We, as humans, like to think we are infallible. That no harm can come to us - indeed, it's not until we fall sick that we realize how much we take being healthy for granted, and wish we could go back to that state.
TL;DR: My mother has been suffering from recurrent pneumonia. A bronchoscopy today showed a mass in her lower right bronchus. It could be a carcinoid or a carcinoma, benign or malignant. We won't know until the results from the biopsy come back (and that won't be for about another week).
The procedure was surprisingly short - my dad and I waited outside, and it felt like she had just been wheeled off by the nurses when the attending walked over and called us back into the patient room. In reality, it had been about 20 minutes, but it didn't feel that long at all. When he came to get us, the physician had a smile on his face, and that gave me hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay. The procedure would be uneventful, the obstruction nothing to worry about, my mom would come home, and things would go back to the way they were.
When he sat down with us, however, I could tell something was up. The smile had vanished and his face was serious. My heart began beating faster, and at that moment, he told us that he thought what he saw down there in my mother's lung was a tumor.
Tumor. Cancer. Benign. Malignant. Lymph nodes. Metastasize. Survival rate. All of these words began whirling through my head. I felt numb, paralyzed, unable to do anything but sit there, frozen, while the doctor's words floated through my ears. I asked a few questions, but the answers I got weren't satisfactory enough. We would have to wait until the biopsy results come in, he said, before we would be able to truly identify what it was and where exactly to go from there. He said that no matter what, however, surgery would be required to remove the lobe. Not the tumor - the entire lower lobe. When my father asked him how much of her lung function she would lose, he replied, "About 20%."
I sat there in shock. I honestly didn't know what to do - I felt like my whole world had come crashing down on me. My mother is the strongest person I know - she has been through so much, and she has never once faltered. I've admired her strength and fortitude and perseverance for much of my life; cliche though it may be, she is my inspiration and role model (not just because she's a physician). Especially in recent years, since I've gone off to college and discovered my own perspective on things and who I really am as a person, I've come to love and appreciate her even more. Today, when I heard those words from the pulmonologist, I couldn't accept that my mom, this amazing woman who had raised me and inspired me for so long, had the potential to be branded with the words "cancer patient." Her entire fierce, unique identity, the things that make her who she is, gone in an instant - only to be replaced by the shroud of cancer. No, I thought. This isn't possible. This can't be happening.
When the attending left the room, I held my head in my hands and cried.
Things have changed. Since we've come home, the entire atmosphere of the house has changed. My father grew quiet, forgoing the blaring news channels to instead sit with my mother and talk with her for several hours about things that I can only guess at. The only thing that's stayed constant is my brother, with his ceaseless energy and enthusiasm that all kids his age possess. As I play with him, I find myself almost jealous of him and his innocence - of the fact that he has no real idea of what's happened, and that to him, life goes on as usual, when to me and to the rest of us, it's clear that nothing will ever be the same again.
TL;DR: My mother has been suffering from recurrent pneumonia. A bronchoscopy today showed a mass in her lower right bronchus. It could be a carcinoid or a carcinoma, benign or malignant. We won't know until the results from the biopsy come back (and that won't be for about another week).
The procedure was surprisingly short - my dad and I waited outside, and it felt like she had just been wheeled off by the nurses when the attending walked over and called us back into the patient room. In reality, it had been about 20 minutes, but it didn't feel that long at all. When he came to get us, the physician had a smile on his face, and that gave me hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay. The procedure would be uneventful, the obstruction nothing to worry about, my mom would come home, and things would go back to the way they were.
When he sat down with us, however, I could tell something was up. The smile had vanished and his face was serious. My heart began beating faster, and at that moment, he told us that he thought what he saw down there in my mother's lung was a tumor.
Tumor. Cancer. Benign. Malignant. Lymph nodes. Metastasize. Survival rate. All of these words began whirling through my head. I felt numb, paralyzed, unable to do anything but sit there, frozen, while the doctor's words floated through my ears. I asked a few questions, but the answers I got weren't satisfactory enough. We would have to wait until the biopsy results come in, he said, before we would be able to truly identify what it was and where exactly to go from there. He said that no matter what, however, surgery would be required to remove the lobe. Not the tumor - the entire lower lobe. When my father asked him how much of her lung function she would lose, he replied, "About 20%."
I sat there in shock. I honestly didn't know what to do - I felt like my whole world had come crashing down on me. My mother is the strongest person I know - she has been through so much, and she has never once faltered. I've admired her strength and fortitude and perseverance for much of my life; cliche though it may be, she is my inspiration and role model (not just because she's a physician). Especially in recent years, since I've gone off to college and discovered my own perspective on things and who I really am as a person, I've come to love and appreciate her even more. Today, when I heard those words from the pulmonologist, I couldn't accept that my mom, this amazing woman who had raised me and inspired me for so long, had the potential to be branded with the words "cancer patient." Her entire fierce, unique identity, the things that make her who she is, gone in an instant - only to be replaced by the shroud of cancer. No, I thought. This isn't possible. This can't be happening.
When the attending left the room, I held my head in my hands and cried.
Things have changed. Since we've come home, the entire atmosphere of the house has changed. My father grew quiet, forgoing the blaring news channels to instead sit with my mother and talk with her for several hours about things that I can only guess at. The only thing that's stayed constant is my brother, with his ceaseless energy and enthusiasm that all kids his age possess. As I play with him, I find myself almost jealous of him and his innocence - of the fact that he has no real idea of what's happened, and that to him, life goes on as usual, when to me and to the rest of us, it's clear that nothing will ever be the same again.
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