It was 5 years ago today that I lost you to cancer.
Fuck that horrible disease.
You went from a vibrant, plump woman to a shell of what you once were. It was so hard to believe that it was just a few months prior to that that you followed my oldest son around all day smiling and enjoying life.
Then you started getting a fever at night, and feeling "crappy".
You were forced to call me daily and apologize for not having the energy to run after a 3 year old boy. He was your pride and joy, but you just couldn't do it. Kara and I would get upset about all the work we were missing because you would hold out hope that tomorrow would be better, and you'd be back to normal.
You went to many doctors, and they admitted you into the hospital without knowing what was wrong with you. It took about a month to run the necessary tests and observe you to figure out that you had Stage 4 stomach cancer.
On the day that you were told this horrible news, you spoke to me alone and asked me to stop chewing. We had spoken about it before, and I knew how much you hated it, but you kept your mouth shut about my addiction because "I was a big boy". You told me how much greater my chances of contracting the disease was because I not only was genetically predisposed for it, but my usage almost guaranteed that I would contract it. You spoke to your doctor about me, and had confirmed your theory.
I "stopped" 2 days later.
This was a mere few days before they cut you open (on September 11, 2006) and nearly killed you.
They wanted to cut out most of your stomach, most of your liver, some kidneys, intestines, esophagus, and pretty much anything they could just to give you a fighting chance. Stomach cancer is very aggressive, and it spread like wildfire throughout all of your internal organ.
You died on the operating table, and they brought you back. You lived in the ICU for the next week and a half, and then you were strong enough to come home a couple weeks later.
They couldn't touch any of the organs because the tumor was so big so they hit you with chemo and radiation treatments (which, again, almost killed you). It was awful for you, and it was awful to watch. Your hair fell out. You lost 70 pounds. But you were fighting.
It was in February of 2007 that they tried the surgery again, and they successfully removed your entire stomach, part of your lung, and every other organ that was not necessary for you to live a basic, basic life. We were ecstatic because you were a fighter.
It was in April that you spiked a fever.
It was 2 days later that you told me you were going to die.
It was 3 days later I met the hospice workers.
You were a fighter.
You lasted until June 4, 2007 (just under 2 months).
You were a fighter, and it was the bravest fight I've ever seen.
I was 9 months stopped at the time.
You never used a substance that would have done this to you. You abhored nicotine in all forms. Not only did I use it prior to this experience, but I went back to it a few years later. That's how strong this addiction is. It took all of this pain I felt over losing you, bundled it up, and said "Doesn't fucking matter in the grand scheme" and I buried it all in my head. It convinced me that I was different. I am a tougher fighter physically and mentally.
I cry to think of my sons typing this statement one day. I cry to think of my family crying over my loss. Fuck me for being selfish. It's not me that would have to suffer indefinately with grief. I would be gone. They are the ones that would be left dealing with what could have beens.
I am mad. I will never forget my addiction again. I cannot be cured, and I will never be done fighting. But I can do this. I can raise my chances from 100% sure that I will develop it every day that I quit. I have a fucking say in that, but it's not for sure. Those odds will never be zero. I'm battling genetics and my own foolishness. I can't make up for my genetics, but I sure as hell can control my actions.
I choose not to use.
I miss you mom.
