Hi. I’m Laura.
And I believe in love.
I believe in hope.
I believe in family.
I want to tell you a story. It’s a story that started a year ago. It’s actually a story that continues to unfold each day.
It’s the story of my mom and her fight with cancer. But it’s more than that. It’s a story of the strength of love, hope, prayer, family, friends, and courage. It’s her story. It’s my story. And it’s a good one.
A year ago, I got very devastating news. While on a medical mission trip to Guatemala, my mom suffered a sudden onset of weakness. My family was all fairly certain she had suffered a small stroke and were eager to get her back into the states to get her the care she needed. When she made it home and to UCSF Medical Center, a CT scan gave us news none of us could bear.
Cancer.
Brain cancer. 10 lesions on her brain.
Hearing this news was so unbelievable. I cried so hard. I can walk through my house and point to the places that I broke down in hopeless tears. I can remember crying myself to a restless night of a few hours of sleep, and then waking up to the horror of this reality and just sobbing uncontrollably in my bed. Have you ever woken up crying? HOW could this be happening? Not my mom!
NOT MY MOM!
NO! I remember just screaming NO NO NO!
I can walk you down the halls of the hospital and show you where I lost it, fell to the floor, and wept. I can show you where I stood embracing my dad while we both shook with uncontrollable sobs. In that moment, I really had no hope. My mom had already survived a malignant melanoma, and we were certain that it was back, and in her brain. Not a promising diagnosis.
I believe that it is a huge testament to the type of mother my mom is that within 48 hours of her being admitted to the hospital, her entire family was by her side. We all sat together without the noise and distraction of our kids (there was a No Child policy, due to the H1N1 virus). We all sat, just the family I grew up with, in a closed room, and we talked. We cried. We tried to process. And we talked about my mom’s wishes. Paperwork needed to be signed. She whispered to me where she thought it would be nice to have her ashes sprinkled.
So unbelievable. No one wants to have this conversation.
Every post needs images, so here are mine. These were taken before she became to weak to make it downstairs. The only way our kids could see her was if we brought her down to the waiting room. Looking at these images always makes me cry. When I took them, I really didn’t know how much longer my mom had. I didn’t know if it was the last time my children would see her. The room was so full of love and pain. Photography took on a whole new meaning for me after this. I will always cherish these photos and since then I have made it a point to capture more images of my family. You just never know. You never know.
My mom and daughter have always had a very very special bond.
There’s me. Unwashed hair slapped into a pony tail and glasses because contacts just can’t handle so many tears. Look at my mom. Isn’t she wonderful?
Her newest grandson, just one month old. She had spent a month helping out my sister and loving on her grandson before she left for her medical mission trip to Guatemala. She had been carrying him up and down the stairs just weeks before, and now, she was struggling to even roll over in bed.
And so began my mom’s journey. She was diagnosed with Stage IV Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma of the Brain, a much more treatable cancer than malignant melanoma. My family cheered when we got the news that it was a lymphoma. She underwent grueling chemotherapy for months and months. She fought hard. We all fought hard. We all were there to love her and support her, and she too loved and supported us, because she’s a mom. And that’s what she does.
She is the strongest person I know.
There are so many details to this story. So many small victories. So many scary moments. So.many.questions.
It made me realize things about my own family. Not only do my kids rely on me, but I rely so heavily on them. I took this self portrait to try to convey that feeling.
And when mom was well enough to come home, we gathered to welcome her home and get a family portrait. The only one we’ve ever attempted to get.
My daughter and mother’s hands. On a walk. A glorious wonderful walk with her grandma.
And then in October, the word we all had so anxiously waited to hear: REMISSION. My kids and I danced in the streets!
My mama and me.
And some very recent pictures of my mom with my kids. They love her. She loves them. It’s all very awesome and lovey when they are together.
And don’t even get me started on how much I love this image.
As I write this, a year after it all began, my mom is at home living independently. While I wish I could say that with remission comes your normal life, that isn’t the case. Each day is a struggle for her. While she has regained a lot of strength, her energy just isn’t what it used to be. That wonderful woman pushes herself each and every day. She fights for her strength and her life all the time.
I have so much respect for my mom. She has a loving heart and has spent her entire life trying to make the world a better place. I love her more than I could ever express. We have wonderful conversations almost daily. She’s a thinker.
On March 2, my mom will be getting another brain MRI. She has had more problems with weakness lately, and the doctor felt it was time for another check. For any of you who have had cancer in your life, you know that there is always that fear that it will come back. I have allowed that fear to come into my mind, wash over me and drown me, and then I have tried to let it go. Worrying will accomplish nothing. If you are the praying type, or the send-good-vibes type, I ask you to do so for my mom.
The world isn’t finished with her yet.
I love you, Mom.…
