A Lot To Process...a final lesson from my mother

A few months ago, I wrote a post about my mother’s diagnosis of late-stage ovarian cancer and how she was battling the beast.  She and I shared this “sixth sense” that her time was short…but I had no clue how little time we truly had left.  I have to admit, when my always stoic and positive mother began to tell me “I really feel bad today”…or “It’s not going well”…I thought, “Her attitude is not helping!”  After all, everyone tells you that “attitude is half the battle” with cancer…right?

But when the oncologist stopped chemotherapy after the 2nd treatment, noting that the blood work indicated that the cancer was spreading, I found myself feeling discouraged…and I knew that Mother felt that, too.  When she visited a surgeon, and he outlined how risky – and ineffective – “debulging” would be in her case, I felt her disappointment and despair, as hopes for beating this were somewhat dashed.

We tried to look on the bright side…cessation of the chemo treatments meant that Mother would hopefully feel well enough to join the rest of our family for a Thanksgiving meal at our house…and for our Christmas Eve celebration.  And indeed, Mother was able to come to both events.  She mostly sat quietly in one of our club chairs in the living room – or at the dining table…but she engaged in conversation, and she delighted in her great-grandchildren, who kept everything lively.
 
Mother was able to attend the children’s Christmas program at church – and a play that Timothy’s first grade class performed shortly before Christmas break.  The classmates presented “The True Story of Rudolph” – and our Timothy was Rudolph.  Mother and Lee attended, along with other family members – Mother sporting a red and white “Santa” cap…and Lee wearing a felt “elf” cap.  Timothy never questioned their attire.  In fact, none of our children ever asked about Mother’s wig or her caps throughout the entirety of her illness, as far as I know.  Timothy even visited her in the hospital once when she was wearing no cap or wig…and he didn’t say a word.

My mother decided that her only hope might lie at M.D. Anderson in Houston.  So she secured an appointment there for a “work-up” on January 6th.  She and her husband, Lee, planned to get in their motorhome on Monday, January 4th and set out for Houston…taking 2 days to arrive.  This was the earliest available appointment that would not be interrupted by the holidays…meaning Mother waited almost 3 weeks without any treatments whatsoever.  During that time, she developed pneumonia, which was treated with strong antibiotics…and she grew visibly weaker.

Even though I talked to my mother virtually every day – and exchanged e-mail messages several times – she kept us all somewhat “on the fringe” about her illness. She would drop hints that she did not think that she was getting well – or that she would beat her disease.  But for the most part, she talked of the future.  She wrote a blog post about how she was unable to do anything for Thanksgiving…but next year she hoped to pick back up her apron and host again.  And she waffle between talking of getting weaker – and planning her next RV adventure or writing assignment.

So I would think, “Girl, you are being melodramatic.  Your imagination is working overtime.  Mother will beat this!  You’ll see…this time next year, she will be traveling and hosting family dinners and playing in the back yard with the kiddos.”  But when I hugged her as she left our house on Christmas Eve, and she began to quietly cry, I knew something was terribly wrong.

In addition to the concern over my mother, my husband’s brother and sister-in-law were involved in a terrible head-on car crash on December 21st.  My brother-in-law suffered massive internal injuries from the seat belt that resulted in four bowel resection surgeries in three days.  He was transported to a trauma ICU in Little Rock a few hours after the wreck, where a surgical team met the ambulance and whisked him off to begin repairing the damage.  Thankfully, his wife suffered only bruising and a broken pinky finger; however, she was in pain – and shock – and needed medication for quite some time afterward to allow her to take deep breaths and ward off pneumonia.

Just as we entered the week of Christmas, I contracted an upper respiratory virus that knocked me to my knees. So one day while Greg took his mother to Little Rock to see his brother at the hospital, the cat and I stayed on the couch under a blanket and tried to recuperate.  I finally decided that the lovely sit-down ham dinner with all the trimmings I had planned to prepare for our family on Christmas Eve would be a health hazard in more ways than one.  My mother graciously offered to treat us to pizza…and it was such a hit (served on festive paper plates) that I think this will become a new holiday tradition.

