Pam Shor

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?"
 

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.

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.

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.  

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.
 

Pam is home from surgery!!!!

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