Cervical Cancer, Recurrence of Cancer, A Young Mother's Story

by Larry Puls @larrypulsauthor

Recurrence of Cancer for Young Mom

Two weeks after the cesarean and her lymph node dissection, she comes back to see me. Before we discuss the tough stuff, she proudly shows me her child. Looking down at the sleeping baby, I wonder how will I explain eight positive lymph nodes, the small cell carcinoma, and give hope all in the same breath. The little girl looks so peaceful, dreaming childhood dreams. Deep slumber. An amazing gift. Her understanding of her mom’s situation will not come for years. And I question if she will ever really know her mom--or remember what she looked like. Time will answer that. Yet I know intuitively her pressing journey is about to begin, and it will be every bit as taxing as childrearing. She will need God-given strength for the marathon of therapy facing her... “Where do we go from here?” she asks. Where do we start? I ponder my first words.


Treatment will consist of radiation and chemotherapy. The information almost overwhelms her. She looks confused, bewildered, distraught. Treatment will come at a personal cost—loss of hair, nausea, fatigue, neuropathy, etc… Days of therapy that are designed to fight her disease—summed up by the word--aggressive. Total time in treatment will come in at around eight months. And she will have a baby at home, lest I forget. My hope is that she is both mentally and physically strong. Mom will need some sleep, and help as well. But she is young, strong and hopeful, maybe that will make her more resilient. We will know soon enough.

Every few weeks, she reports for visits. Daily radiation. Weekly chemo upfront. Then big-gun chemo. She loses that beautiful hair. Her blood counts fortunately remain strong. Queasiness is somewhat tolerable. Weeks of visits turn to months. Her child grows. Soon, perhaps not quickly enough, we come to the end of planned therapy and our attention turns to the new scans, to her present exam. We pray for a season of hope. The moment-of-truth day finally arrives—remission or not? All of her x-rays are reviewed. The blessing is rendered and the verdict is favorable. She has achieved that coveted place of remission. At least for now. My mind cannot stop thinking about those eight positive nodes. Haunting premonitions swoop in. Are those awful cells still in there, just beneath the skin, waiting, lurking, hiding?

Every three months she comes back and the accumulating reports suggest all is well. Her little girl has learned to walk. The stuffed animals that lived on her bed now live in her arms. My mind flashes back to the pink curtains hanging in her room. I still see the mental picture. Will your mom see you walk into the first-grade classroom? It is so hard not to go there. I don’t want to, but I cannot seem to erase the thoughts.

Eight positive nodes.

A year passes since we arrived at the end of treatment. The child is now at eighteen months. A phone rings in our office. My nurse tells me she would like to talk, and wants to be seen. People living in her world can always get through to me. Premonitions? Why is she calling?  She never calls. She never complains. There must be a logical explanation.

I have my office work her right in. There is a lump, a bump, a growth, something that wasn’t there even last week. It seems even bigger today than it did just three days ago. My mind screams ominous. Something bad is in her groin. Feeling it makes me scared. I picture that small child again. The animals she coddled in her tiny arms. Her mom’s last happy visit is etched into my thoughts. Why can’t we just stay where we were? In remission. In a joyous place.

She comes and lays on the exam table. The area is numbed and a biopsy is obtained. But even before it is back, I know. I just know. The realist in me fears where we are going. Having been there one too many times, I know. If this biopsy is positive, there is only one outcome that will occur, baring a God-given miracle. The outcome will be fatal. Time to that event—inside a year, I estimate. How do you tell someone that with a child in her arms, a small child? What do you say to the mother whose child walks up to you and shows you her stuffed animals? I don’t know. That conversation will be in two days, when the biopsy is back. No words can be retrieved on this visit. So, I do what I do, paint some hope, pray with her, and prepare for what you have been trained to do. Though no one trains you how to work through the pain and the agony of loss. That comes from trial and error. That comes from the trauma afflicted against your soul, from watching someone sweet die.

The end will come barging in soon enough, uninvited, unwanted, and unstoppable.

Next time the conclusion. I hope I can find a way to pen my thoughts.

Please post comment on blog; How would you live differently with your one-year-old, if you had one year to live?

Treatment for Cervical Cancer, Recurrence, Facing Death, Larry Puls, (Click to tweet) 

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