I sit with my mom through each chemotherapy treatment. Her eyes light up when she talks about her time in the Air Force, and it's helping us both cope.
As a child, my mother had a habit of pointing out various military planes in the sky and explaining their names and purposes.
I heard those same planes zoom overhead on various military bases when I watched her, clad in an Air Force uniform with her short red hair peeking out stubbornly under her hat, command the respect of fellow officers with an ease I admired.
It seemed like nothing could phase her — when it came to overseeing aircraft maintenance squadrons, Lieutenant Colonel Stinson — my mother — was in her element.
How ironic it was that after everything she faced fearlessly in the Air Force, cancer was the one thing that scared her.
Hearing my mom had cancer was a shock
Having retired as a lieutenant colonel after 20 years of service in the early 2000s, my mom had enjoyed post-retired life in San Antonio.
Early this year, she told me of pains in her abdomen that were unbearable. Her doctor recommended a hysterectomy, and during her operation, the doctor removed a large cancerous tumor on her uterus. However, some of her lymph nodes also looked concerning, so some biopsies were taken.
After her hysterectomy, my mom seemed more energetic, returning to the vibrant woman I remembered. During the two-week wait for those biopsy results, I truly believed they wouldn't show cancer. I was wrong.
One of her lymph nodes had cancer. Hearing the Stage 3 uterine cancer diagnosis shattered my delusion. A sense of shock surged through my body that left me feeling strangely numb. I heard the doctor say, "Chemo," and "hair loss," and after weeks of holding back tears, I started to cry.
No prescription can ease the shock of a loved one's cancer diagnosis. However, stories from my mother's past have become the remedy we sorely needed, as I sit with her through each chemotherapy treatment.
We got to talk a lot about the past during her treatment
The older I got, the more I told myself that I would record her story one day, but time slipped by. Then, when I heard the doctor diagnose her with cancer, time seemed more finite.
"You were doing the 'Captain Marvel' thing before it was cool," I'd told her one day while we were sitting in the chemotherapy treatment center.
Becoming a commissioned officer in the Air Force after college had always been my mom's dream. But as she jokingly told me, the Air Force wasn't exactly seeking experts in radio—her major in school.
Instead, there was a greater demand for aircraft maintenance officers. So, after graduating, she found herself in maintenance school — a path she hadn't planned for — and nearly failed out. Still, she was determined to succeed.
Despite the initial setback, my mom slowly but surely rose up the ranks. A combination of her hard work and aptitude for leadership, recognized by the performance boards of her superiors, determined who should be promoted.
Watching her eyes light up with every story she tells is medicine my heart didn't know it needed.
I had taken the stories for granted
My mom had repeatedly told me that she had two major life goals — one was to serve her country. The other was to be a mother.
She had dealt with her fair share of workplace sexism during her tenure, rode in a fighter jet twice as a passenger (another requirement for officers in maintenance squadrons), fallen asleep in cargo planes, helped found a Logistics Scho, overseen the flyover for the late senator Barry Goldwater's funeral, and been invited to be a White House aide.
I had taken her stories for granted growing up, and now I hungered for more of my mother's memories: how a wing commander visited her in the hospital after she gave birth to me, seeing a picture of her in uniform, back turned to the camera, walking toward a fighter jet with her hair firmly in place.
Lost in a sea of memories that weren't mine, I felt a spark reignite in my soul, a fire that had dimmed ever since I had heard the cancer diagnosis. Her stories kept the blaze of the future alight in us both, something more powerful than any fighter jet engine could muster.
My mother has always been a fighter, and she still is. I was doing her a disservice by being sad.
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Yahoo
12 hours ago
- Yahoo
I sit with my mom through each chemotherapy treatment. Her eyes light up when she talks about her time in the Air Force, and it's helping us both cope.
