She’s Your Lobster!

As a late-80’s baby, like many, I have a slight obsession with the show FRIENDS. I mean, it’s just SO good and there are so many great life lessons. And while most people loved Rachel for her coolness, Joey for his goofiness or Chandler for his always on-point one-liners, my favorite character was always Phoebe. She was just so quirky and had the greatest outlook on everything.

And while I can quote basically every episode word for word, there is one in particular that always makes me laugh. Early on in the series, when Ross and Rachel were going through another one of their on-again, off-again bouts, Phoebe eloquently tells Ross to “just hang in there, it’s gonna happen.” And when he asks her how she knows that she says “because she’s your lobster.” Click the link below if you haven't seen it. 😊 

As it turns out, lobsters do not, in fact, mate for life. However, there are many others that do. Beavers, bald eagles, wolves, barn owls, shingleback shinks (don’t worry I had to Google it too), penguins, swans, and most importantly, my mom and dad.

Here’s the thing. I have talked a lot about Terbear. Duh, this blog is about her. I’ve selfishly talked a lot about myself because how, at 31, do you wrap your mind around the thought that you could lose your mom? But there is one very important person that I have unconsciously left out. My dad.

Ol’ Davey is one of the single, greatest human beings on this planet. I was lucky enough to inherit his midget legs, his love of red vines and pretzels, his short temper, and his anxiety. And I hope someday I can truly say I got some of his best qualities too...he is one of the goofiest, kindest, caring, most patient guys around.

Dad has been through a lot. He was there when he lost his dad, and then his brother, and then his mom just two weeks before Terri received her diagnosis. He’s been there for mom through her cervical cancer (and following hysterectomy), he’s stayed by her through grand mal seizures and an epilepsy diagnosis. He somehow stayed sane while raising twin infants in an upper-level duplex on minimum wage and a crazy, neighbor-biting dog. He never raised his voice when those same twins all but drove him crazy through our inevitable teenage years. He gave the most moving, heartfelt speeches at both of our weddings, and then later he hugged me and promised I would be ok when his little girl lost everything. Like I said, he’s been through a lot. But this is the first time I have ever seen my dad so scared and so sad.

Until it happens to you, you don’t realize the toll cancer can have on a family. Not just the person going through it, because I still canNOT wrap my mind around what my mom is going through. But sometimes, I wonder if it might be just as hard, if not harder, on my dad.

I will never forget the call he made to me June 29. I had just been home the weekend before for grandma’s funeral and before I left on Sunday, I made it clear to mom and dad how nervous I was that something was seriously wrong. I watched mom all five days I was home and never saw her eat. Not once. Not to mention she was scary, scary skinny and she just seemed so tired all the time. Dad assured me that she was scheduled for an appointment that Thursday and they were going to do some crazy procedure where they would stretch her esophagus with a balloon and all would return to normal. Apparently, it’s common with people who have chronic acid re flux. So, like the good little daughter I am, I believed him. I tried calling mom on Thursday to see how the procedure went and both her and dad were just being SO weird and SO vague on the phone. I knew something was wrong. Dad called me the next morning at 10:30 a.m. and it is a conversation I will never, ever forget.

It was then that he told me that when they went in to do the procedure the doctors realized there was a large mass blocking her entire esophageal cavity. *Insert instant Maggie panic*. He then told me when they brought him into her room and showed him moms scan’s he actually passed out. *Insert extreme Maggie panic”. In his words, “it was so horrifying I couldn’t even wrap my mind around it.” I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen my dad cry. And that morning, on the phone, 300 miles away, I could hear my sweet dad break down.

He was scared. Without a biopsy, they couldn’t call it cancer, but we both just knew. On one end of the line I was a hysterical mess and on the other, my dad, with the saddest tears in his voice said something I will never forget. “You know there’s a reason we have been together for so long. I just love her so much. I can’t lose her Maggie; I don’t know what I would do. She is the very best part of my life.”

*Insert giant, bulbous tears here*. It was at this point that I realized that I was actually terrified. Full blown, can’t breathe panic attack. Not just for my mom and for what she was going to go through. Not just for me and Charlie and Hailee and what this could mean for us. I was the most scared for my dad. For what this would do to him. How he would survive if he lost her. And for what he was about to go through over the next months.

Mom is lucky to have such an amazing support system around her, but I am most thankful that she has my dad. He has been there every day that chemo has left her physically ill and weak (update: this fourth round of chemo has been the hardest on her. Her extreme nausea and sickness is the worst it’s been, but we’re hopeful that the lower doses in phase two won’t hit her quite as hard). He has been there for every test and scan result (update: mom’s last PET scan came back and the radiologist did not see any new lymph node activity and also saw a slight reduction in the tumor size! All great news. Her platelet count is still pretty low at 41,000- but no need for a transfusion yet which is also promising). He’s been her biggest cheerleader on the days she has felt the most down, and he is continually optimistic through every step of this nightmare (update: radiation + chemo treatments will start around September 24. This will include a lower dose chemo once per week and radiation five times per week. Phase two should be complete by Halloween, at which point the doctors will determine next steps).

Moral of this long-winded story, mom is doing the best she can despite what she is going through, my dad rocks, and lobsters do not mate for life. :)

Thanks for all the continued prayers, if you can throw some in for dad every once in a while that would be great too. I know how much he appreciates all the great food and help you have all provided.

Have a great week everyone, and Go Pack Go!