So what do you do when the consultant surgeon tells you your mother would have a couple of weeks to live without the surgery and a few months to live with the surgery? You hold on to your little sister, who is red-eyed and in shock and you buy cigarettes and wine and go back to your mum’s flat and you smoke in the freezing cold and talk about everything and nothing and drink a whole bottle of cheap shit brandy and cry a whole lot and stare at the stars and write something on the internet and then go inside because the cold has eaten your fingers. And then you go to bed and hope to sleep and you think about your mother who is dying and who will be gone so so soon and how you will fucking well make her last days spectacular and full of beauty and love. And so. That’s what you do. That’s what I’m doing.
I’ll keep this brief because I’m shattered.
My mum had breast cancer year before last, and surgery. You may remember that.
I had breast cancer last year, and surgery. You’ll likely remember that.
And now we have this devastating bullshit.
After two weeks of increasingly odd behaviour, losing words, becoming ever more confused and forgetful, mum was diagnosed on Wednesday with a massive brain tumour in the frontal lobe.
She had been deteriorating very quickly, to the point she was unable to care for herself, so for the last week I’ve been with her. Potent steroids have reduced the swelling in her brain and her crazy cognitive and behavioural symptoms have lessened considerably so she’s able to function, but heartbreakingly also able to understand what’s happening to her. She keeps apologising to me. I feel so sad and scared and angry.
I’m taking her to hospital this afternoon for neurosurgery tomorrow. In the meantime I’m distracting my self with college work, reading comics.
I have no idea about prognosis, but this is some serious shit.
Fuck this year. Fuck cancer.