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Cancer Has Left Its Mark: My Son's Glioblastoma

August 2016 Vol 2 No 4

I am the mom. If I had my way, I would take on the role of the patient, but of course, I can’t. If you have a child with cancer, you know I am not saying that lightly. I would gladly take my son’s grade IV glioblastoma (an aggressive type of brain tumor) if I could.

I wouldn’t have managed as well as he has, wouldn’t have been as strong as he has been, and certainly wouldn’t have been as determined to fight my way through the pain, nausea, fear, exhaustion, and uncertainty to the “new normal.”

I wasn’t there when he had his seizure, and I wasn’t there when the neurologist pointed to the x-ray and said, “See this mass. That’s a brain tumor.” But I heard about the diagnosis nearly as soon as my son and his wife did. They’re young, not yet in their 40s, but in that moment they assumed a maturity and composure that belied their youth and inexperience with tragedy. They called home to tell us what they were facing—what they were just beginning to face.

We Were There

It was all so surreal. We flew out to their home in Salt Lake City, UT, and were there when they entered Huntsman Cancer Institute to receive the surgeon’s analysis and assurance that, indeed, he could operate. We were by their sides when the oncologist stated that there was no cure, only treatment. “Do you want a prognosis? Some people do. Some don’t.”

My son answered that it might be helpful to know an expiration date. None of us cried when he said that.None of us cried when the doctor said, “1 to 4 years.” We had all Googled enough to know what to expect.

We were there in the tense days before surgery, during the horrific resection of the tumor, and afterward as the long journey toward healing began. We drove our boy to physical therapy and speech therapy and fitness sessions. We tried to share conversations when he needed companionship, were quiet when he was too tired to talk, laughed at silly television shows when he felt up to laughing, and helped him master tasks that days earlier had been easy. Most of all, we loved him. We concentrated on his accomplishments, and dared not count all he had lost to cancer.

And then we returned to our home in Virginia. Our bodies ached with a tiredness born of sorrow, and our thoughts were scattered amid unspoken concerns, gnawing worry, and trepidation toward the future. But we carried on with our lives.

Cancer Revisits Our Family

And then, 3 months after our son’s diagnosis, my husband was diagnosed with breast cancer. The consultations, surgery, recovery, and maintenance treatments ensued. He responded well and assured friends that he was dealing with nothing compared with our son.

Of course, it was something. And it tested our mettle.

Now that we have emerged from the stresses of my husband’s breast cancer, with him in a maintenance treatment program and feeling pretty good, I can reflect on how cancer has entrenched itself in our lives. Yet, it does not define our lives. I think we are as good at coping as most people would be.

We try to take care of ourselves: we watch what we eat, exercise, and take time to relax. We console and encourage one another. We allow ourselves to talk together about our fears and hopes. We indulge in massage, yoga, and meditation.

We Must Make Grief Part of Life

Still, we sometimes falter, and I’ve been known to cry at the slightest provocation. I am surprised at how close to the surface my feelings lie, as my tears prove all too often. I maintain a heavy schedule of responsibilities, enough to keep me busy. No idle hands for me. My husband was back at work within days of his mastectomy. He too knows how to stay busy.

Our son’s recent MRI 13 months after surgery showed no regrowth, which was a huge relief. In fact, although MRI day was tense for us, we could only imagine our son’s level of anxiety. With the MRI’s clear images, however, we could breathe again. Until the next one 2 months later.

There are many lessons learned along the way. We have learned that our son is courageous and strong, far beyond what should be expected. He walks every day “in the valley of the shadow of death,” without complaint. He stares down pain, fatigue, and loss.

I often think of the title of a short story by Dorothy Gilman Butters, “Sorrow Rides a Fast Horse.” We have tried to outrun grief. It cannot be done. We must make it part of life.

I have often told people, “You cannot know me unless you know my family.” I believe that is truer now than ever. But perhaps it needs to be coupled with, “You cannot know me unless you know my grief.” Beneath my smile, cancer has left its mark.

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