Got a short email from dad yesterday informing me that grandma prolly has stomach cancer. Wikipedia tells me that five year survival prognosis of late diagnosed gastric cancer is 30%. It’s still not confirmed, and I don’t know what symptoms lead to them discovering it, but it’s not good no matter how you look at it.
Granma has always been extremely self-sacrificing to the point of absurdity in taking care of her family, and if some people can be said to live off of cosmic love rays, she’s living by sheer concern for the misery of man. Anyway: Fuck, fuckity fuckfuck.
— update —
Sure enough, it’s cancer and they’re going to do radiation therapy.
Also, my maternal grandmother is in the hospital as well, with what probably amounts to a gastric ulcer. She’s been ill for quite some time, and hates being as weak as she is. A couple of years ago when I visited her I remember hearing her cry out in pain during the night – she’d keep her shit together during day, but she’s more or less in constant pain and on lots of meds and I guess the stoic front can only last so long.
I can’t imagine how it feels to be clearheaded while your body is breaking down piece by piece. I imagine that at some point the feeling of being broken must become a personality trait. Or can you still perceive yourself as another person, a “whole” person?