I had to keep it secret. From my family, from my own mom even. It's been over a year now. I've finally gotten info my chest.

I'm sharing it with people who will hopefully relate.

Mom found out a few weeks later, after the results of her biopsy came back. While she was still in hospital recovering from emergency bowel surgery at 74.

Looking back on that night, as if from a mounted camera above the room, it reads like a scene from a tragic novel. Or a cliche scene from a tropy tragic movie.

Mom and I are feeling victorious. The rush of relief has given us a second wind and we feel like champions. The prize comes at a cost of course. No gain without sacrifice and what not, but to get to the cause of mom's agonizing stomach pain and to know that it can be solved gives us energy. Almost a high. Makes it seem like all the waiting around in the emergency room, waiting for tests, waiting to talk to Dr's, and then waiting some more has finally paid off. We are joking around, me in a chair, mom restless, walking around the bed in the curtained room while she can before the pain comes back.

The young female Dr comes in to fill us in on the results of the scan. A double bowel obstruction that could easily untangle itself in the next few hours, also apologetically informs us that there is "a shadow" on moms pancreas and a few others on the liver. "I'm so sorry, again" she says as she leaves. I find it funny she needs to apologize for telling us more details of the scan. "No need to be sorry! Thank you so much!"

The words kind of hang in the air, but I don't grasp at them. I'm aware they're there, but too elated and victorious to take them in.

Moms tummy hurts again, so she lays down to rest, while i scroll reddit.

A little while later, a man who introduces him self as lead radiologist enters the room and a young, tall, crony follows behind with a clipboard.

Mom hops out of bed with her hand on her hip.

"Just wanted to check in and see how you're feeling" Mom explains that she's still in considerable pain, but it comes and goes. He tells her that should the pain subside, they'll do another scan and chances are she could go home in the morning. "These things tend to sort themselves out." The alternative is surgery to correct the obstruction. He then casually adds, "I assume the Dr told you about the diagnosis.."

Those words felt like someone just punched all the air right out of me. But I managed, "what diagnosis?"

The Dr backpeddles, figuratively and literally as he mumbles something and says he'll be returning soon to check up, backing out of the room.

I follow him out. He's already halfway down the hall. I call out to him and rush to cut him off.

"I'm sorry, Dr. But what did you say there about a diagnosis? We were told there was a correctable bowel obstruction. The Dr mentioned shadows on the scan. Mom wasn't diagnosed with anything."

He looks down, then at his croney. My mind is reeling. The absence of an answer is making me panicky and frantic. It feels like time has stopped, and it's making me want to scream and vomit. I want to shake this fancy "lead radiologist" by his stupid white lapels.

I compose myself, and demand. "What diagnosis."

He explains that the shadows on the scan means that my mom has pancreatic cancer. It has spread to the liver. I almost scoff. I ask him, this is just a shadow, what convinces you this is cancer?

He explains again that he's the lead radiologist with decades of experience, and in his decades of experience, this is what it looks like to him.

I consider this, and then reject the idea.

My mom is considerably healthy. Aside from the recent, and sudden, intense pain in her abdomen, which has since been explained away, my mom is healthy. Active. Very spry for her age. She routinely carries heavy groceries up 3 flights of stairs, she watches over my very bouncy toddler, sometimes all day long. She does the laundry. She cooks, she cleans. Everyday. This is not what a sick person looks, or acts like.

"If you are right, and this is cancer. What is the prognosis." I am clearly offended at this point, these questions aren't phrased as questions. They are angry statements.

He hesitates. Looks again to his croney, then to the floor, and makes times stop again. Like an evil fucking wizard. I assure him, he can tell me. It's fine. I can handle it. I just want to know. I'll be fine. Please. Mom doesn't even have to know. Just tell me. Please.

One and a half, to two years.

I cannot hold the tears back any more. They become a flash flood down my face. I quickly and repeatedly wipe them away.

"Thank you."

I turn around. I have about 7 or 8 steps at most, before I'm back in the room with mom. She cannot see me cry. She cannot know what they just told me. Not yet. I pause for a second and just breathe.

I put on my best Oscar worthy face. I grab paper towels near by and make sure my cheeks are dry. I use every possible ounce of strength I have to Stop. Fucking. Crying. I enter the room. Thank God its lowly lit.

"Sorry to leave so quick" and give her some off the cuff bullshit about something I had to ask the Dr about real quick. Real casual and cool. Like the Fonze.

"They told you I'm dying didn't they."

Flabbergasted, I respond with, "mom! Wtf! Omg I was asking them about some bullshit I can't even remember looking back on it! Be convinced of my lie because I know how easily influenced you are and if you find out you might have cancer, you might just say fuck this shit im out and I just can't have that!! Ok? So no! They did not!! ..How is your pain?"