March 8th 2010

March 8th 2010 will always be one of the clearest days in my mind. It was the day that my mom had surgery to (hopefully) remove the cancer that had devastated her for the last five and a half months. At the same time though, we were facing the distinct possibility that they would find that it was advanced ovarian cancer that hadn't responded to chemotherapy, in which case there would be nothing they could do. I remember everything like it was today. I remember not being able to fall asleep for a LONG time the night before, eventually resorting to reading an 'Alice' book by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, one of my favourite light-hearted, down to earth series for more than a decade now. Of course, that meant then that I didn't wake up so easily in the morning. I remember driving to the hospital. I remember my mom's bracelet getting printed, I remember sitting waiting for someone to take us upstairs, I VERY clearly remember saying good-bye to her when she entered the pre-op floor (no one but patients and staff were allowed there so for more than three hours she was there by herself). I remember being told twice that the surgery had been delayed by about half an hour. I remember finally being told that she'd been taken into surgery, and then trying to work on the rep log for music history that was already extended. Instead, for nearly three hours I ended up staring mindlessly at the television (curling and Star Trek) with my dad, who was of course being very sociable with everyone-patients, other families, the staff. I remember being told that it was over, and that the doctor would be up to see us shortly. Now, that was probably only about 20 minutes, but it felt like an entire day. And I remember those-at the time-very relieving words that it wasn't ovarian cancer at all, but something called pseudomyxoma peritonei, a type of borderline tumour that develops out of the appendix, and is incredibly rare, about 1 in 1 million. It was a relief, because it meant that there was something they could do. We were of course, then dashed in May when we finally met with the next set of doctors and learned that it was adenocarcinoma of the small intestine...and that they could do chemotherapy but it would never go into remission, and that the average length of survival was two years (later doing my own research I learned that the average survival for metastatic adenocarcinoma was 8 months. In the end, my mom lived just over five months from when we met with those doctors). And yet...I do not remember that date when we heard that two year survival sentence. What I do remember is the first two things that popped into my head-my mom won't see my university graduation, and then-my mom's not going to see grandchildren. I wish that I could say she saw those things, because I know how much our education, and the possibility of my sister and I having children someday meant to her. It just doesn't seem fair-and it makes me very mad at cancer. For nearly a year of my life, cancer was almost every other thought. Interspersed throughout that year are memories I will never forget, no matter how hard I try...

On the plus side of today, I played in a music festival class. It was a wonderful experience because of all those wonderful fellow flautists-all my fellow youth symphony flautists and then a fellow FOM-er. Probably the most supportive class I've ever been in. I was flabbergasted when I came in first-I had been certain that Heather or Jaena, the two first flutes in orchestra would win. It means that I go on to a trophy class (as do they as they won other classes). So we all get to perform together again on friday evening. I have another class tomorrow afternoon. But for tonight, I have a band test to finish recording. It's painful to do because my computer is the only recording device I have right now, and it makes my flute playing sound like sick trumpet playing. It's really quite make-your-ears-bleed sounding. My promise to myself on that is never again!

Tomorrow Lent begins. I usually go pretty crazy on things to give up for Lent, and it's no different this year. One of the things I am giving up is the thing that has been quite an escape the past few months-watching dvds or videos or things from itunes or whatever on my computer. I'm not sure exactly how these months would have been different without it, but all those shows from childhood onwards were definitely a comfort. But now, it's time to move on, and to embrace the comfort that I am finding once again in practicing and studying. With each step I feel stronger and more normal. Sometimes I feel guilty about being normal, but I suppose it's a process. I definitely missed my mom a lot today. The piece that I played at the festival was the first movement of Schubert's Arpeggione Sonata in A minor. When I began playing, I was at first playing for my mom, although that wasn't true throughout all of the piece, as it is somewhat technical in places. Sometimes I wonder about heaven. Okay, somewhat frequently. Someone once wrote that they figured that heaven wouldn't be heaven if you couldn't see your family and other important people from time to time. My mom was always a huge supporter of my music. Really, she's probably the reason I got into music in the first place, and all from a simple paper ad at a library for Music For Young Children. Maybe she was listening to me today.