On Thursday mom and I headed into the cancer center for a CBC (Complete Blood Count). Having already needed 3 units of blood the expectation was that she may need more on a regular basis. It's my understanding that some Stage IV cancer patients rarely need blood, some fairly regularly and some a couple times a week or more.
There was supposed to be a fairly large snow storm over night. Mom hates the snow and driving in it and I worry about the stress it would cause her. I did not sleep much the night before as a result. I woke up to pouring rain, no snow. One less thing to worry about in a sea of endless worries. The fact that there was no snow made me happier than I have been in a few weeks now. So maybe its the little things that will get us through.
After dropping the little guy off at school I made my way across town to get mom and we went to the cancer center. It's just a local center and I often wish she'd get a second opinion and consider a different Oncologist. After all my mother's life is in his hands. I do take comfort in the nurses and the radiation oncologist. Although neither I nor mom have a lot of faith in her Oncologist she is afraid of the unknown and is not ready to consider other doctors to follow her just yet. I don't want to push her. It needs to be her decision, she has to want it and embrace it.
The last time that I spent time in the center was over three years ago when mom began her Chemo. Her nurses were wonderful. They were like extended family, they new most things about both of us. We practically lived there in the worst moments of life so it seems that was inevitable. I wonder just how big your heart must be to do what they do each and every day for countless patients like my mom. To put your heart and soul in something in that way.
One of mom's nurses saw us in passing and she thought we were just in for a post cancer check up. Thankfully mom was in the lab and I was able to break the news to her without mom hearing (of course she was smart enough to ask me afterwards so I still had to tell her, but I started her in the moment). She was very supportive and offered a story of hope. There are lot's of options, people live for years now, not all but some.
When mom finished in the lab we went back to the waiting room for the results. The mark is 25. Anything lower means we stay for the day and get a transfusion. Her results were 30. Just 5 points above the mark. Then came the relief. I haven't seen relief in her eyes for a while. I am holding onto that look. The slight smile that said something small but good just happened.
Later that day my car battery light came on, low voltage I am told. It may need a $500 alternator when all is said and done. It's still in the shop now. I made a poor decision to eat Chinese food of all things and ended up with food poisoning that I am still suffering from as I type. When it rains it pours as the saying goes.
That's all okay though because yesterday my mom smiled a smile of relief and though it was brief I am holding onto that smile and waiting vigilantly for more of the little things.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Wishes...
It hasn't felt much like Christmas this year. Mostly it just felt like walking through my life without actually living in it. Allot like Ebenezer in "A Christmas Carol" except I am not a scrooge and this is not a dream. Unfortunately it is realty.
Late on Christmas Eve after my son (age 4) went to bed my husband and I sat by the fire while he wrapped the last few gifts (we actually planned ahead this year) and I cried off and on as we talked. Sometimes it's the moments of silence in the warmth of my home, sitting with my loved ones near that lead my thoughts to what I stand to lose and the tears come crashing down. There's no stopping them. It's overwhelming this idea that my beautiful mother has this awful disease slowly (enough to be excruciating) killing her, taking her much too soon. Then my thoughts turn to what she stands to lose, what she has already lost and how is she making it through each day? Each minute? The emotional agony that I feel seems unbearable. I feel like it's swallowing me whole, so how must she feel? And is there even anything I can do to help, to really make a difference.
I just want to hug my mother over and over and tell her I love her. I just want to be near her. To sit in silence. To talk. Anything at all that will make my memories of her richer, stronger. I just don't want to waist the precious time we still have but I worry that I am making it harder for her too.
In the last few minutes before my husband and I turned in for the night after we' d just finished talking about how excited my son was for Christmas (talking about anything helps to keep my mind from wondering back to the one problem I can't solve) I said "I really wish we at least get a dusting of snow, he's so excited about Christmas and that would make it perfect". The next morning very early my son climbed into our bed to wake us up. Santa was here, he left some of his cookies behind for the little guy, along with a dusting of snow.
Did I just waist a precious wish? There was no snow in the forecast but there was a dusting of snow on Christmas morning. Oh that I wished for a miracle. Or are wishes for those without faith. I wonder. Where is my faith? Well, I left it behind long ago. At least in the religious sense. Is this a reminder that I should find it again? I don't know, but I have asked myself that allot lately.
Late on Christmas Eve after my son (age 4) went to bed my husband and I sat by the fire while he wrapped the last few gifts (we actually planned ahead this year) and I cried off and on as we talked. Sometimes it's the moments of silence in the warmth of my home, sitting with my loved ones near that lead my thoughts to what I stand to lose and the tears come crashing down. There's no stopping them. It's overwhelming this idea that my beautiful mother has this awful disease slowly (enough to be excruciating) killing her, taking her much too soon. Then my thoughts turn to what she stands to lose, what she has already lost and how is she making it through each day? Each minute? The emotional agony that I feel seems unbearable. I feel like it's swallowing me whole, so how must she feel? And is there even anything I can do to help, to really make a difference.
I just want to hug my mother over and over and tell her I love her. I just want to be near her. To sit in silence. To talk. Anything at all that will make my memories of her richer, stronger. I just don't want to waist the precious time we still have but I worry that I am making it harder for her too.
