Cancer

Everything from noon on Thursday, April 8, 2021 until the following morning is a blur. What I do vividly remember is that no one wanted to say the word CANCER.

In layman's terms, there was a malignant softball-sized tumor completely blocking her bowel, and it was imperative that the tumor be removed right away. We later found out there was metastatic disease in her omentum with lymph involvement.

We spoke at length with the surgeon at St. Clair Hospital who explained that he would remove the tumor, with margins, and he would resect her bowel. We asked several times if it was cancer and we were told he doesn't like to mention that word until we know for sure.

I am going to do my very best to not digitally wring his neck behind my computer screen. We are not a family who likes things to be painted with rose-colored glasses. I knew my mom would want to fight whatever demon took over her body. But I also knew she (and we) needed to know exactly WHAT we were fighting. We like the truth. And we like it to be straightforward. Not colored with rainbows and butterflies.

Surgery was scheduled for 12 hours later.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have had her transported to UPMC Hillman Cancer Center in Pittsburgh that day. Since no one wanted to say the word CANCER, this made that a non-option.