There are so many things one is never ready for, and learning about having cancer is one of them. Especially when it is someone you treasure and adore, someone you’ve watched struggle and prevail through life, only to get thrown another fiery curveball when life had finally given a break, resourcefulness rewarded and imposing obstacles surmounted. What? We thought it was appendicitis. No, that would’ve been too easy. Full time job. Check. Promotion. Check. Savings. Check. Future. Check. Emergency surgery and advanced colon cancer. Check - wait. No. Not happening. Rewind, please.

But we can’t rewind. There is no disembarking from this journey, and nothing is happening fast enough. Can’t fast forward six months of chemo. Can’t zip past the following five weeks of five-day-a-week radiation. Am unable to rationalize a job that lets an employee go three days after major abdominal surgery. Haven’t quite figured out how to earn a living while undergoing a half-a-year of bi-weekly poison infusions with the fervent hope it works and the malicious cells don’t spread. And forget the gamma rays… we have to reach that milestone first.

The curious thing about life-altering news is contending with all the things you never thought. How am I to pay the bills? How am I to eat? Will I lose the car? The medical insurance? My life?Who will be there if I’m completely debilitated from this? What of all the dreams I have yet to realize?

These are just a few of the things one thinks - almost ceaselessly at first- when confronted with the daunting news of a life-threatening disease. I feel for anyone who has been here, and wish none of us ever were.

I’m creating this account on behalf of my son, Vince, who is 35 and has- according to the oncologist- a 40-60% chance of beating this. My son asked outright, what are my odds? The answer sounded like a coin toss. There has been a lot of emotion these past few weeks. They put the port in last week. What a wonderful surgeon! My son was concerned about his chest tattoo not being marred. He already has an 18-inch abdominal scar from last month’s surgery that looks like a zipper. The surgeon told him no guarantees, but we don’t have to put the port in. My son looked at him and said, “But I need it. I have to be able to fight this. It’s important.” “I’ll do my best,” his surgeon said. And he did. Found a line in the tattoo and cut a semi-circle along it. Then glued it shut. You can’t even see it. What a wonderful gift.

We are in Alaska. My son came here 18 months ago to forge a new life. He knew it would take time, and it did. Working, tent camping, saving his money, buying a car, working overtime and getting regular raises. His five-year plan was ahead by a year when this derailed it.

I have always been the silver-lining mom. It keeps me hopeful to believe there is a Greater Good operating in life, although sometimes it is very hard to see. My goal with this fundraiser is to alleviate as much stress as possible regarding the financial aspects of a devastating disease, to provide resources for medical and basic living expenses during this difficult journey. The last thing the doctors want is a patient stressed over how his rent will be paid or whether he’ll be able to afford the co-pays. So I am reaching out on this miracle-working platform for help supporting us through this process. Your donation, no matter how great or small, will be tremendously appreciated. Any words of encouragement and prayers for our family are welcome as Vince fights the greatest battle of his life.

Chemo begins this Monday morning. We have no idea how well he will tolerate it. It’s a three-day process. Three hours in the infusion clinic (sounds like one of those oxygen bars! only worse). Then three days with a pump at home. (Uck). I will post updates as I am able. I thank all those who have read this for taking the time.

with gratitude,

catherine brooks (mom)

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12/04/2023

The Lighted Floor for Infusions

Round one.

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It was one of those long nights… longer not because the sun is shy here this time of year. No, it was every hour or two awaking to check the time. 11:30 pm. 1:20 am. 3:30 am. 5:…. Enough already. Son was up and down all night, and a mother’s radar hears every movement. Heading to a chemo appointment felt like a long walk to the guillotine. Terrible imagery, but there you have it. I wasn’t half certain he wouldn’t bail. I wanted to, but knew this action could not be wise. So, silent encouragement it is. I am profoundly surprised at the tides of emotions. Son, on the other hand, is quite stoic. I don’t understand so much right now. But gratitude. Thankful for the tumor rearing its ugly head to be discovered. Thankful for the skilled surgeons who were able to remove the major threat and piece him back together. Thankful that there are so many incredible options available for battling this rude malfunction of cells. Grateful son is willing to fight.

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Yesterday we took the day and drove out of town to visit my son’s dear friend. We had lunch at a little grill - best cheeseburger ever - and his friend took us to an enchanted forest complete with waterfall. It was a short hike - and I not in the greatest of shape! Yet somehow I managed. I needed to see and hear the flowing waters - clear and crystal and soothing. We have spent so many weeks with doctors and nurses and social workers, phone calls and pharmacies and a plethora of you’d-never-imagine, that pleasantries took the wayside. Six weeks in and overwhelmed, it’s easy to forget to do something mundane, yet joyful. I encourage it, for anyone going through something life-altering, to take a day and just drive, take the dog to the park, take the children for an ice cream. Visit a friend. Brew good coffee. I found yesterday has sustained me this far through today. There is a good chance it will continue to do so.

The drive.

The enchanted waterfall.

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Round one shall be finished in an hour or so. He is sleeping though it. I suspect the long night and medications for nausea have conspired to help his rest. Two more days with a pump at home and the first round will be over. I pray it does what it is supposed to. Fervently hope he is not racked with nausea. I will update as soon as possible. And I wish to thank all those who have read our ongoing story, who have uplifted us in prayer, who have contributed to our journey. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

catherine brooks (mom)