In the last few minutes before my husband and I turned in for the night after we' d just finished talking about how excited my son was for Christmas (talking about anything helps to keep my mind from wondering back to the one problem I can't solve) I said "I really wish we at least get a dusting of snow, he's so excited about Christmas and that would make it perfect". The next morning very early my son climbed into our bed to wake us up. Santa was here, he left some of his cookies behind for the little guy, along with a dusting of snow.
Did I just waist a precious wish? There was no snow in the forecast but there was a dusting of snow on Christmas morning. Oh that I wished for a miracle. Or are wishes for those without faith. I wonder. Where is my faith? Well, I left it behind long ago. At least in the religious sense. Is this a reminder that I should find it again? I don't know, but I have asked myself that allot lately.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Incurable...
On Friday, December 14th at approximately 2:30pm the Oncologist walked into the exam room where my mother and I sat waiting. The look on his face said it all. The three years that mom had been cancer free were over. She is no longer that incredible woman who fought her Breast Cancer with grace and dignity, who endured the endless needles, surgery, chemo therapy {I assure you there is nothing theraputic about it!} and radiation, followed by hormone blockers. She is now considered "incurable".
I can't possibly describe the gut wrenching feeling when a doctor tells you that time is no longer on your side. Apparently incurable is the new word for terminal. Well let's face it doctor, although you won't say it out loud [which causes me to wonder if you're the right doctor for this], the reality is that she will very likely spend the rest of her all too short life in treatment and this cancer will eventually be what takes her from this world all to soon.
My mother has been diagnosed with Stage IV Hormone Positive Metastatic Cancer. It has spread to her bones. The signs have been there for months. I questioned her weight loss, but she was "eating healthy portions" and insisting it was intentional. I questioned her complexion, she shrugged it of. I let her. I failed her. I was her person. I went to every appointment until she was well into remission. I knew better than anyone. I let her wait months until her next cancer check up and I knew better.
I suppose if your reading this you might be thinking hindsight is 20/20, give your self a break. Looking back I see that all the signs were there. When the time comes and she is lost from this world, one of the 40,000 nameless, faceless, ordinary but incredible mothers, sisters, daughters and best friends that are lost to breast cancer every year, I will be left wondering. What if I pushed harder? What if I continued going with her even though she was adamant that it was not necessary to go to her check ups, after all she beat the cancer right? Would I have seen the signs that her primary care ignored and pursued as anything but a recurrence? I would have right? I was asking her the right questions. I had the right concerns. I let her wait months until her scheduled cancer check up.
I guess that's it right there. I didn't let her do anything. The most difficult thing about being her person, her daughter, the cancer free one, is that is not up to me. That is very hard to accept and clearly as you read this you'll see that while I acknowledge that this is not my cancer and my role is not to make all the decisions, I am very far from accepting that.I spend half of my conversations with her coaching myself to share my insight, offer my opinions but help her to own her cancer and support her decisions once they are made.
There is quite literally nothing I wouldn't do to save her. To know that doesn't really matter because I can't is excruciatingly paralyzing. I want so badly for this Christmas to be one of many and for my son to share in her wisdom for as long as I have.
Here' s to hope.
And to the writer of www.butdoctorhatepink.com who is my inspiration for taking a chance on this idea that there are others who may benefit from my blog and that includes me.
I can't possibly describe the gut wrenching feeling when a doctor tells you that time is no longer on your side. Apparently incurable is the new word for terminal. Well let's face it doctor, although you won't say it out loud [which causes me to wonder if you're the right doctor for this], the reality is that she will very likely spend the rest of her all too short life in treatment and this cancer will eventually be what takes her from this world all to soon.
My mother has been diagnosed with Stage IV Hormone Positive Metastatic Cancer. It has spread to her bones. The signs have been there for months. I questioned her weight loss, but she was "eating healthy portions" and insisting it was intentional. I questioned her complexion, she shrugged it of. I let her. I failed her. I was her person. I went to every appointment until she was well into remission. I knew better than anyone. I let her wait months until her next cancer check up and I knew better.
I suppose if your reading this you might be thinking hindsight is 20/20, give your self a break. Looking back I see that all the signs were there. When the time comes and she is lost from this world, one of the 40,000 nameless, faceless, ordinary but incredible mothers, sisters, daughters and best friends that are lost to breast cancer every year, I will be left wondering. What if I pushed harder? What if I continued going with her even though she was adamant that it was not necessary to go to her check ups, after all she beat the cancer right? Would I have seen the signs that her primary care ignored and pursued as anything but a recurrence? I would have right? I was asking her the right questions. I had the right concerns. I let her wait months until her scheduled cancer check up.
I guess that's it right there. I didn't let her do anything. The most difficult thing about being her person, her daughter, the cancer free one, is that is not up to me. That is very hard to accept and clearly as you read this you'll see that while I acknowledge that this is not my cancer and my role is not to make all the decisions, I am very far from accepting that.I spend half of my conversations with her coaching myself to share my insight, offer my opinions but help her to own her cancer and support her decisions once they are made.
There is quite literally nothing I wouldn't do to save her. To know that doesn't really matter because I can't is excruciatingly paralyzing. I want so badly for this Christmas to be one of many and for my son to share in her wisdom for as long as I have.
Here' s to hope.
And to the writer of www.butdoctorhatepink.com who is my inspiration for taking a chance on this idea that there are others who may benefit from my blog and that includes me.
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