So... cancer. My mom has cancer now, by the way, for those of you that missed the memo. I've been informed by a few people that it looks like I'm taking the news of my mom's breast cancer pretty well.

Funny. It doesn't FEEL like it.

It feels like a group effort in our family to keep from freaking out at any given moment. Sometimes for no reason at all I'll feel the back of my eyes burning, realize in horror that I'm about to cry at work/church/in front of my mom, and fight it down. I haven't cried yet, even though my mom looks miserable. She's been in poor health for a while now, and even though I've been terrified that we're going to lose her soon and this could certainly play a part in it, I feel like I can't even grasp the fullness of the situation; every single new lifestyle change feels surreal and hits me at weird times.

I've never seen mom sit down so much.

I've already decided to participate in Race for the Cure, and have kidnapped several of my friends into it, too. (This includes you, Katie; you just don't know it yet, because you're in Greece. Or will be soon. Roundabouts Greece, anyway.) I feel like a horrible human being for never having participated BEFORE my mom was diagnosed with cancer; I just never made the time, and feel rotten for having waited until it directly affected my life.

My mom starts her chemotherapy on Thursday. They're saying that her hair will start falling out within two weeks of the treatment starting.

This is so WEIRD, in the worst way.

We were flipping through the book of wigs they sent home with my mom after her day-long hospital visit on Friday. Most of the styles were short, which is fine since my mom's had since short hair for the past 10 years or so, and all of them were styles that petered out in the mid-90s, on serene faces of unconvincingly cheerful middle-aged models. The conversation was strained and awkward at first, but lightened some as I lamented the lack of a mohawk, but announced that the pink "designer's choice," was definitely the one my mom should go for. Dad was telling her that she should say good riddance to her dark hair and try strawberry blonde for a change. He said he wanted to shave his head to show his support, but mom wouldn't let him. "I've seen you bald," she laughed.

I started making some incredibly tactless joke about me shaving my head for solidarity, then realized halfway through that I didn't mean it. I don't think I could shave my head. It would scare the crap out of me... And there's my mom, without a choice.

SO I'm thinking at least of cutting my hair off and donating it for cancer patients. Now, my hair is quite long. I've been working on it for three years now, nearly four. And I LOVE my long hair, always have, and HATE how I look with short hair. In my eyes, my hair has only just recovered from the last time I donated it my junior year of high school. But then, after the thought has crossed my mind, it seems like the Right Thing To Do, and keeping it seems vain and petty of me.

Dammit.

I HATE this. I wish there were something I could do.

And I try not to feel bad about the situation, because practically, dwelling on it won't make it any better and being depressed and unpleasant won't make me a joy to have around for anyone, least of all my mom, but then on the rare occasions I succeed in not feeling bad, I feel bad for not feeling bad, and then I feel horrible for making it seem like it's about me and not my mom.

Sometimes I honestly think I'm crazy, not in the "Haha, Jackie's so zany" sort of way but more in the "Don't give Jackie anything sharp, we're not sure what she'd do with it" way.