Well, no, actually. At least, not for me. If you thought my seventh year was bad, hold onto your hats.
When I was eight, my mom went back to school to become a medical transcriptionist. She finished her program a year later and was offered a job at a local hospital where she had interned while studying. But within a month, it was clear that all was not well. A visit to the doctor, followed by a mammogram, confirmed the truth.
She had cancer.
A mastectomy was scheduled and chemo was ordered. But with a diagnosis of advanced breast cancer, a cure was a longshot. She did everything she could to beat it. Prayer after prayer was said by more people than I can count.
We spent a lot of time together that year, visiting places like the Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend. But we also spent much time apart, as she traveled to the Mayo Clinic and the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics for treatment. She even got on an airplane for the first time in her life and flew to Texas to visit a childhood friend. The time apart was hard on me, as I was very close to my mother. But it was not as hard as what was to come.
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