Mental Junk

October 22nd, 2009.

That is the day my mother told me she had an unknown mass in her lungs and she was being sent downtown to a specialist to be examined.  She told me that night that it wasn't anything to worry about and they were just checking things out.  Ultimately, she was right, but even she didn't know that.

I haven't blogged about anything of real value or substance since that night because what has been on my mind has been something that I couldn't didn't want to face.  I am not ready to say good bye to my mom and didn't want to face that possibility.   After the initial shock of the cursory research that I did regarding lung cancers, I didn't expect to have my Mom around for longer than five years.  The numbers they give for the mortality rates of patients diagnosed with lung cancer is less than 20% in the first 5 years.  Wow.  Just… wow.

For those that don't know – my mother underwent a partial lung amputation (there is technical term for it is whatever-ectomy, but I don't care right now) on December 31 and is back home recovering from it.  We were expecting a 9 hour surgery – but she was in for just over two hours.  I don't know if we misunderstood that the entire procedure from admitting to coming around in the recovery ward would take the nine hours, or if the procedure was just a lot easier than expected, I don't really know.  Either way – it was definitely a good shock to find out the surgery wasn't that long.

The Surgeon came out and explained to my father and I that the mass and the surrounding lymph nodes were removed and examined to make sure that the mass hadn't spread, which it hadn't.  He also said that it didn't look like cancer.  That doesn't mean that it wasn't – just that it didn't look like it.  They would send it off for a biopsy and that the results would be two to three weeks… but the good news is that it was completely removed.

No chemo… no radiation… just the surgery.

From where I sit – that is fantastic. Of course, my mom feels like she just got hit by a train, but that should be the end of it.  She doesn't have to recover from the surgery and then start chemo or anything… she just has to recover from this operation.

I have avoided blogging about any of this because of fear, uncertainty and mostly, denial.  Not just my own, but for others.  I don't know how much of all this my family has really understood.  I don't know if they really comprehended the  severity of the diagnosis and I didn't want to be the one to burst their bubble.  I mean – crap – they really acted fast… and they only do that if they think it's severe.  I saw that first hand when Michelle was near cardiac failure just after Cameron's birth, and again a few short months later when Nathan was admitted in at Sick Kids.  If you don't see a doctor around – everything is fantastic.  The more doctors you see hovering around – the closer you are to the end of your warranty.

My thoughts over the past few months have been selfish and I haven't really wanted to face them, let alone blog about them.  So, every time I wanted to share something here, I've felt guilty that I should be writing about what is really on my mind instead of the normal every day fluff.  I want to get back to that fluff, so I've felt I should resolve this lingering behemoth of emotions before me now that I know that my mom isn't facing her imminent demise.

So… here it goes.

Growing up I was bombarded by media saying that I should raise my kids better than I was raised.  You know – do better than your parents and all that crap.  Well, I didn't have a 'broken home' or an 'abusive parent' or anything that is easily identifiable as a bad parent.  I had what what everyone should have.  Human beings trying to do the best they could while teaching other humans on how to be good people.  How am I supposed to improve on that?  The only thing I can hope for is to be a crappy parent so my kids can easily aspire to be better than me.

Now, these are the kinds of feelings and thoughts I have been thinking over the past few weeks and I want to share them with my mom and dad – but I can't without slapping them in the face with the idea that I think that this is last chance I will have to tell them.  Look, if you are facing your own mortality, do you really want others approaching you with their best wishes and last thoughts?  I don't think so.  I think that having people support you and bolster your (I don't want to say delusion, but isn't that what it is?) positive attitude towards your outcome/diagnosis is easier/more desirable.

I don't want to think "I never got to tell them how I truly felt" , but I also think that is better to feel that way than to add to the depression of a terminally ill patient, just to have a clear conscience after their passing.  Seriously, when can you approach those type of topics without people thinking you are insane?  "Hey, Bill!  I want to let you know I value our friendship and have never felt closer to another human being."   "Geeze, that's real gay Frank.  You okay, or what?"

The foremost thought in my mind throughout this has been that I am not ready to say goodbye.  I know my kids need the influence of my mother to balance the gruffness of my parenting.  I know that I still have a lot to learn from her, especially when my parenting skills and rules are bathed in the light of her rules and in her eyes.  It went far beyond that of my kids too.  This is the time I should be able to talk to her and rehash the events in my childhood to see her perspective on the way things transpired and allow me to connect on a deeper level than ever.  And what about her time?  Isn't this her 'golden years'?  The time she has to relax and watch her grandkids grow?  After all, haven't they worked all their lives to enjoy their retirement together?  They've worked to pay off their home, got rid of their kids and now they can relax doing the things they want to.  That is what society has told us for years, right?

I also felt that I was being completely selfish.  After all – I am only her son… what about her husband? What would dad do?  How would I behave/feel if I lost Michelle?  How will dad cope?  I don't want dad to be alone, and would be okay with him living with us, but how would you go about a conversation like that?  "You know, if you're wife dies, you are welcome to live here".  Sounds harsh, eh?  Personally, I think I would be appalled if my son said that to me… let alone thought it. 

Michelle has been fantastic throughout all of this.  She has said that she was there if I needed to talk, but I don't think she was ready to hear the thoughts rattling around in my head.  Especially since I had already resigned myself to the 'fact' my mom was on her death bed.  I know Michelle was holding on to hope while I thought I was just being rational.  Why hold onto something as flimsy as 'hope' when the statistics were against you?

I have felt alone – as I am sure my mom has – throughout all of this.  I've wanted to console her and my family/friends but have felt empty inside, like I was lying to them.  For the most part – ignoring it has been easier.  

Even now… this is too hard.  I need to blog about more fluff.

My mom is doing great – in the grander scheme of things.  She has had major surgery and can't breath very well – and is popping pills I am sure she could sell on the black market to finance a small army – but she is going to survive.  I don't mean the kind of stuck-in-bed-tied-to-machines-for-the-rest-of-her-life survival.   I mean the heal-from-this-traumatizing-surgery-and-be-98%-normal-afterwards kind of survival.

I am very blessed – even though I am completely selfish.