I was planning on writing a column about how my roommate's X-Box takes it personally when I decide to work on all my finals projects instead of giving it attention.
I was planning on writing a column about the best places in Bracken Library to annoy people who are trying to get everything done before grades are submitted next week.
This week was going swimmingly, other than the occasional four-hour homework binge and this and that to do around the house, while next week was sure to be stress-free.
Suddenly, however, my Finals Week won't be one of video games or full of laughter.
I learned Thursday morning that my mother has ovarian cancer.
I didn't really flinch when my parents got divorced during my sophomore year in high school. I just packed up and moved across town with my dad and it was settled. I also accepted death as a part of life when I was twice a pallbearer at my grandmother's and grandfather's funerals.
I've never really been the type of guy to lash out at the world and wonder why certain things are they way they are. I like to consider myself a realist.
But now I find myself asking the same question that assuredly millions of others close to cancer patients ask on a daily basis: Why her?
Why this woman who wouldn't hurt an ant, but when crossed can hold her own with the best of them?
Why this woman who at one point knew the importance of the sacrifice bunt, the pinch runner and the bullpen catcher?
Why this woman who spent her lunch breaks burping right alongside me at Taco Bell before taking me to my afternoon kindergarten classes?
I still remember that like it was yesterday.
It didn't help things when the reporter in me forced myself to look up facts about ovarian cancer and learn that it is the fourth-leading cause of cancer-related deaths in women. It also doesn't help to know that ovarian cancer has been known as the "silent killer" due to its non-specific primary symptoms such as back pain, bloating or tiredness.
In times like these when I'm supposed to be making a useless portfolio Web site for my English class and a stupid Jeopardy game for a presentation about the stock market in my math class, news like this comes along and makes it all 300 percent harder to concentrate on schoolwork.
As I spend my entire bank account on useless presents for people that I see four times a year, it's hard to be jolly right now.
Merry Christmas, Andrew. Your mother has cancer.
But that's a selfish attitude.
As all of this stress and bad news pile up, I have to sit back and go back to the philosophy I have followed for years: realism.
Why did my mother get this disease? Because it's the way things are.
The only thing I can do is be there for her and hope the season of giving is true this year.
With that said, this one's for you Mom. I love you.
Write to Andrew at adwalker@bsu.edu
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