This is the time of year when I usually get that twinge of excitement in my stomach….there’s a chill in the air, holidays are around the corner, there’s (normally) an air of frivolity.  This year the bursts of excitement have been replaced by a knot, a pit of foreboding.  An overall cloud of darkness.  We’re getting cancer for Christmas.

Recently, my daughter experienced swollen lymph nodes on her neck.  We went the pediatrician, who took  a NBD (no big deal) approach to the visit, prescribed a round of antibiotics and told us to go on our merry way.  When that didn’t remedy the situation, I scheduled another appointment.  She made me feel a bit like a mother hen, but said if I was that worried, she would send me to a specialist.  The specialist felt the lumps and prescribed a second, stronger round of antibiotics, which didn’t improve the situation.  He recommended a biopsy preceded by a CAT scan.  My baby girl (12), who has been the light of my life driving force behind everything I do, made it through the CAT scan with flying colors.

I picked up the CD and report from hospital records.  Before delivering to the surgeon, I scanned a copy of the report for myself and did some sleuthing.  That goes against everything that I’ve ever believed.  I’ve always scoffed at those that self diagnose on the internet and then marinate in their worry.  I, however, was looking at black and white information and did not like what I was seeing.  I tried to sift through the unfamiliar.  I’m a sales person – I’m used to nomenclature like close ratio and sales funnel.    In this case, the terminology was far more ominous – necrosis, soft-tissue mass, heterogeneous appearance, infiltration of nodal masses.  Words that make your head spin.  The sentence that changed my life at that moment was:  primary differential diagnostic consideration is given to lymphoma.  Biopsy is recommended for confirmation.

My husband and I have been through more life altering scenarios than most, and not in a good way.  After fertility battles, we were elated to find out “we were expecting”.  At 11 weeks, we drove 3 hours on a cold November night in 1998 to announce the exciting news to my parents.  Moments after the announcement, I appeared to be miscarrying.  I was 45 minutes and 2 ambulance rides away from the nearest (rural) hospital.  We got to the hospital, and the doctor could not find a heartbeat.  Sometime later, another doctor sensing our devastation suggested a second look.  He did the ultrasound and was able to find the faint heart beat.  To this day, we don’t know if there was a second baby.  We didn’t care.  We continued to look forward with the utmost excitement.

The light of my life, driving force behind everything that I do was born on June 24, 1999.  I turned 31 three days earlier.  On that day, June 21st 1999, my husband was diagnosed with MS.  My life seems to have a pattern of major stressful life events grouping together.  My daughter is what keeps me going.   On September 11, 2001 – one of the most terrifying days in many of our lives, my husband was loaded into an ambulance after an episode of MS.  That was the last day he was able to walk.  His challenges didn’t start with MS.   He had a rare form of childhood cancer, a broken back, MS and a myriad of other complications.     

There is actually a scale that measures the impact of certain life events and how much it takes to actually push us over the edge.   The scale is called the Holmes and Rahe stress scale.  Sometimes I feel like the poster child for that chart.  Another example would be when my dad passed away in January of 2008.  I went home for the funeral.  When I returned to work the following week, I learned that my job was being eliminated.  There seems to be a pattern. 

This year, I experienced some major business changes and a significant downturn in our personal financial situation forcing some life-altering changes.  Then this.

For the last 12 years, our ray of light has been this crazy, funny, bossy, loud, determined, smart, creative, fantastic kid that sings from the top of her lungs at every opportunity.  Last weekend, the thought that invaded my head was – I don’t want to tell my kid she has cancer.  Living through the period of unknown made me think about Elisabeth Kübler Ross’ five stages of grief.  I skipped past denial.  In fact, I feel like my daughter’s pediatrician was the one in denial, giving me every reason not to worry about the swollen lymph nodes and almost making me feel crazy about returning for a second visit.  I think I went right to anger.  I remember reading the report, driving around in circles and screaming G*dammit over and over.  I skipped over bargaining.  I have learned not to bargain.  I have learned never to say “it can never get worse” and truly believe that the people who say that God never gives you more than you can handle have never been given more than they can handle.  Fast forward to step five – depression, where I spent a solid five days.   I could barely go five minutes with breaking into tears.  I spent every drive to and from work sobbing, all the time thinking -

I don’t want to tell my kid she has cancer.

I want to continue to be able to tickle her until she says MERCY, I want to see her get butterflies over cute boys, I want to help her research colleges, I want to…...  I don’t want to deal with this.  Not now, not ever.

On Tuesday 11/8/11, she had the biopsy.  After coming out of the general anesthesia and resting for the afternoon, my daughter got herself up, got herself dressed, wrapped a plaid scarf around the dressing on her neck and went to her choir concert.   She stood with her 7th grade classmates as they sang a Swahili song, Amani Utupe.  I couldn’t help but think that the lyrics were meant for us that night.  As we travel down this weary road, amani utupe na ustawi.  We need strength to carry on our load.  Amani utupe na ustawi.  Grant us peace, give us courage. Amani utupe na ustawi. 

The next day, we found out that the light of our life has cancer.  Life as we knew it will never be the same.  After a week of hell, we are forging ahead.  As my daughter’s guidance counselor said – “thyroid cancer picked the wrong girl to mess with”.  Indeed. 

We are still waiting to find out if the cancer has spread.  However, one piece of good news was a clear bone scan.  My daughter was intrigued to see her body “sparkling” on the screen due to the radioactive medicine.   One friend reminded her that she always sparkles.  Another friend and mother of a little boy reminded her that many superheroes have gotten their powers through exposure to radiation.   

So be it.  From that day forward, we committed to kick cancer’s a**.  This new chapter of our life is called Project Super-Cali.   My super-hero daughter, Cali, accepts the challenge.  If you would like to send her a card to give her strength, give her courage, please send it to:  Super-Cali, P.O. Box 7204, Bloomfield Hills, MI  48302-7204.