La Casa Pateeta

I haven't mentioned La Casa Pateeta in a long time. Pateeta is my Mom, and she has been fighting stage 3c ovarian cancer for a little under two years. The fight is getting harder.

I don't know how to write about it or talk about it. The problem is that I'm not the type that breaks down, ever. I break down maybe once every year or two, privately, in my shower. Other than that, I'm a do-er, a planner, a get-things-done-er. And that is how I handle things. I get accused of being tactless (which I kind of am), morbid, detached, and many other things depending on the situation. This one? People that matter haven't accused me of anything. Which is good.

She's in the hospital right now, again, and I'm actually scared. I'm twenty-four. I'm scared that my Mom is going to die, that I haven't learned the things I should have yet. I'm scared that my body is going to be attacked by the same killers that have attacked hers, and I'm even more scared because countless doctors have told me that I'm "too young to worry." I'm scared that I will lose my family if she goes, because she's the connector. I'm scared that my not-so-little brother will slip through some sort of crack and will not be the man he has the potential to be. I'm scared that this event will negatively shape him, and I'm scared that this same event might shape my daughter.

I'm sad, too. Sad that my Mom hasn't been the same person consistently for over a year. I'm sad that she's hurting, that there are doctors swarming around her with different opinions and inconclusive results and I'm sad that my Grandma is watching her daughter's body be eaten by cancer, that my Uncle and Aunt are watching their sister change, that my baby knows what sickness is at the age of four.

Beyond these things though, I'm proud and I'm grateful and I'm happy. I'm happy that I've gotten to say to my Mom the things that everyone needs to say to their loved ones: This is why I'm angry with you. This is why I resent you. This is why I love you. These are my favorite things about you. You have a piece of me that no one else can claim. This disease, this cancer, has taken away a lot of good things. But it's also taken away the human shield that people put up for some reason to protect each other from honesty. As a blunt and tactless person, I hate being protected from honesty in personal life, professional life, political life, and all other areas. This disease has forced me to figure out what is important to me.

I'm sitting here hoping for the best. I'm hoping that her GI doctor can give us some good news tomorrow after a test she has to do. I'm hoping he can say that he has a non-invasive solution that will not dramatically alter her life with the addition of tubes or bags or heavy anesthesia. I'm hoping that that's the call I get tomorrow afternoon, that a pill will fix her pain and enable her to go forward with a clinical trial she's set up for. And hope, really, is what we have as humans. Hope, love, honesty, communication. These are the cornerstones of who I am, of those that I have chosen to be in my life. These things are tools my Mom gave me and somehow cultivated through many years of turmoil.

We all know I suck at conclusions.