With our first child on the way, my heart breaks for any parent who has to see their child sick. While with the exception of chemo- and antibiotic-induced nauseau and vomiting, lymphoma has never actually made me feel ill, which made the time from diagnosis until treatment a lot easier for everyone involved. But for now, not quite myself in the chemo’s wake, I know that it is especially hard for my parents to see me bald, a little skinny, and a little slow on the draw.
For my parents, having immigrated to the sunnier confines of South Florida during the Great Pastrami Migration of 1991, and for Jacqui’s parents, who, before Jacqui and I met, moved to Florida during the 2001 Shuffleboard Rebellion, not being close by is rough.
But for my mom especially, the idea of seeing her son go through hell to get better, having already shephered my dad through the same (he is also a cancer survivor), must really suck. My mom’s confidence in my treatment outcome, her support to Jacqui, Otis, I during this time, and her seemingly effortless ability to clean an entire home in what seems like minutes (in her sleep), has been invaluable to us. It even offsets the time in the hospital a few weeks back when she aggravated me to no end by insisting that my IV was dripping too fast.
So thanks, Mom. And hang in there.
I may lose a few more pounds before this is over, but not only will I be de-lymphomatized in a few months, you’ll also have a grandchild.