.” Then she turned to my brother and said, “Go upstairs and get them so we don’t forget.”
Mom placed her hands on the arms of the chair and groaned as she stood up. She moved her feet carefully, trying to avoid the toys scattered on the floor. Her thin back hunched slightly as she slowly made her way towards the kitchen.
“I need a drink of water. Anyone else need anything?” she asked.
I looked at my sister. Her eyes were red from crying as she held a tissue to her nose. Her head shook slightly, and her shoulders shuddered as she took a deep breath.
Leaning over, I wrapped my arms around Janis and held her close as she cried.
“Look, Grandma, it’s Big Bird,” Max yelled with excitement as he completed the puzzle. His eyes were bright, and a smile covered his face.
I automatically smiled back even though my stomach was in knots. I felt tears brimming as I stared at my grandson’s perfect face.
“Why, yes, it is,” I said, clapping my hands together, glad for the distraction.
“I’m gonna do it again.”
And he did.
From the kitchen, I heard the ice dispenser filling a plastic cup with a series of thuds. My brother returned with the box of Matchbox cars and wrapped me in a hug as he tucked them into my bag, making me promise to call if I needed anything.
On our way out the door, I apologized for having to share such bad news. That’s how we do things in my family: we take responsibility for making someone uncomfortable or sad, even if we’re the ones who are suffering.
Mom nodded her head and gave me a quick hug goodbye, asking me to keep her informed. Then we performed our normal goodbye routine.
“Goodbye, I love you,” I say.
“Love you more!” Mom says.
Later that night, as I was lying in bed weeping, her words came back to me.
Love you more?
I sure as hell hope not.
Have you ever had an unexpected reaction from someone when you shared bad news? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below.
Thank you for sharing your life with all of us. It means more than I could ever explain.. hope youre having a wonderful summer with your beautiful family❤️😘
I am so happy to hear you and your mom were able to help support one another with each other's cancer diagnosis. That is so hard you both had cancer. I am sorry. It seems she was apparently was in shock hearing your diagnosis. I agree people react in differently to hard news.