Cancer and roller coasters

My mom has cancer.

This is not new information. It's been almost a year since she discovered that the coughing and fatigue and finally shortness of breath weren't a virus, but lung cancer. Advanced lung cancer. In my 58-year-old mother who has never smoked a day in her life (or even lived with a smoker).

The last year has been like, well, like riding a roller coaster, which has some good points, like when the coaster first takes off and you're climbing that big hill and the anticipation is building, but then you get motion sick on the way down, and when the coaster goes upside-down your head feels like it's going to explode.

In the last few months, I have come to think of my mom as "living with cancer," rather than "dying from cancer." According to the doctors, she cannot be cured (although I pray for healing every day), but she's not on her way out either.

She's in limbo. Being in limbo does have some perks. Like I can still call and talk to her on the phone about my kids' basketball games and she can go to Hawaii for her anniversary and if church is really boring, she can say she doesn't feel well and head home.

Being in limbo also stinks. Like when the pet scan shows--maybe--new growths in her neck and back and hip, but the dr.'s not sure so she has three MRI's, but no idea when results will come and you wonder, "Is this it?"

In limbo, you live in the moment. That is a good lesson, I think. Because life, like the roller coaster, lifts you up and down and sometimes makes you want to throw up, but it's worth it, for the moments when you feel like you're flying.

I am grateful for limbo...and roller coasters...and my mom, who is living with cancer.