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So, how was your day?

Published by pam on Wed, 02/29/2012 - 3:00pm

My husband and I both show up to pick up my daughter from gym.  
"How was your day?" he asks.
"Not good.  The lump is a tumor," I tell him.  But a tumor can be anything.  A tumor isn't always bad.  "The radiologist says its cancer.  There's at least one lymph node.". We are interrupted by my daughter who is ready to go home.  We are all ready to go home.  "Later," I tell him. And I wonder how different his drive home will be from mine.  I have my daughter to distract me.  It have my daughter to remind me that life will go on, one way or another.


Published by pam on Tue, 02/28/2012 - 3:11pm

While I am talking to my daughter, a woman taps on my window.  She is all of 22, fresh faced, and full of life.  
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she tells me.  "But I just had to tell you how happy your car makes people."
I drive a Volkswagen Eurovan.  People are pretty enamoured with it.  But they rarely tap on my window to tell me so.
"Thanks," I tell her.  "We love this car."
"It's not just the car," she tells me.  "It's the license plate frame.  Hogwarts Express.  How cool is that?"

Heading home

Published by pam on Tue, 02/28/2012 - 2:23pm

I live on an island.  I take a ferry from the city across Puget Sound to get home.  It's about a 35 minute ride.  I have my car.  Sometimes I go upstairs to see who else might be heading home on the same boat, but not this time.  This time I stay in my car.  My head is spinning.  I call my husband to tell him I'm on my way home.  I might tell him more.  I haven't decided yet.  The phone rings and rings.  There is no machine to pick up because we are refinishing the floors and the phone connected to the machine has been unplugged.  The phone just keeps ringing until I finally give up.

One foot in the grave

Published by pam on Tue, 02/28/2012 - 10:03am

Three years ago, my mother died of pancreatic cancer.  I am an only child.  My mother and I were very close.  Watching her die was  the hardest thing I've ever done.  I can't imagine putting my kids through the same thing.  At 15 and 17, they are at an age where they are scared of life, yet they look upon the future as a land of infinite possibility.  Mostly, those possibilities are good.  They imagine themselves working side by side with Daniel Radcliffe or mounting a Broadway show Smash-style.

You'll be in chemo by the end of next week

Published by pam on Sun, 02/26/2012 - 10:49am

That's what the radiologist  tools me as she took a mass of flesh out of my chest.  
This is definitely a cancer and a fast growing one at that.  
She checked my old films.  There was no sign of anything abnormal.   She began recommending surgeons.  It would be my first stop in establishing a treatment plan.  Yes, she said, I would definitely lose my hair.  
Its always about the hair, isn't it?  I could hear the frustration in her voice.  It was still thinking about the hair.  With one foot in the grave, I was concerned about the hair.  

See no evil, hear no evil

Published by pam on Sat, 02/25/2012 - 12:22pm

This isn't what I wanted to write about.   It isn't a story I wanted to tell.  There are no fairies or dragons or children in capes.  All things are not possible and evil cannot be destroyed with a magic book or a spell.  This isn't the story I wanted to write. I didn't choose it.  It chose me.
This isn't good, the radiologist said. 
There were no greetings, no eye contact.  She walked right to the ultrasound machine.  
This isn't good at all.
 She might as well have said, you're screwed.

Good news

Published by Marc on Fri, 02/24/2012 - 7:56am

Pam is home from surgery!!!!

Telling our friends

Published by Marc on Sun, 02/12/2012 - 11:02am

Here's the email we sent out, letting our friends know about Pam's diagnosis: