My mother's reaction to chaos is to stay up until 4am, scrubbing the kitchen on her hands and knees. I'm talking "running a paper clip through the grout" obsessive-compulsive. It's a trait I have sadly not inherited, as my reaction to turmoil leaves my kitchen looking like the morning after a bachelor party.
Mess is a sign of genius. Or, messiness.
But let me back up.
This all started with black stool.
(Think that's gross? Wait a few weeks.)
Being Ed's primary caregiver is a difficult job, but my mother managed it with the help of a phenomenal neighbor, and a few hours of CNA assistance per day.
One evening in October 2014, she couldn't move off the couch. This powerhouse yogini badass was curled up in agonizing abdominal pain. She finally managed to contact a neighbor to help put Ed to bed, and took some Pepto-Bismol.
Science Fun Fact: Pepto-Bismol's main ingredient is bismuth subsalicyate ( (Bi{C6H4(OH)CO2}3 , for the chem-dorks). A side effect from that chalky pink liquid? Black poop.
Because my mother is as obsessive about her health as she is about her towel folding, she made an appointment with her doctor, concerned with the potential of an ulcer.
Because, you know, an ulcer would be the worst thing ever in hindsight.
It's amazing we have the same genes. My towels never make it off the floor.
I knew she was having a serious phone call with her doctor when she said, "Is four days going to make a difference?" I imagined myself saying the same thing after having a skin cancer biopsy a few days before visiting my parents. I'd throw myself on a chaise, white chiffon gown flowing behind me, and say in my most dramatic tone, "But...is a few extra days going to change anything?"
(I did have my moment a week later, when my biopsy came back positive, but it didn't feel as dramatic as my mother's.)
I'm sorry, can we talk about MY cancer for a minute? Basal Cell For Life.
"They found a mass. In my liver. Five centimeters."
We began a course of PETs, MRIs, biopsies, CTs, an arteriogram..all things telling us that yes, there was something, and yes, it was clearly malignant, but oh, we don't really know what it is.
Can you imagine the horror and frustration of knowing that there's something growing inside of you, but not knowing where it started or how long it had been there?
I immersed myself in studying intrahepatic cholangiocarcinoma, a very rare adenocarcinoma affecting the bile ducts inside the liver (bile ducts! Who thinks about bile ducts?). The five year survival rate for unresectable ICC (meaning, they can't cut out the affected part of the liver) is zero. With surgery? 50%.
We hoped for resection, and my mom was still flabbergasted. "I haven't lost an ounce! I thought cancer patients lost weight."
With perfect labs, no jaundice, and pain as the only presentation, she met with doctor after doctor, planning a radioembolization to shrink down whatever that big thing was inside her. Scans couldn't find anything else, so we hoped that if this is the primary malignancy, that it would be easy to shrink and cut out.
But, like I said, my family has a penchant for doing things the hard way.
One of us is showing healthy methods of stress relief. It's the guy in the chair.
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