For me, that day is January 30, 2011.

Around noon, I receive a call from my sister saying her and my father are taking my mom to the local hospital. At breakfast, she began to not make any sense with her words and had thrown up.

Upon arrival at the hospital, a CT scan is performed which shows a 2.3cm mass on her left temporal lobe. I receive the news via another phone call, and knowing nothing about brain tumors, think to myself “At least it’s not a stroke.” How little did I know.

Unequipped for the type of treatment this requires, her local hospital puts her in line to be transported to a more susbtantial medical center in Wilmington, just down the street from my sister’s house. While waiting, Mom experiences a seizure. I’m beginning to think this is a bit worse than originally expected and begin my Googling. Google turns out to be a mixed blessing; I now know a great deal about what we’re dealing with, but it also reveals a harsh truth. Brain tumors are incurable.

I gather my things and set off two days after this all began. There’s nothing I can do, but at times like these, family needs to stick together. After several more tests, we meet with her surgeon who tells us what we’re up against and breaks the news to us that he’s fairly certain her tumor is malignant.

Unlike other bodily tumors, “malignant” is kind of a misnomer. All brain tumors are bad and are likely terminal. There are four grades of tumors as well. Grades 1 & 2 are considered benign, while 3 & 4 are malignant. The grading merely tells you just how aggressive the cells are and how short an amount of time you have. Someone with a Grade 1 might live for 20 years, while a Grade 4 averages a year after diagnosis. Treatment isn’t an option. Without it, cut those numbers in half.

On Thursday, surgery is scheduled. Thigns go well, the doctor is able to remove 95% (98% or more is related to a better survival rate… just our luck) with the other 5% being around her speech center, which he doesn’t want to mess with. We meet with him following the surgery while Mom is still in recovery, and he tells us the most devastating news possible… He’s quite certain we’re looking at a Grade 4, but will know for sure when the pathology report comes back.

I can’t even describe what it’s like to find out a loved one is dying. Unfairly. At too young an age. And from something entirely out of their control (brain tumors are completly random). For two to three days, I was an absolute mess. I feel bad for Mom, I feel bad for Dad, I feel bad for myself… I want her to enjoy what should be her relaxing years (Mom and Dad moved to their dream home just last year and are still unpacking), I don’t want Dad to be alone, I want her to see me wed, I want her to see my children. In one fell swoop, that’s all been taken away.

On Monday morning, the pathology report returns and confirms the worst. If Mom follows the average, we have 53 weeks left with her. She’ll undergo six weeks of radiation and chemotherapy once she’s recovered from surgery. If that works well, they’ll continue it. If it doesn’t, they’ll adjust, cease, or look into alternative treatments or studies.

So, here we are… Not knowing how long we have left. Not knowing what we’re facing in the coming months. Will she lose her speech next week? Will she lose her memory the week after? The hardest part is not knowing. These things are completely random. She may even be perfectly normal until the end.

Equally hard is not being there. I was able to spend nearly two weeks with her at the start of all this, but I don’t want to run work’s goodwill short when Mom is near 100% and not needing help around the house, but at the same time I want to see her on all her good days. I don’t want to miss a thing. I don’t know what to do.

I do know we’ve got a heck of a year ahead of us. We’re a strong family and we’ll get through this.

I started a CaringBridge site for her, which wil likely receive far more updates on the subject than here. Hop on over there if you’re interested.

Finally, whether you’re into prayer, meditation, or whatever, please continue to send positive energy towards my mom. This is hard enough for me, I couldn’t begin to fathom what this is all like for her, one of the sweetest, most caring, most selfless people I’ve ever met… I’m lucky… She’s my mom, I love her, and always will.