La vita è bella

This is a surprise to me; as soon as I declare that I will be writing my way through my mom's illness, I find myself not actually wanting to. I can't even speak most of my worries, never mind see them in print. Every feeling seems too fleeting to nail down on a page. Highs and lows switch spots before I even know which is where; or even where I am with all of this.

This morning I woke up a couple of hours before Dan and spent the time googling and wikipediaing my way through lung cancer facts. I wear facts like a blanket in times of strife; they insulate me from cold sorrow or searing fear. I read statistics that sank like boulders in my stomach but still I hopped from page to page looking up words I didn't understand and then looking up the words of their definitions until I was back where I began: lung cancer that has metastasized to the adrenal gland. (Note to siblings: Don't do this unless you really think you want to know the things you're pretty sure you don't want to know right now. Wait until you feel ready...or at least until we get the biopsy results.)

Needless to say, it was all a bit of a downer. Dan came out in the middle of my research and told me he was in bed reading if I wanted to join him. I didn't leave my spot for at least another hour, rapt as I was in learning about the different types of cancers and their corresponding treatments. When I finally went into the bedroom he had a heart-shaped box of chocolates sitting on my pillow with a card that said, "My Lola."

Valentine's Day. (Before you get judgy about my ever-creative and brilliant gift-giving Dan going the box of chocolate route, you should know that I told him early on that I love this particular Valentine's cliche; it's like tapas for chocolate. Plus, we're not the VD gift type.) I felt like a shit. Here he was waiting for me to join him all morning and when I finally did I was too bummed out to sincerely enjoy the gesture. Laptop in tow since I had been planning to to do some blogging along side him, I lay down in our bed. And then he gave me another gift; he started asking questions about what I had learned so far. He wanted to know everything I knew which was great because there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than to talk about it, even just to say some of the stuff out loud.

We spent the rest of Valentine's Day morning in bed together, wrapped in our blankets and each other, educating ourselves on the subject of lung cancer. We studied its stages, learned about the side effects of chemotherapy, looked up words we'd never heard of like "oncogenes" and also those with which we were more familiar like "malignant," just to understand its properties on a cellular level. Dan asked me to explain things to him and when I couldn't answer we typed the question into a Google search box and sought out the answers together. He put his head on my chest and I used one hand to stroke his hair while the other navigated through medical websites. It was, in its way, one of the most romantic morning we've ever shared.

In the early days of witnessing this technique of informational immersion, Dan would try to talk me out of it, saying I was just making myself crazy. (In some ways I was; I've lost entire overnights to winding and seemingly infinite Google trails.) But now he understands that this is what I do. It gives me a sense of control, however false. I'm trying to stay at least one step ahead of this cancer. This week we will get the results of my mom's lung biopsy. (This was a "minor" surgery that involved cutting her neck and putting a scope down it---just to give some context of how "minor" any of this. Fortunately, she did fine and is recovering nicely. And, of course, she made all the nurses whose paths she crossed laugh the whole day through. Post-surgery when one nurse---a native Bostonian---asked my mom where the "caaaaa was paaaaked" my still-drugged mom answered, "In Haaaaavad Yaaaad.")

Since we'll soon know exactly what sort of cancer we are dealing with---either small-cell or non-small cell (WTF? on the labeling system, I know)--- it is important that I understand what these terms mean before I even hear the results. Nothing will frustrate and upset (perhaps even panic) me more than to listen to a doctor speak about my mom's health in a language that I can't understand.

Thus, it is imperative that I become fluent in cancer. Dan seems up for learning it too. Some couples learn Italian.

Our Valentine's Day plans are nothing special, just watching a movie at some point as it's our favorite thing to do together. The romantic comedy du jour? "Swimming in Auschwitz." (Another thing I do at times like this is lose myself to hardships that are far worse than that which I'm enduring...)

Candlelight dinners are so overrated.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.