they found a three centimeter tumor in her pancreas

note: this post was originally from our stillness, a now defunct blogging project.

When I was 16 and didn't know what depressive episodes were, I bought a self-help book titled How to Be Happy (Or at Least Less Sad). I got home from school on the day the book was delivered and found it graffitied in my mom's handwriting with the words, “Just be happy.” I think there couldn't be a more accurate way to describe how my mother handles—or doesn't handle—immense suffering.

And yet, as I'm laying in bed and counting the seconds to daybreak, I've never needed my mom's toxic positivity more than right now. I had taught myself to not rely on her for comfort; she didn't know she was in need of it herself. But here I am, waiting for her to wake up so she can text me back with her usual denial that there is something wrong.

95% of people who are diagnosed with pancreatic cancer don't make it. The doctor told us the odds of her having pancreatic cancer are 85%. Hell of a coin toss.

She told me that she's experienced ascites before, but didn't listen to her doctor's advice and just asked for antibiotics instead. Up until the day she was admitted to the ER, she thought this suffering was life punishing her for neglecting her health for the past few decades. I wish she believed in heaven instead of karma.

We haven't told my mom yet that the tumors spread to her lungs and abdomen. We haven't told my sister that it's cancer. We haven't told our grandparents that she's ill.

My dad asked my aunt for a book so he can read to my mom while covering his swollen eyes from a week’s worth of crying. My mom noticed that I looked distraught as I held her hand over the hospital bed and told me that the tumors were minor and everything will be fine.

All we're ever doing is hiding. Everything.