It was a ten days ago that I was back at home. My mom had had a minor heart spasm, and was getting a cyst removed. Nothing scary, but a bit worrying. It was a week ago that I was wrapping my head around the fact that my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer that had spread to her brain and lymph nodes and she was starting radiation. Right now, I am wrapping my head around the fact that she will be gone within the week. Day? Hour? I can't be sure.
I don't know what I'm feeling anymore. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Crying. The crying is pretty much a constant state. I'm angry, confused, and overwhelmed with a feeling that life isn't fair. What a surprise. Life sucks.
We're in 4 West, the oncology unit. We started just across the hall, in 4 East telemetry, two weeks ago. In 4 West, the nurses are nicer, and tell you things like how they believe in "making her as comfortable as possible" and that you don't have to follow visiting hours. Our nurse found us extra pillows and a recliner. No one else here has visitors that stay the night, most people are here from nursing homes.
I feel like a string of improbables brought my family to where we are today. An enlarged lymph node on her collarbone that resulted in her getting sick from a rare IV dye reaction. A dose of medication that was too strong for her, which made her feel terrible. A heart spasm brought on by that stress. An abnormal lymph node biopsy that lead to another CT and an MRI that revealed stage 4 lung cancer, with metastasis to the brain and lymph. Disseminated intravascular coagulation caused by the adenocarcinoma which caused bleeding problems with her biopsy site, her PICC line, and eventually caused a stroke. Can't treat the cancer because of the DIC, so her lungs are filling up with fluid. Can't cure the DIC because it's caused by the cancer. I saw her have a seizure tonight.
My mother was.. well, she was my mother. I love her. What a stupid thing to say. Of course I love her. I spoke to her last Wednesday, and she was her normal self. We talked about how I saw Hillary Clinton speak and who she was going to vote next year. She yelled at me for having a cold, and told me that I should wear scarves more often. We talked about how when she got better, we would all take a trip to Europe. She had always planned on going to Europe when she retired.
I miss her. I might miss her more now then when she's gone. I can see her now. And she's my mom. My little mommy. And she's not there anymore. She looks at you, but she's not looking at you. She shifts restlessly. She doesn't hear you anymore. She's just so tired and her brow is always furrowed. I keep expecting her to say something, or do something, but, well, its just not going to happen ever again.
We moved out of the ICU ever since her doctor told us that she just wasn't going to survive this. Its not like we expected her to pull through and still be mom, its just that when a doctor makes it a point to tell you, well... shit just got realer. They stopped giving her IV fluids, took her off all the monitoring equipment, stopped the regular plasma and cryo she was getting to replace her clotting factors, stopped drawing blood from her, and started giving her morphine. At this point, its all about comfort. End of the line.
So now, we wait. Won't be long now.
I don't know what I'm feeling anymore. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Crying. The crying is pretty much a constant state. I'm angry, confused, and overwhelmed with a feeling that life isn't fair. What a surprise. Life sucks.
We're in 4 West, the oncology unit. We started just across the hall, in 4 East telemetry, two weeks ago. In 4 West, the nurses are nicer, and tell you things like how they believe in "making her as comfortable as possible" and that you don't have to follow visiting hours. Our nurse found us extra pillows and a recliner. No one else here has visitors that stay the night, most people are here from nursing homes.
I feel like a string of improbables brought my family to where we are today. An enlarged lymph node on her collarbone that resulted in her getting sick from a rare IV dye reaction. A dose of medication that was too strong for her, which made her feel terrible. A heart spasm brought on by that stress. An abnormal lymph node biopsy that lead to another CT and an MRI that revealed stage 4 lung cancer, with metastasis to the brain and lymph. Disseminated intravascular coagulation caused by the adenocarcinoma which caused bleeding problems with her biopsy site, her PICC line, and eventually caused a stroke. Can't treat the cancer because of the DIC, so her lungs are filling up with fluid. Can't cure the DIC because it's caused by the cancer. I saw her have a seizure tonight.
My mother was.. well, she was my mother. I love her. What a stupid thing to say. Of course I love her. I spoke to her last Wednesday, and she was her normal self. We talked about how I saw Hillary Clinton speak and who she was going to vote next year. She yelled at me for having a cold, and told me that I should wear scarves more often. We talked about how when she got better, we would all take a trip to Europe. She had always planned on going to Europe when she retired.
I miss her. I might miss her more now then when she's gone. I can see her now. And she's my mom. My little mommy. And she's not there anymore. She looks at you, but she's not looking at you. She shifts restlessly. She doesn't hear you anymore. She's just so tired and her brow is always furrowed. I keep expecting her to say something, or do something, but, well, its just not going to happen ever again.
We moved out of the ICU ever since her doctor told us that she just wasn't going to survive this. Its not like we expected her to pull through and still be mom, its just that when a doctor makes it a point to tell you, well... shit just got realer. They stopped giving her IV fluids, took her off all the monitoring equipment, stopped the regular plasma and cryo she was getting to replace her clotting factors, stopped drawing blood from her, and started giving her morphine. At this point, its all about comfort. End of the line.
So now, we wait. Won't be long now.
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