My mom was recently diagnosed with Stage 3 uterine cancer and is going through chemotherapy. I join her for each chemotherapy treatment, and we talk about her exciting days in the Air Force. Her stories are the remedy we needed. They are helping us both cope with the pain. As a child, my mother had a habit of pointing out various military planes in the sky and explaining their names and purposes. I heard those same planes zoom overhead on various military bases when I watched her, clad in an Air Force uniform with her short red hair peeking out stubbornly under her hat, command the respect of fellow officers with an ease I admired. It seemed like nothing could phase her — when it came to overseeing aircraft maintenance squadrons, Lieutenant Colonel Stinson — my mother — was in her element. How ironic it was that after everything she faced fearlessly in the Air Force, cancer was the one thing that scared her. Having retired as a lieutenant colonel after 20 years of service in the early 2000s, my mom had enjoyed post-retired life in San Antonio. Early this year, she told me of pains in her abdomen that were unbearable. Her doctor recommended a hysterectomy, and during her operation, the doctor removed a large cancerous tumor on her uterus. However, some of her lymph nodes also looked concerning, so some biopsies were taken. After her hysterectomy, my mom seemed more energetic, returning to the vibrant woman I remembered. During the two-week wait for those biopsy results, I truly believed they wouldn't show cancer. I was wrong. One of her lymph nodes had cancer. Hearing the Stage 3 uterine cancer diagnosis shattered my delusion. A sense of shock surged through my body that left me feeling strangely numb. I heard the doctor say, "Chemo," and "hair loss," and after weeks of holding back tears, I started to cry. No prescription can ease the shock of a loved one's cancer diagnosis. However, stories from my mother's past have become the remedy we sorely needed, as I sit with her through each chemotherapy treatment. The older I got, the more I told myself that I would record her story one day, but time slipped by. Then, when I heard the doctor diagnose her with cancer, time seemed more finite. "You were doing the 'Captain Marvel' thing before it was cool," I'd told her one day while we were sitting in the chemotherapy treatment center. Becoming a commissioned officer in the Air Force after college had always been my mom's dream. But as she jokingly told me, the Air Force wasn't exactly seeking experts in radio—her major in school. Instead, there was a greater demand for aircraft maintenance officers. So, after graduating, she found herself in maintenance school — a path she hadn't planned for — and nearly failed out. Still, she was determined to succeed. Despite the initial setback, my mom slowly but surely rose up the ranks. A combination of her hard work and aptitude for leadership, recognized by the performance boards of her superiors, determined who should be promoted. Watching her eyes light up with every story she tells is medicine my heart didn't know it needed. My mom had repeatedly told me that she had two major life goals — one was to serve her country. The other was to be a mother. She had dealt with her fair share of workplace sexism during her tenure, rode in a fighter jet twice as a passenger (another requirement for officers in maintenance squadrons), fallen asleep in cargo planes, helped found a Logistics Scho, overseen the flyover for the late senator Barry Goldwater's funeral, and been invited to be a White House aide. I had taken her stories for granted growing up, and now I hungered for more of my mother's memories: how a wing commander visited her in the hospital after she gave birth to me, seeing a picture of her in uniform, back turned to the camera, walking toward a fighter jet with her hair firmly in place. Lost in a sea of memories that weren't mine, I felt a spark reignite in my soul, a fire that had dimmed ever since I had heard the cancer diagnosis. Her stories kept the blaze of the future alight in us both, something more powerful than any fighter jet engine could muster. My mother has always been a fighter, and she still is. I was doing her a disservice by being sad. Read the original article on Business Insider
Business Insider
13 hours ago
- Business Insider
I sit with my mom through each chemotherapy treatment. Her eyes light up when she talks about her time in the Air Force, and it's helping us both cope.
As a child, my mother had a habit of pointing out various military planes in the sky and explaining their names and purposes. I heard those same planes zoom overhead on various military bases when I watched her, clad in an Air Force uniform with her short red hair peeking out stubbornly under her hat, command the respect of fellow officers with an ease I admired. It seemed like nothing could phase her — when it came to overseeing aircraft maintenance squadrons, Lieutenant Colonel Stinson — my mother — was in her element. How ironic it was that after everything she faced fearlessly in the Air Force, cancer was the one thing that scared her. Hearing my mom had cancer was a shock Having retired as a lieutenant colonel after 20 years of service in the early 2000s, my mom had enjoyed post-retired life in San Antonio. Early this year, she told me of pains in her abdomen that were unbearable. Her doctor recommended a hysterectomy, and during her operation, the doctor removed a large cancerous tumor on her uterus. However, some of her lymph nodes also looked concerning, so some biopsies were taken. After her hysterectomy, my mom seemed more energetic, returning to the vibrant woman I remembered. During the two-week wait for those biopsy results, I truly believed they wouldn't show cancer. I was wrong. One of her lymph nodes had cancer. Hearing the Stage 3 uterine cancer diagnosis shattered my delusion. A sense of shock surged through my body that left me feeling strangely numb. I heard the doctor say, "Chemo," and "hair loss," and after weeks of holding back tears, I started to cry. No prescription can ease the shock of a loved one's cancer diagnosis. However, stories from my mother's past have become the remedy we sorely needed, as I sit with her through each chemotherapy treatment. We got to talk a lot about the past during her treatment The older I got, the more I told myself that I would record her story one day, but time slipped by. Then, when I heard the doctor diagnose her with cancer, time seemed more finite. "You were doing the 'Captain Marvel' thing before it was cool," I'd told her one day while we were sitting in the chemotherapy treatment center. Becoming a commissioned officer in the Air Force after college had always been my mom's dream. But as she jokingly told me, the Air Force wasn't exactly seeking experts in radio—her major in school. Instead, there was a greater demand for aircraft maintenance officers. So, after graduating, she found herself in maintenance school — a path she hadn't planned for — and nearly failed out. Still, she was determined to succeed. Despite the initial setback, my mom slowly but surely rose up the ranks. A combination of her hard work and aptitude for leadership, recognized by the performance boards of her superiors, determined who should be promoted. Watching her eyes light up with every story she tells is medicine my heart didn't know it needed. I had taken the stories for granted My mom had repeatedly told me that she had two major life goals — one was to serve her country. The other was to be a mother. She had dealt with her fair share of workplace sexism during her tenure, rode in a fighter jet twice as a passenger (another requirement for officers in maintenance squadrons), fallen asleep in cargo planes, helped found a Logistics Scho, overseen the flyover for the late senator Barry Goldwater's funeral, and been invited to be a White House aide. I had taken her stories for granted growing up, and now I hungered for more of my mother's memories: how a wing commander visited her in the hospital after she gave birth to me, seeing a picture of her in uniform, back turned to the camera, walking toward a fighter jet with her hair firmly in place. Lost in a sea of memories that weren't mine, I felt a spark reignite in my soul, a fire that had dimmed ever since I had heard the cancer diagnosis. Her stories kept the blaze of the future alight in us both, something more powerful than any fighter jet engine could muster. My mother has always been a fighter, and she still is. I was doing her a disservice by being sad.
