This all took place the week of Hurricane Ike. Being a Houston resident, I was evacuated to Oklahoma at my dad's house. Once the storm had safely passed, I packed up my things and left Oklahoma and headed east to my mom's house in Alabama. At this point, no doctor had actually given a clear diagnosis. The word "cancer" seemed taboo.
I went with her to follow up with her family doctor. After what felt like hours and hours, the doctor came in. So sterile and cold with his pressed lab coat and creased slacks, he delivered news that I feel certain any man would dread. "Ma'am, you have a malignant tumor." She nodded her head and seemed virtually unaffected. My step-dad grabbed her hand and squeezed. I felt my jaw lower to my chest. Part of me deep inside had known this was the truth - and probably had been for some time - but I had buried it beneath layers of hopes and wishes for a different outcome. The doctor shook our hands and recommended a few oncologists he knew, then, as cool as he had come, he left the room. The harsh metallic clinical echo of the exam room door shut so loud in my ears, I felt as if my eardrums had burst. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but they were too confused to fall. My mom seemed as though she must've heard a different message than I did. Her face was expressionless and her demeanor suggested that she hadn't quite absorbed the information. No one spoke.
I spent several days with her discussing the options. Her oncologist felt certain that she should immediately begin chemotherapy. Her scans had shown that she was already in Stage 4, meaning the cancer had spread. Tumors occupied her lungs, liver, kidneys, bones, and brain. Doctors told her the treatment would be intense and severe, but that aggressive treatment would be the only way to yield results at this late stage in the disease process. Mom got her chemo port put in and began her first round of toxic medicine.
The process was draining. Her weight dropped significantly. Her appetite was non-existent at best. She became weak and sick. Chemo took it's toll on her appearance, too, turning her skin gray. Her eyes sunk deep in her head and her hair began to fall out. The scans at first seemed somewhat positive, showing the chemo had at least slowed the growth of the tumors, but doctors wanted to press on with even more intense therapy. Mom was a trooper. She proceeded.
After losing half of her hair, she decided to shave it all off. She said, "I don't want cancer to take this from me. I want to choose to let it go." She was so brave, in my opinion. I bought her several scarves, one of which I still have. She learned to wrap her head. She also had several hats, one with a crown on it. So typical. In all of this, she kept smiling, even though no one would believe for even one moment that there was anything to smile about.
We had a family event two weeks before Christmas - one that Mom had invented several years back, called "Thanksmas", which combined the best of Thanksgiving and Christmas. Being in between the two holidays made it easy for my siblings and I to get together to celebrate together. This year, we held Thanksmas at my oldest brother's house. Mom normally took charge of cooking, but was too weak to do it this year. Just a few days before hand, she was unsure if she would even be able to make it. She was just too sick and too weak. Thankfully, she did make it. These are the last pictures we have of her - one family picture, and one of just her and I.
The next round of chemo proved to be less effective. The cancer was spreading much faster than the chemo could kill it. Surgery wasn't an option. In fact, options were very limited. Mom called me one afternoon. I won't ever forget it. She said, "I've decided not to go forward with any more treatment. I'm tired now." She didn't want to discuss it further, and to be honest, neither did I. It was at this moment that I realized something incredibly painful: my mom is going to die.
In the days that followed, our phone conversations became rarer and rarer, and when they did happen, I could hear my mom's voice tiring easily, and she became winded. She did a lot of listening, and not very much talking. The irony is that all I wanted to do was hear her. She told me that in 2 weeks, a hospice nurse would come to the house and set up a place for her to "be comfortable".
A week later, I got a phone call from my step-dad. He said, "She's not well. You should come." I've never packed a bag so fast in my life. I hit the road and began the trek across 3 state lines. I don't know my speed. I honestly don't remember how I got there. But in the early hours of January 10, I made my way up to Mom's hospital room in Montgomery. My heart was racing. My vision was blurred. I turned the corner to the nurse's station and blurted out some words that must've made perfect sense to someone, and they directed me to Drew Burkett, RN, the hospice nurse, and one of God's angels on earth. He explained everything from her hospital discharge, to her daily care, to her final moments. He told me that we could have anywhere from 24 hours to 24 months. I swallowed a lump and he took me to her room.
She recognized me, as I saw her eyes light up, but she couldn't speak. She was in a hospital gown, her bald head bobbling under it's own weight. Her hands were cold and her skin was dry and gritty. She was drooling and gasping. She had lost almost all motor function, and had little control over any of her parts anymore. I fought back tears and embraced her, but she had no reaction. I felt my heart break into 10,000 little bleeding pieces. My mom had never not hugged me back. I knew it wasn't her fault, but that didn't hurt any less.
She was transported to the house via ambulance. My brother and I rushed back to her house to get it ready. A hospital bed was delivered. Drew, the hospice nurse, came to make an assessment. Around 1600 that afternoon, he told us that he believed she had 24-48 hours.
Having had nursing experience, and having taken care of patients in the end-stages of life, Drew entrusted a lot of responsibility to me. I felt that I would be more than capable of handling it. But I was simply unable to shift from my daughter hat to my nurse hat and back again. My brother took over giving her morphine for comfort. I stayed at her bedside. Her respirations fell to around 6 per minute, and were labored. She began what is called the "Death Rattle". Essentially, she was drowning in her own secretions. We took turns saying our silent good-byes. I held her hand. I looked at her and said in a whisper, "I love you, Mommy," just like the toddler I felt like. She squeezed my hand! I invited the family in close to pray. It was hard for my mouth to form the words, but I asked God to be merciful. Hungry for air, her body fought to draw breath, but could find none. Holding her hand, she slipped silently into the night. Drew declared her around 2020 on the night of January 10.
The next few days are a blur to me. We prepared a funeral, transported her body to Georgia, and arranged for her closest friends and family members to come. The phone calls were hard. I felt as if I had gone through a forest of tissues! Pastor Kenny called and we prayed via telephone. I called my dad and my husband.
Her service was exactly as she wanted it. Mostly a celebration. She would've hated all the crying, though. A few of us spoke at the graveside. Her flowers were gorgeous, and she would've really treasured that. I still have the roses. There were lots of kind words and loving embraces, and that was wonderful. But I missed her so much.
My longing for Mom turned into anger at God. I had always heard that He would use all things for good. What good would ever come out of my mom having to die, me having to suffer, or any of us having to experience this pain? God, if you're going to use this, you need to let me in on what's up here! I just don't understand...
A few months later, my husband gave his life to Christ. He said he now understood that he was unable to comfort me in my mourning because he lacked understanding about life and death. He couldn't give me love and peace he didn't possess - the kind that "transcends all understanding," and "will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:7).
I am currently walking in a charity walk for cancer research. I hope that you will help support me in the 2012 Houston CureSearch Walk. You can make a donation online if you click here.
I hope that you will help me turn this terrible event into something beautiful...
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