Warnings: This entry is extraordinarily confessional and also very painful to write. It is something, though, that I feel I have to write because I need the level of catharsis that I hope it will bring. You may very well have difficulty reading it. That is your problem. And, quite simply, this isn't about YOU either, so just deal with it or skip to the next entry (when I write it).
It is now about 11:00 PM on 2/15/02. The time between 7:00 PM yesterday and about the same time today was, almost without doubt, the worst 24 hours of my life so far. I add the "so far" caveat because I'm almost afraid that the fates are perfectly prepared to zap me if I tempt them in the slightest.
The trial, and this truly has been (and, unfortunately, will continue to be) a trial, actually started two days earlier, on Tuesday, 2/12. My mother has not been feeling well lately. When she finally asked for my help last week, she told me that not only had she fallen into a depression filled emotional pit, but she was also not feeling that great physically. She was having great difficulty eating and keeping food down and her tastes had changed significantly, such that foods she normally liked were no longer agreeable to her. In addition, she was having more difficulty than normal walking around and was moving only with great pain in her buttock and leg on the left side.
Since November, 2000, my mother has lived by herself in a house that, realistically, is very ill-suited for her. Originally we bought the house (and I say "we" because I'm part-owner) together and I lived on the top floor while she lived on the bottom (ground) floor. She had a level-entrance (no stairs), a partial kitchen (no oven) and the laundry room (no walking up / down stairs to do laundry). However, the lower level was also not the warmest in winter and the lack of an oven made it less pleasant for her to cook (a pastime she has always enjoyed).
When we moved out, she moved upstairs. Now, the front entrance was 7 stair-steps away and another two out the front porch. The garage was another 7 stair-steps away. I cringe in retrospect every time I think about the hell that she put herself through just bringing groceries in from the car.
My mother is prone to extended periods of depression and has never sought help for them, no matter the urging. When she was working, she was able to force herself to keep going. She retired when she had to because she needed to help take care of my grandmother (which was too much of a thankless task, but that's another story that I'm trying desperately to blot out lest it continue to have psychic repercussions).
For my mother to actually reach out to me for help was surprising. The state that I found her in was depressing and painful to see. She hadn't had a haircut in probably about 3 months or so. She'd never tried to get someone to clean the house and she's really unable to expend the energy to do so herself (never mind that she never really had that much of an inclination). The bills were horribly overdue for being paid and she'd already started to receive (as we call them) "Pay or die" notices. The newspapers were collecting at the foot of the driveway and she hadn't gotten the mail in a couple of days.
I was horrified. I was also completely unprepared for what was about to come. We spent last week Thursday and this past Saturday getting things pulled together. The bills got paid, she got a haircut and went to the bank and I got what miniscule food she thought she might be able to eat. We also made a doctor's appointment for her for this past Tuesday (2/12).
At the doctor's, as she went through her list of symptoms, I could see him growing both concerned and angry. He was angry (as he expressed it) because, "How could you (my mom) be uncomfortable for 6 weeks and not come in to the office?" The concern quickly became apparent because he wanted a chest and left knee X-ray and CAT scan done immediately. Literally, immediately. I wound up taking her from his office to an Imaging / Radiology department for the X-ray and for the CAT scan at the same place the next day. I later found out that he had to move heavan and earth with the insurance company to get them to agree to the procedures.
I mistakenly asked him (in my mother's presence) what he was looking for. He replied, in what will wind up being one of the (unfortunately) defining moments of my life, "metastasizing cancer".
My mother has been a three-time cancer survivor - three separate incidents, years apart. 1 case of cervical and 2 of breast. She's had major surgeries each time and the first case of breast cancer also involved lengthy radiation and chemo-therapy. It was also probably responsible for destroying her thyroid function and putting her on the first of the long-term medications she's needed to take. She's practically been a poster child for cancer survival.
Someone who's survived cancer three times should NEVER have to sit there and have a doctor tell them that cancer is back in their life. There should be some kind of form you get that says that you've beaten the disease three times, you never need to worry about it again.
Sadly, and I suspect you saw where this was going, that is not the case.
As I sit here, my mother has diffusely metastasized cancer. That means it's all over. Most likely, she has kidney cancer and it may very well be Renal Cell Carcinoma. It has spread into her lungs and into her bones and she has a very large tumor contained in her left kidney. While her doctor is not an oncologist, he admits that the prognosis is not good. It is, by the nature of the spread, a Stage IV cancer, which is the last stage.
I sit here with the knowledge that there's a disease raging through my mother's body that, if untreated, will kill her. I don't know what her decision will be about whether or not to treat it. My mother has always been a fighter - you don't get to be a three-time survivor without being one. But I also know that she's getting very tired of fighting. She's got a defective heart valve and some arthritis and she's just getting tired.
During the drive today to get her and take her to the doctor so he could tell her that she has cancer (which I already knew because he told me last night when he called to tell me that I had to bring her in), I had to sit in the car telling myself, over and over again, "This is not about me!".
Because it's not about me. It's about her. It has to be about her. If it were about me, I'd be screaming about the fact that I really don't want to lose my mommy. I'd be raging at whoever would be willing to listen (and even if they wouldn't), that, even at 34, I'm too damn young to be an orphan. I'd be writing giant signs everywhere that it's just fucking wrong for me to potentially lose my grandmother and my mother within the space of a year or so, and both to cancer.
But it's not about me. It's not about you. It's about her. She's the one who's going to have to make the decision about whether to treat or not. She's the one who's going to need to live (or not) with that decision. I have to be strong and support her, no matter what she decides.
Along the way, though, I'm going to be doing a lot of crying and when it's over, I think I'm just going to go have a nice nervous breakdown. After all, by then, there won't be anyone else for it to be about, so it'll have to be about me.
P.S. I've said multiple times that I'm not religious. But if you are and you have it in your heart, a prayer said for my mother would not be unappreciated. At this point, I'm fervently hoping that, no matter what she decides to do, it is not painful for her. If nothing else, she deserves a little peace and happiness no matter how much time she has left.
P.P.S. My wife is convinced that I'm going to ruin my health because I'm not getting enough rest. Since I really don't want her to be right, I'm going to end this now (a bit teary-eyed with my closing thoughts above) and go to get some sleep.
Author: ben@tmk.com