Yahoo
3 days ago
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Cancer Risk at Air Force Missiles Sites Low 'But Not Zero,' Latest Service Data Shows
Airmen who watched over America's nuclear intercontinental ballistic missiles in Cold War-era facilities faced marginally higher risk of cancer due to contaminants found there and more workplace oversight is needed, according to the latest findings of an Air Force health study. Air Force Global Strike Command, during a town hall event Wednesday, released the latest data showing the slightly elevated cancer risk as part of its ongoing probe into health concerns for America's missileers, maintainers and other support roles at several bases in the Midwest and Western U.S. The lifetime cancer risk for all Americans is around 39%, and the Air Force's Health Risk Assessment found rates of 39.9% to 40.13% for men and women if they would have served anywhere from eight to 70 years in those jobs. Service officials said consistent workplace inspections and monitoring would likely be necessary to address the risks, which are caused by the presence of chemicals and toxins. Read Next: Army Faces Backlash over Plan to Divert Barracks Funds to Border Mission Contaminants linked to cancer were found during a series of environmental studies at F.E. Warren Air Force Base in Wyoming, Malmstrom Air Force Base in Montana, and Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota. "In summary, this health risk assessment characterizes the health risk as low but not zero," Col. Ric Speakman, the commander of the U.S. Air Force School of Aerospace Medicine, said during the town hall presentation. "Therefore, the appropriate action is to include missile alert facility workers in an occupational surveillance." Air Force Global Strike Command is still in the process of an ongoing epidemiological study and is gathering more data from states as well as national cancer registries before more definitive cancer and health conclusions can be made. Last year, reported in an investigative series that past probes by the Air Force into cancer concerns roughly two decades ago went ignored, and past and current missileers and nuclear missile maintainers raised alarms about the environmental conditions, toxins and chemical dangers they faced while in uniform. They believe the conditions made them sick. In the wake of reporting, the service announced changes that included new workplace inspections and health record tracking, and the spouse of a missileer who died from non-Hodgkin lymphoma was able to secure Department of Veterans Affairs benefits related to his death. While polychlorinated biphenyls, or PCBs, were one of the known outlawed carcinogenes that the Air Force's remediation efforts focused on, research shown during Wednesday's town hall showed there were other toxins detected as well that were factored into the service's health risk assessment. "Although only PCBs were detected at levels above the Environmental Protection Agency's standards for cleanup and remediation, the environmental sampling was sensitive enough to detect chemicals such as benzene and chloroform at levels well below standards for remediation," a Thursday news release from Air Force Global Strike Command following the town hall said. The Torchlight Initiative, a grassroots organization that began shortly after a Space Force officer and former Air Force missileer raised concerns about non-Hodgkin lymphoma rates at Malmstrom, released its own independent study in April examining the rates of blood cancer reported in its online health registry. That study found that service members were diagnosed at younger ages compared to the wider population. Air Force Global Strike Command officials briefly mentioned that study at the town hall, stating that, "while this study is separate from the missile community cancer study, it does add to the work advocacy and the well-being of the missile community." Representatives from the Torchlight Initiative were on Capitol Hill in early April alongside other advocacy groups, and made a plea to lawmakers in hopes of expanding the PACT Act -- a 2022 law that mostly covered veterans sickened by toxic exposure in war zones -- to cover those who experienced health issues stateside as well. "The Torchlight Initiative is happy to hear that Global Strike and U.S. Air Force School of Aerospace Medicine are still working on their long-term study and research," the organization said in a statement to on Thursday. "However, our focus and energy remains with the families who are disproportionately affected by these cancers and illnesses." The remaining data in the ongoing health study is slated to be released in late 2025. Gen. Thomas Bussiere, the head of Air Force Global Strike Command, said during the town hall he would advocate for a registry, if the VA also supported such a move, based on the study's findings. "The level of interest and oversight with the Department of the Air Force and Congress has not waned, and I'm very thankful and happy with the interest and actions on the part of the VA," Bussiere said in a news release after the town hall. "They've been great partners, and I anticipate they will continue to be great partners." Related: Independent Study Raises Alarm About Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma at Malmstrom Air Force Base
