This Machine Killed Cancer

In my family, lymphoma is a legacy. In 1987, my grandpa died from complications of a rare type of T-cell lymphoma. I was four, but I remember his laugh and sitting on his lap reading books. “Papa’s chair” was an overstuffed tan velor recliner by the bay window at their house in Ohio. He would sit in that chair after coming home from our high school where he worked as a janitor.

Not even a year later my mom was diagnosed with Hodgkins lymphoma - they found a tumor the size of a loaf of bread in her chest. The doctors looked grim. Twenty-four years later she’s still proving them wrong. My dad says one of the saddest moments of his life is was when I, with my chubby cheeks and shock of blonde curly hair, asked if she was going to heaven with Papa. I didn’t understand much more than that other than I knew my mom was tired. I would go with her to her radiation appointments, but the trips to the hospital were more about candy, playing games on the children’s floor, and if I was good, getting chocolate cake off the conveyor belt carousel of desserts in the cafeteria.

My mom and I had never talked much about her experience until Shayne got sick. It was something we all acknowledged, but she had fought and won. It was something from the past. She’s been in remission for 20 years now, so it’s not like we think about it everyday.

When Shayne got sick, I wanted her to have all of the answers. Part of me wanted her to be able to tell us exactly how everything was going to go, what we should expect. Time has shown that there’s no way to predict anything. My mom didn’t know the answers, but what she did know is how to do exactly the right thing. She showed up, cleaned, cooked, just sat quietly, knew when to leave us alone, and didn’t judge when I snapped at her.

All the while, she’s also been the caretaker for my grandma who lives with her and my dad. Some days she wakes up, takes care of her grand kids for a couple of hours, then runs errands for Shayne and I, and afterward goes home to make dinner and take care of my grandma. She exemplifies the kind of mama I hope to be.

This is all to say, in my family, we know how to deal with crisis. We have an unwritten action plan where each of us plays our own role. There’s virtually nothing we can’t handle.

Then today we got another curve ball. My grandma, the one who was married to the aforementioned Papa, recently had a tumor removed from her hip. The doctor talked to my mom today about the pathology report: the tumor was benign, but there are cancerous cells in her abdomen. She’ll have to start chemo in a few weeks.

As soon as I heard the news, I started a roll call of resources that I’ve pulled together, asked about the staging, and started running through everything I’ve learned in the last nine months. But a few hours out, sitting here in the hospital listening to Shayne play music, I feel pretty helpless.

If all had gone as planned, Shayne and I were going to have our wedding this fall on September 18th, which also happens to be my grandma’s birthday. We were going to celebrate Shayne getting well, our wedding, and her birthday. Instead, they’ll both be going through chemo on that day.

But one or two things I know for sure, nothing ever happens as it’s planned.