Once upon a time, I didn’t understand the point of “cancer awareness.” We are all aware of breast cancer. We are all aware of most types of cancer. But now, I’ve encountered a form of cancer that most people aren’t aware of.
Mom Cancer. It’s when you have cancer in your mom.
As many know, in the height of lockdown, my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. I’ll be clear — she’s doing well. Some of her original symptoms have healed. We think today is the last chemo dose of her first round, and after that the amount will be lower. The doctor expects a good result of this round. We’re not quite sure of the specifics there, but good is good.
We’re still in this for the long haul, though, and she’ll be on chemotherapy for a long, long time. And as long as she’s on chemotherapy, we can’t let her get so much as a cold… which is a huge charge in the throes of a pandemic.
Which brings us back to Mom Cancer Awareness, and the probably millions of people around the country having to navigate “reopening” while caring for someone at extreme risk from COVID-19.
I went out in public like this, around people who (hopefully) respect me.
News is essential, so I have worked throughout the pandemic. Through lockdown, that usually meant small groups. I went to meetings of the City of Odessa, Odessa R-7 School Board, Wellington-Napoleon R-9 School Board, Odessa Planning and Zoning and Lafayette County Commission. I attended Oak Grove R-6 digitally, as all aldermen were also attending remotely. When advice started shifting toward masks, I started wearing them, starting with a dishcloth I wore to a meeting in Wellington.
I started accumulating a collection of masks, including about six cloth, a package of disposable surgical-style masks, and then, like contraband, N95s. The first came from a first responder who was issued some in a style he didn’t end up getting cleared to wear. The second came from the City of Oak Grove when it reopened for meetings. I alternated between the two of them whenever I’d be around large crowds like election, the Hope Rally and Wellington graduation, or in Oak Grove, which has been much more affected than Lafayette County. Eventually, they wore out. Just as I was growing concerned that I needed to ration their use even more, the sheriff’s department sent us enough that I could distribute them among our staff and still have plenty for myself.
The added protection of an N (or KN) 95 is appreciated, because I’m often the only person in any given place wearing a mask at all. Before the mask mandate came to Eastern Jackson County, I attended a meeting in Oak Grove with around 80 people and I was the only person in the room wearing a mask, a wooly true N95.
If you’re wondering, yes, I can read it on people’s faces when they think I’m overreacting. Look at me, the sheep, doing what “the government” is telling me (even though the government that is actually present is also not wearing a mask). Me, young, afraid of a virus.
Mom Cancer Awareness.
Mom Cancer in a pandemic means no hugs, or at least the two hugs I have received being initiated in a sense of rebellion and being wrapped in some form of guilt. It means not being able to go to socially distant Rotary meetings. It means that only after 120 days did I see a single friend my own age, for 15 minutes, standing across a room and wondering the whole time if maybe I shouldn’t do that. It means twice, my sister has had to stay away from the family because she has been exposed at work. And, lowest on the list, it means no hair appointments. My brown roots are nearly to my ears, so even as everything is already upside down, I don’t even look like myself.
Social distance meetings, with a sideline cam used to broadcast meetings so people don’t feel the need to show up in person.
There have been well-meaning people who don’t believe in wearing masks, but who, after I explain why I wear one, say “oh, well you have a good reason.”
Friends, it only works if you wear one, too.
Everyone is looking for the one true way to prevent COVID-19, and the truth is, it doesn’t exist. There is no magic wall six feet between people. Masks, too, have the ability to fail. But the point is, if we do as much of this as possible, if there are more roadblocks, hopefully the combination will work.
This is all taking place among the most toxic, heartless public debate possible, and it’s all personal because of the Mom Cancer. People just broad paint that those who fall into vulnerable populations were going to die anyway —nursing homes, people with underlying conditions — maybe they shouldn’t even be called COVID deaths? Well, my mom is getting better. But if this happened to her, they’d say that about her, too.
I’ve usually worn cloth or a surgical mask to the R-7 School Board, but with community spread in Lafayette County I wore a KN95 this week, and grabbed a selfie while waiting for open session.
I’m tired of the “mask debate.” My mom hasn’t been out in public since her diagnostic process began, but the few people caring for her are out in public every single day. We don’t get that choice. Because we have a family business, me continuing to work is at the base of her having health care.
Masks aren’t a “personal choice.” They’re a personal responsibility. You can do what you can to stop this horrible disease from reaching vulnerable people, or you cannot. No one else can mitigate you. I can wear a mask, I can wash my hands, I can stay six feet away from you. But short of a hazmat suit, if you don’t do your own part, I can still get COVID-19. And if I do, there’s a high chance my mom will, too.
This is true for so many families. Everywhere you go, you can encounter someone with Mom Cancer, with Dad Cancer, Grandma or Grandpa Cancer, even Son or Daughter Cancer. It’s heartbreaking to know the choices coming for so many families, like whether to send their kid to school or continue playing a main role in caring for a sick family member.
There are no fool-proof options in a dangerous world. We can only do what is in our power.
Please wear a mask!