April 26, 1996

Today is the day. What will this day bring? In my heart, I don't believe it will have a happy ending. I am just positive that I'm going to lose my mother soon. The articles I've read confirm my skepticism. We are all at the hospital early that morning. I'm also worried about Dad. He is so upset and like all of us, trying to put on a brave face. They take Mom away and we are put in a room with other families, all waiting on the outcome of their loved one. I don't like sharing a room with others at this time. We need to be alone. Those people are probably waiting on someone to have their appendix out, or an arm set. We are waiting to hear the fate of our mother. Dad and Kathy spend most of the time in the chapel praying. I couldn't leave the room for fear they'd come to talk to us and I wouldn't be there so I sat quietly and prayed.

We are a Catholic family. When Mom got the diagnosis, Dad asked me to call their priest, Father Faustner, and tell him. Honestly, he seemed disinterested. My family had been attending Walnut Grove Church and Rev. Dillon Staas, the minister of that church, came to the hospital to be with us. The Catholic priest never came, and as far as that goes, never called, sent a card or anything. Nothing. Some holy man. From that day on, Dad referred to Pastor Dillon as "Father Dillon". I don't know if Pastor Dillon ever realized what that meant when Dad called him that. It was the utmost compliment with love that my dad could ever bestow!

A few hours after they took Mom to surgery, Dr. Miller, opened the door and asked us to come into the counselling room. I knew the other shoe was about to drop. I had prepared myself for it and I was ready for the news. We all sat at the table, "Father" Dillon, too, and Dr. Miller said...."It's gone. It's all gone." We were all speechless. We hadn't really spoken among us so I didn't know if my sisters and Dad had come to the same conclusion as I did...that her days were numbered. Is that why we were all sitting there, not speaking and just staring at Dr. Miller? Finally someone said, "What do you mean?" Dr. Miller said it again. It's gone. The cancer is gone. Again, dumbfounded and numb, we just sat there. He then began to describe the surgery to us, and I got my wits about me enough to ask if Mom would need chemotherapy or radiation. He replied, sort of loudly...and arrogantly, "NO! I said IT'S GONE!  IT'S GONE! She will be fine!" WOW!!!! Unbelieveable!!! God had answered all our prayers. GOD IS GOOD!!!! Dr. Miller left and "Father" Dillon began to pray. We all prayed and cried...this time...tears of joy.

April 17, 1996

April 17, 1996 I'm standing in the back of our family business and I receive the call. It's a call many before me have received, yet the first of this kind for me. It's my mother. She has just been diagnosed with a malignant tumor in her right kidney. Cancer. As they call it....the "C" word. Now I know why. It's like a blow to the head, to the heart. I get weak in the legs and need to sit. Mom is just 68 years old, vibrant, full of life. She and my dad take care of my 2 year old nephew. She's my rock. I have a 6 year old son and a 4 year old son. We share advice, stories, and laughter of these three little boys. She's my best friend. I can't lose her.

She is going to have surgery on April 26 to have the infected kidney removed. It's not much time for her to prepare, or for us to prepare. Dad is devastated. I try to reassure Dad, all the while I'm also needing reassurance. On the days up to the 26th I feel like I'm in a fog. I feel dizzy, nauseous, sad, scared, and yes, angry. Why my mom? My nephew needs her so badly. We all need her so badly.

I research anything and everything I can on this devastating disease in the days up to her surgery. My mother has been blessed with no gray hair. I am convinced and truly believe that her hair will turn gray and she will only live weeks after her surgery. I don't know why her hair matters so much to me except that she is ageless and I attribute some of that to her dark, beautiful hair. In my mind, she has looked this way my entire life. I am not ready for change, nor am I ready to lose her.