Last night, I found out just how it feels when you have a conversation with someone about what they want on their tombstone that doesn't involve pepperoni.

I wasn't even sure if I was going to write about this, but I am, mostly because I can't figure out how I would not write about this.

Last week, my mom was diagnosed with esophogeal cancer.

It really is just about as awesome as it sounds.

She'd been sick with something for a while. We all thought it was an ulcer, or bad acid reflux. Cancer really wasn't even on the table. She would eat, it wouldn't matter what, and sometimes she'd have to throw up until it was all out of her system. Sometimes not. She had just been on a cruise with her sisters, and was fine the entire eight days, no vomiting. So we all thought, "Ah, OK, she was on vacation, and she was fine. Relaxed. This has to be some kind of ulcer thing that the stress of working exacerbated. She'll get treated and all will be well."

Cancer was the furthest thing from anyone's mind. Our family has no history of cancer, definitely not on her side. Her mother and grandmother both lived to be ancient, tiny old ladies, finally dying only after apparently becoming bored with kindly doling out Christmas and birthday presents.

She never, ever smoked, and would rarely drink, two of the risk factors. One thing I am also sure of is that she is not now nor has ever been an African American male, the group that this type of cancer is most likely to strike.

It was the day after the test that was supposed to find out just how nasty this nasty little ulcer was being. I was driving when she told me, and if I hadn't been on a flat street, the way my stomach flipped would have made me think I had just accidentally flew off the side of the road and into empty air.

"Well, turns out it's cancer!" she said. Almost flippant. Like someone who had lost their keys the day before, spent all night looking for them, and then bemusedly reported "Well, turns out they were in my coat!"

Probably the exact fucking same way I would tell someone I had cancer.

My family has a history of black humor. Just ask the box containing my dad's ashes and the various things we've stacked on it.

A five centimeter mass in her esophogus. A golf ball of bad news.

She has a test this coming Thursday to find out if it's spread, and, if so, to what extent. If it hasn't spread, there's going to be some surgery, and if it has, there's going to be some chemo, some radiation, and then some surgery. Despite all that, everything I've read about this type of cancer, once it's spread, all points to the Big Not Good, usually within a year after diagnosis.

She says she's remaining upbeat, but she has her moments of negativity. She has a great support system. Her sisters have barely left her side. My brother that isn't in denial tries to drive her to appointments. A guidance counselor that works at her school who had chemo last year said that she'll come hold her hand when she has to go through it. A former co-worker of hers drove to Devon and Milwaukee to pick up a neckace with the patron saint of cancer patients, took it to a Logan Square church to have it blessed by a priest and add her to a prayer list, and then took it out to my mom's house on the westside, all in a day. Quite a trudge.

When I initially accepted this job, going home for Christmas wasn't part of my deal. Now it is. My boss has been super cool, telling me to take as much time as I need. I was in shock after hearing the news, and took the Friday after Thanksgiving off, basically sequestering myself in my apartment and just processing the news over that long weekend.

I'm kind of at a place of numbness right now. Until the next test results, we won't really know for sure the likely outcome, so it's hard to work up the energy to feel particularly positive or negative. It's not that I'm not worried, or sad...I am, but considering that you just don't know until you know, why whip yourself into any sort of state?

Still, though...it's tough. Staying positive is fucking tough. Especially when you've already lost one parent. I'm not supposed to turn 30 next year and not have parents. My brothers aren't supposed to be in their mid twenties and not have a mom and dad. My future kids are supposed to have a grandma who dotes on them and gives them Christmas presents. I promised my mom, once a wannabe actress, a role in a project I made someday. "My mom has cancer" was never supposed to be in the vocabulary. "Both of my parents are gone" wasn't supposed to be said for a long, long time...

I was talking to her on the phone last night. She was telling me this story about a test she went through recently. It was cracking me up. It wasn't really about anything, nothing in particular happened in the story. She just told it in her funny way, with her own little set of observations, her own little delivery of the facts.

Later in the conversation, she told me what she wanted on her tombstone, how she'd like to be remembered if worse comes to worst: "She made people laugh."

And really, at this point, you just have to.