Making Cancer a Disease of the Past

We sailed down the 10 Freeway on our way to USC Norris Cancer Center. When I pulled up to the valet, my stomach flip-flopped, just like I knew it would. As much as I love what this hospital provided for my mother when she battled brain cancer, I can’t help feeling ill when I walk into the sliding doors. The smells—an odd mixture of cleaning agents and baby lotion—and the fluorescent lights brought back dark memories. Days when we sat waiting for lab results. Hours waiting in the lobby while the chemotherapy was administered. Doctors whispering outside the room, weighing my mother’s treatment.

But today, my mother walked into the doors on her own—and not in a wheelchair—and grabbed my hand as we passed by the receptionist area. They smiled at my mom from afar. My mother’s nurses came out and gave my mom a hug in the lobby as we waited to see her doctor.



I’m writing as my mom and I sit in overstuffed chairs waiting to be called. Waiting. I hate waiting. Waiting for the unknown has a way of silently creeping into the soul and shaking its foundation. I grab my mother’s hand as my leg nervously shakes.










The doctors want to perform a lumbar puncture (spinal tap), but I’m praying they don’t have to. The last time my mother had an LP performed, she couldn’t walk for almost two weeks. It’s very painful and I don’t want to see her go through this again.

So we wait. And wait.

Even though I’m nervous, I have a peace about things. Come what may, this too shall pass. And—God willing—cancer will be a disease of the past.