Six Years Since Diagnosis

Last year, it felt good to hit the five-year mark, like I was really putting some distance between myself and cancer. And of course, that's when I found out my mom had breast cancer — triple negative, stage one. Cancer feels like a high-stakes, never-ending game of whack-a-mole. I beat it down with all my might, but now I have to stand here and watch for it to pop back up in my hip or my spine or in the body of a family member.

It's usually a bad idea to attempt to teach your parents something. Like when Julia tries to explain how the kids talk and I start saying things like, "Skibidi slay, I'm bussin', bruh!" To which she inevitably replies, "Mom, you're so cringe! Stop!” Or when, as a teenager myself, I tried to teach my mom the names of popular songs on the radio, and she identified Van Morrison’s classic song as “One-Eyed Girl.” I still remember staring at her incredulously and saying, “Seriously, Mom?! Why would someone write a love song to all the one-eyed girls of the world?!” But, nonetheless, when I found out my mom had breast cancer, I hopped on a plane to Florida to teach her everything I’d learned about radiation creams, staying hydrated during chemo, tying a headscarf, and drawing on eyebrows, and she actually proved to be a quick study, although the concept of a rosette knot eludes her.

At first, she refused to show my dad her bald head, and I had to say, "Mom, you've been together for fifty years. I'm pretty sure he's already seen you at your worst. Besides, you've been watching him go bald for years, and you haven't packed your bags yet." 

I transformed my Mommy Moondragon Lego minifigure into Grammy Moondragon and gave it to her for good luck, and she cried and sobbed, "You're my inspiration," and I had to say, "Cringe, Mom! Stop."

She ended up in the hospital from a bad reaction to the chemo and spent a few miserable days covered in itchy red patches, and then it happened again two weeks later because the doctors couldn't figure out which chemo drug was causing it. I told her no cancer journey was complete without a mystifying trip or two to the E.R.

She officially finished treatment in December, and I celebrated six years out from diagnosis on January 9th, so now we're both watching and waiting and trying to live life to the fullest, which is hard to do in January, because it's dark and cold and the country is still divided and there aren't any good holidays to look forward to. 

I started reading a book of micro-essays called "The Book of Delights" and have been trying to be more receptive to moments of delight in my daily life. Here are my top 3 for this month:

1. I love salads, but only when eaten out of a really big bowl. I ordered some "extra-large salad bowls" from Amazon, and they didn't cut it. My favorite salad bowl is actually the plastic base of our microwave steamer basket. This thing is huge, so it doubles as our water bowl for the Christmas tree. All December, it holds the stagnant tree water and collects those weird gray clumps of mold. But come January, we take down the tree, and I get to reclaim my ginormous salad bowl, and now that I've run it through the dishwasher a half-dozen times, I'm back to mixing my salads in it, and it's a delight. I can vigorously mix to my heart's content, and not a single piece of lettuce topples out. 

2. In December, I bought my cat an adorable plush gingerbread house to sleep in. She hated it and wouldn't go near it, even when I tried to lure her inside with treats. But the day I packed away the Christmas decorations, I found her napping inside of it. And now we have a Christmas gingerbread house in our living room year-round. Ask me again in April, but for now, it's a delight to peek in at her.

3. Claire's school starts at 7:30am, so in January, I'm waking her up and getting her ready when it's pitch black outside, and I have to relentlessly nag her to keep moving, and it's awful. But after I drop her off at school, I drive over this hill on my way back home, and the sun is just coming up over downtown Austin, and for about three seconds, I have a spectacular view of the sunrise with pink and orange light reflecting off the skyscrapers. And by then, I've had the heat blasting for 15 minutes, so I'm usually hot flashing, and my windows are down, and I soar over this hill with the wind in my hair, sweating profusely, to catch a glimpse of the winter sunrise, and it's delightful.