Tomorrow is Mother’s last test to determine what, if anything, is wrong with her (physically, anyway, since we already know the mental part). And except for an annoying call a little earlier, she’s been a million times better than she was a month ago, and like I said a few days ago, that’s been a fantastic turn of events—definitely easier on me, anyway. And she’s actually been pretty zen about the test itself, which is a miracle considering.

But now—and this just hit me in the last hour, so I’m not processing anything at the moment—I’m the one that’s freaked out about what it might find. Googling colon cancer just now didn’t help; turns out that some of the symptoms she’s been having are in fact indicative of colon cancer. Not going to tell HER that, of course, but ... then again, her doctor said her lower stomach didn’t feel lumpy or hard, and that was a good sign, and nobody’s talked about her being anemic. Still, I’ve spent so much time focusing on her mental health (which, make no mistake, I was absolutely correct to do so) that I haven’t really thought about what a cancer diagnosis would mean. Selective thinking at its finest, right? But here it is, and I don’t like it one bit, especially the part about how it would affect me. Yeah, no need to pile on about how shitty it is of me to think that way; the Catholic guilt and I already have that covered, thanks.

The test’s at 9 a.m. Don’t know how much we’ll know immediately after.