Idea Snowflakes

All right, so I’m feeling badly about not writing. In fact, I’ve been avoiding the Library where my Library PC sits powered off. When I poke my head in the darkened room after dinner, it stares forlornly back at me. Historically, I’ve found that when I don’t write for a while, I tend not to write for a long while; but when I start writing again, my ideas start to shore up like a snow bank in winter, and I find I don’t have enough time to write all the ideas swirling around in my head. So I thought I might as well and jot down some of the bigger idea snowflakes and discover if I’m left with a blizzard or a brief flurry.
 
Cancer
My mom called me on my birthday and we talked for a while. She continues to have health problems—some extreme form of carpal tunnel which makes her hands tingle angrily. She’s going to some sort of clinic who administers physical therapy and injects her with something “natural.” She also mentioned that since September she’s had a lump on her breast which has been growing. She declared that she’d made up her mind and was going to see a doctor.
 
“A real doctor?” I asked. My mom has a poor opinion of medical doctors, instead choosing homeopaths, naturopaths, chiropractic doctors, and other peddlers of quackery.
 
Mom confirmed that she’d made up her mind to see a real doctor, the same one who first saw my dad prior to his diagnosis of heart problems in 2010. My mom’s voice conveyed her worry. I boggled partially at her willingness to abandon so many years of rejection of standard medicine in favor of “alternative medicine,” but I kept my thoughts to myself and gave her supportive words.
 
Today Mom called me just as I arrived home from work. She’d gone to the doctor—the real one—and she’d confirmed that it was breast cancer. It’s on the surface and hasn’t reached the back of the breast or the lymph nodes, according to the initial exam. My mom’s to get biopsied soon (tomorrow hopefully) to determine the cancer more quantitatively, and then probably have a mastectomy followed by plastic surgery for reconstruction.
 
I got off the phone and relayed the conversation to Meg. When I’m anxious, I tend to explain too much, repeat myself, and my voice gets a little shaky.

“Do you need a hug?” Meg asked, leaning back on the kitchen counter near the cooking spaghetti pot.
 
“Yeah,” I said. I hugged her and kissed her cheek. I felt her pregnant belly press into me. I love how Meg is supportive when I need her, but doesn’t sugarcoat facts when I ask. “My mom’s mortal,” I sighed.

I asked her what, exactly, was cancer. I have a vague understanding, but I’ve never studied it to any extent. Meg explained the mechanism for how cells split and replace themselves, and how cancer disrupts the process. Biopsies can confirm cancer because there are tests that can detect how cancerous cells have a different structure than healthy ones. But I suppose all of you know this already.
 
I suspect that my mom’s cancer is perfectly treatable—I have no reason to think that she’ll die because of this with the facts that I know right now. But I don’t tend to think about losing my parents. My mom’s 69 years old, which isn’t very old. According to the CDC, the average life expectancy in the U.S. is 78.7 years old as of 2010. That gives my mom 9.7 years to meet the country average, so statistically she has some time left. My dad’s 72, which is still under-average, and he appears to be healthy these days. Perhaps they’ll both buck the trend and live into their 80s or 90s.
 
But still, news like this makes me all too aware that my parents are mortal. It surfaces certain mixed emotions for me. It’s a tug-of-war between deep-seated love for my parents and the transgressions of the past. But can I compare the mishandlings of my childhood to the other comfortable understanding we’ve developed over the years? At certain point I wonder if I should forgive and forget, or if I already have.
 
Oh dear, I just realized that it’s nearly midnight. I should get myself to bed.