The Diagnosis
The day was October 3rd, 2015; it was a Saturday. I was watching the rain droplets zip and slide past each other down the hospital's window - I haven't liked rain since. My family and I were sprawled out in a room on the 3rd floor of Johnston-Willis; room 329 to be exact. My Junior year at Manchester High School had just begun, I was studying for my first test, actually. Our suite was a revolving door for nurses, but eventually, an Oncologist entered and asked everyone but my dad to leave the room. As I sat on the piercingly cold floor, I felt tension flow through my fingertips. My chest was inflating faster than it could deflate; there's something about fear that can literally control everything about, not only just your mind but the way your body reacts to mundane stimulants-like air. I couldn't breathe and it felt as if I was choking. I took my first breath as the hospital door opened. The Oncologist left, and we entered. It was lung cancer, stage IV.
The diagnosis was excruciating, but this past year has been one of the best years of my life. Every holiday or celebration felt and even tasted different. For instance, about a month after her diagnosis, my mom celebrated her 52nd birthday. I actually woke up before noon in order to surprise my mom with a cake, flowers, and a card. It wasn't much, but I hadn't ever seen her face illuminate that way before. It was one of the many times I was fortunate enough to see the cancer "leave her." As in, she had completely forgotten that she was sick. When you are constantly sick, or you're the caregiver of a cherished loved one, the word cancer never leaves your side. It rides with you permanently, and I believe that's the hardest part of it all. So, when I was able to witness that thought being erased from her memory because of something that I did, I felt on top of the universe.
The Battle
Everybody knows that chemo is no joke, however, it is truly impossible to understand how monstrous it is until you've witnessed it firsthand. They started her off with the harshest chemotherapy available. It would take around 3-4 hours for this treatment, and when she came home, she felt like death. She never showed it though, but I knew her well enough to know. December came, and the cancer had shrunk. After receiving this news, my heart fluttered in a way that felt as if I were soaring through the sky, and that nothing could stop me. They had put her on a "maintenance" chemo. It sounded tremendous- no side effects, no need for additional transportation, and the cancer was shrinking! Life carried on, and more entirely lovely stuff happened. I got straight A's in school, I even went on a road trip to West Virginia to get a puppy, but my mom had a CT scan that halted our, what seemed like, everlasting grace period. The cancer had started to grow again. She began to take the "new kid on the block"- Opdivo. It's a type of immunotherapy, that tricks your immune system into realizing that cancer cells are absolutely horrible and that they need to resist them.
Junior year finally ended and summer had begun. My mom was still taking the Opdivo, and the cancer was still growing. I was praying to find another source of hope, I would have taken absolutely anything. One night, I had had a dream that my mom had been cured by a place that was able to do surgery on her lungs. I immediately woke up, I couldn't sleep afterwards. I had searched for "lung cancer surgeons," and a miracle popped up- MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, Texas. I spent the next 5 hours researching the facility, only to find that they were ranked the number one cancer hospital in the entire nation. After telling my mom everything that I had read about it, we called both the hospital and our insurance company to see if it could actually work. Long story short, she needed a doctor's referral or else insurance wouldn't cover it.
Senior year began with mixed emotions; it was my last first day of high school, but I had no idea what to expect from it. On the second week of school, my mom was cut off from her treatment completely. Her doctors essentially gave her two options; they would either write her a referral to further her treatment at MD Anderson Cancer Center, or they would provide her with hospice care. Obviously, we chose the first choice. This is where we are today, on October 2nd, 2016. Her first appointment in Texas will be on the 24th of October. It's just a consultation, but as of now, we're hoping to enroll her in some type of clinical trial.
Moving Forward
Currently, my heart is in a place that is entirely positive and hopeful. I have great faith that MD Anderson will be able to do astounding things for her. My situation may not be perfect at the moment, but I know that remaining optimistic will benefit me in the long run. In order to keep my mom feeling the same way, I gave her a wristband that I received at my first senior assembly. Printed on the wristband is "See You at Siegel." The Siegel center at Virginia Commonwealth University is where I'll be graduating in June. Whether she's right here beside me, or all the way in Houston, Texas, I want her to always know how special she is to me. So Happy Birthday, Cancer. You entered my life like a hurricane, but you won't be celebrating much longer. As for you, mom, I'll see you at the Siegel Center.
