The Big C
Olivia McDonald // March 22, 2013
I’ve never experienced real tragedy. I’ve never had anyone close to me die; I count my blessings for that daily. But cancer man, even the word sucks.
can·cer
/ˈkansər/
Noun
1. The disease caused by an uncontrolled division of abnormal cells in a part of the body.
2. A malignant growth or tumor resulting from such a division of cells.
It was August 7, 2012, the day before my parent’s 25th wedding anniversary. Our family friends were down from Chicago. The phone rang, MCDONALD, PAUL, came up on our caller ID.
“Hi, Nannie! How are you?”
“Hi Liv, I’m fine, is your mother there?”
“Yup, she’s just talking with Dan and Bridget [our friends from the States].”
“Okay. Tell her my mammogram results came back negative..”
“Okay …”
“Have they told you?”
“No? What?”
“Never mind, I’ve said too much already. I love you, go have fun with the kids.”
“Okay. Love you too, bye.”
Backpedal 5 years, my grandmother had a double mastectomy – it’s breast cancer, again. Go back 5 more years – she was diagnosed for the first time.
This phone call didn’t really make sense to me. How could she have a mammogram if she’d had both of her breasts removed?
Confused, I go upstairs to get dressed; we’re taking my family’s guests to Peggy’s Cove for the day.
My Dad comes in to ask who was on the phone. I tell him what Nanny said. Then I ask, “…is Nannie sick again? How can she have a mammogram when she had her breasts removed years ago?”
Uncomfortable silence fills the room … something’s up. I don’t like this.
My Dad says, “Yeah, she has cancer, again. This time it’s in her bones. None of the other grandchildren know yet. Now, go get ready so we can take the Urquharts to see the lighthouse.”
The feeling that’s going through my body, my mind and my soul right now is indescribable. Three times? How am I expected to paint on a smile and go view one of the country’s only freestanding lighthouses when I’ve just been run over by the cancer truck?
I go into my room and break down, trying to be quiet so our guests don’t hear. Their grandmother just died from cancer only a month before they came.
My Mom comes in. My Dad told her that I’m now another member of the cancer secret club. My mom, never one for words, just holds me as I cry. When I’m done there’s a big black mascara stain on her shirt. She promises me that she will keep me updated on Nannie’s progress while I’m away.
<Insert heart sink here>
I’m moving to Calgary in a week and a half for a four-month co-op for school.
The following is a breakdown of what was going through my mind at this point:
What if something happens while I’m gone? I’m a 6 hour, and 4 time zone flight away.
What if I come home to a funeral?
What if they don’t actually tell me everything that’s going on because they don’t want me to worry 4,768 kilometers away?
Should I even go anymore? Can I find another job in the short time frame if not?
All these questions are making my head spin and it sends me into another blackout tear-fest. It was only a few years ago she’d had open-heart surgery to have one of her aorta valves replaced.
A week or so later, after our family friends go home, my grandmother is hospitalized for her radiation treatment. I go in to visit her on the way to the airport to Calgary. If you’ve never been to the oncology ward at the hospital, I hope you never have a reason to go there. I’m sure that place has its fair share of happy moments, like when someone finds out they’re cured of cancer, but for the purpose of my visit, walking through those swishing doors was like walking myself through the gates of hell.
Needless to say it was the hardest goodbye I’ve ever done. Was this the last time I would ever see her? On my way out she hands me a card and says not to read it until I’m on the plane. Not a chance I was opening that in a public space, I can only imagine what’s written on the inside.
During my four month long work placement in Calgary, I called my grandmother every week to check in. She was released and sent home, thankfully the type of cancer she has allows her to live comfortably with the disease. As long as she returns to the hospital every month for a 15 minute long dosage of radiation, she’s set. Her other medication is slowly being cut back and she isn’t so dependent on morphine. Things are looking up; I knew she would pull through.
It’s hard to write about something you’re still trying to wrap your brain around. I think after pushing it to the back of my mind for so long, this essay will be a sort of radiation for me. Slowly, in small doses, I too will be able to live with the disease. The Big C is a scary word, but there’s no way to escape it. Just like that annoying neighbor, it’s there whether you like it or not. But, just like my grandmother, I’m going to tackle this beast head on.
Bring it.
This is dedicated to Betty Ann McDonald, Ali Cameron and everyone battling the Big C.
