There’s Hope For Tomorrow

Sheryl’s Story

Mom, Mama, Mommy, Nana, Sis, Sheryl...she was so much more than just another cancer statistic, yet here we are not so different from countless other journeys.

I cannot speak for my mother, and I cannot ask for her story because she will never be able to share it. Instead, I will walk you through my story over the last few months I was able to spend with my precious mother. This will not be a feel good story, and I am sure you’ve already guessed that it doesn’t come with a happy ending. I will, however, promise you brutal honesty and transparency in hopes that someone somewhere will gain something from my experience and above all else, see that they are not alone.

I remember the phone call. You know the one. The one where everything goes quiet and you realize that everything you had pictured for your future has come to a screeching halt.

I was living in Kansas and was in mid bartending shift, trying to stay busy and work through the last month of a deployment. Mom called and left me a voicemail to call her as soon as I could, which I knew was already out of the norm. I immediately called her and as I heard her all I remember is the equivalent to the Charlie Brown adult voices. I slowly walked around the bar and sat down. Only a few words stood out but they were all I needed.

Cancer...Stage four...I love you...

Fast forward a month when I was able to move home to be with my mom. The move was not supported which ended up with me filing for a divorce. (This year is really off to a great start, right?)

This is where our story becomes a little different. On the excruciatingly long drive to the oncologist appointment, she told me that she does not, under any circumstance, want to know her prognosis or “timeline.” She wanted to give it her all no matter what and didn’t want to know her end game. So, that meant having her leave the room, so we could hear the truth.

Unfortunately, her truth was devastating. She had a rare cancer called Cholangiocarcinoma that is usually too far gone by the time it has been diagnosed, and mom’s had already

presented in both lobes of her liver, where it had spread from her bile ducts.

This is when I changed. I knew her wishes which meant no swollen red eyes, no ugly crying. “Amber, you better pull yourself together before you walk through that door! Don’t you dare show her anything but a smile and hope.”

What did that mean? That meant when her disability check wasn’t enough, I knew I had to stop paying her house payment. I let her think I was paying the bills, so she wouldn’t have another thing to worry about. However, the house and the car were no longer a priority. I knew she wouldn’t be here to see the foreclosure notice arrive on the door. It meant when she would be daydreaming about our girls’ trip she wanted to take to the mountains, I had to fake a smile and help her plan a trip that I knew we would never take. It meant when I felt that familiar burn in my eyes I had to retreat to my childhood bedroom until I could dry it up and put my mask back on. It meant ignoring her calling for me from the living room while I cried into my pillow a little longer than the last time. Let’s not even get into the guilt I felt and still feel to this day for taking those extra minutes away.

Remember: God knows what you’re going through, and he sends you help and hope when you feel like you cannot possibly go on. When He offers, don’t be stubborn...accept it with grace.

If you have been fortunate enough to have been a caregiver to a loved one, you know the pain that comes from being incredibly blessed, yet bouncing back and forth from exhaustion to resentment and to anger. But mostly anger. Angry at the doctors who missed the signs for months. Angry that they didn’t listen to my mom. Angry that I wasn’t home to push and fight for my mom before it was too late. Angry that everyone else’s lives seemed to continue. I mean, didn’t they know that when your world stopped spinning, theirs was supposed to stop, too? Chemo, watching her body get poisoned, knowing that it wouldn’t change the outcome...that was hard. Watching her get a haircut and see her incredibly sweet and loving stylist hide the hands full of hair she was pulling from her head, so mom didn’t see. Smiling at mom and telling her how beautiful she looked while choking back the tears. I remember this day because it was our last good day. We left the salon and took the long way home. Sunroof open, beautiful weather, and radio blasting one of her favorite songs at the time: “Wagon Wheel.” We were now at the dentist office regularly, pulling the teeth that the chemo was crumbling. Dr. Fischer and staff took such incredible care of her. After a while, they wouldn’t even let me pay.
What else could happen? Now, the starter in the car I had to take mom to her appointments in went out. Mike Ford sent his guys to our house. They replaced the starter on the spot and wouldn’t take a dime from me.

Remember: God knows what you’re going through, and he sends you help and hope when you feel like you cannot possibly go on. When he offers, don’t be stubborn...accept it with grace.

On July 8th, mom fell. Her body was shutting down. An ambulance ride to Floyd was how we ended the evening. After a few days in the hospital, she went to sleep for what would

be the last time. My uncle came to town and convinced me to go home and rest and shower. Funny how you forget those silly things when you are in the hospital time warp. After I felt like a clean human again, I called, and she was still sleeping, so I took a dear friend up on her very insistent offer to come sit in her chair and let her pamper me at the salon. Self care. That is something I hadn’t thought of in quite some time. There I was: sitting there covered in foil and looking like a human antenna when I got the call. I missed my mother’s last breath because I was getting my hair done. Let that sink in. Lord knows it has been sitting with me since that day. All of that to say, it is okay to be vulnerable. It is okay to be angry. It is okay to question literally everything.

Six years later and there are finally more good days than bad. More happy memories that come to mind than there are sad. More holidays without tears than with. It will never hurt less, but it does get better. I didn’t believe it when others told me, and I am sure you will not believe me now. You are stronger than you think, and you will survive this. On days when it hurts so bad you literally cannot breathe, remember that you will get through this. One day at a time.

I share all of this to help spread awareness of this disease and with hope that one day cancer will no longer be a death sentence for anyone.

In memory of Sheryl Blalock, 7/12/13