Greg's mother and his brother, Bruce
July 2015

Greg and his mother and I traveled to Little Rock on Christmas Day to visit his brother in the hospital.  He was sedated and never knew we were there. He had suffered a stroke the day before, and doctors were monitoring him closely for long-term effects.  The day after we visited, my niece telephoned and let Greg speak to his brother via speakerphone.  It was music to Greg’s ears.  Maybe his brother had turned a corner!

We visited again the following week, after my brother-in-law was transferred out of ICU to a regular room.  He passed a swallow test and cognitive exams, and though he was weak and very sore from all of the surgeries, plans were made to transport him the following day (Day 10) to a rehab in a city closer to home.  There he would work on regaining his strength and energy to care for himself and his personal needs at home.

However, things took an ugly turn after we left that day.  My brother-in-law became nauseous, then he suffered three bouts of cardiac arrest…and before 7:00 the next morning, he had passed away.  We knew blood clots, stroke and cardiac arrest were all possible side effects following surgery – this is the very thing that claimed my dad’s life following a surgery 16 years ago.  But we were still shaken.  My brother-in-law was less than one month shy of his 67th birthday.

So as we dealt with the sudden death of Greg’s brother, GREG succumbed to the respiratory virus…and my mother’s general health decline continued.  I had insisted on accompanying Mother and her husband earlier in the week to her clinic, where her doctor (who happens to be a close friend of mine) did a follow-up exam for Mother’s pneumonia.  He determined that she seemed to be clear of infection; however, he surmised that tumor growth was pressing on Mother’s lungs, preventing her from getting adequate breaths.  I could see that Mother felt very weak and tired…and she was struggling to breathe.  She also seemed unsteady on her feet.

I point-blank asked my friend if he thought that Mother was okay to travel to Houston the following Monday (this was Tuesday).  He told me, “I am not comfortable with her making that trip…BUT…her only hope is if they can do something for her at M.D. Anderson.”  He went on to say that he suspected that the doctors there would recommend “debulging” – surgery to remove the tumors that had grown and were pressing on Mother’s lungs and other organs.  My friend left the room, and I looked from Mother to her husband and asked, “If the doctors in Houston recommend surgery, are you going to do it?”  They both shook their heads in the negative and firmly said, “We’re not doing that.”  I silently wondered why they were still planning this trip.  And I told God, “I cannot fix this.  If Mother is not able to make this trip, YOU will have to step in and do something.”

New Year’s Day…the day after my brother-in-law died…I stopped at my mother’s house to check on her.  It was 10:30 a.m., and her husband said she was still asleep.  However, as I made my way to her bedroom, she stumbled toward me.  I watched as she staggered into the kitchen…fell into the refrigerator…then staggered to a cabinet, where she began to prepare a large bowl of cereal – sugary frosted mini-wheats.   This was not really a good breakfast for a diabetic, but Mother HAD said that at this point, the doctors said to eat whatever tastes good.  I asked if she could carry this bowl of cereal and milk to the table, and her husband stepped in and carried it for her.  Mother staggered once again…fell into the wall, and made her way to the dining table.  She trembled as she ate her cereal, and she was visibly disoriented and distracted.

I was concerned about what I observed, and I phoned my sister to let her know how I had found our mother.  My sister stopped in to see Mother on her way to work that evening, and she found her even more disoriented, in pain, wheezing, and running a high fever.  Mother’s husband was in their motorhome out in the yard, and Mother had been so confused that she could not dial his cell phone.  She was walking through the house carrying the mouse to her computer…she thought it was her cordless phone.

My sister and I got in touch with the doctor, and he told us to take Mother to the Emergency Room at the hospital.  It took me a while to get her there…she wanted to take time to shower!…but I finally got her in my car and drove her across town to our local hospital.  We put her in a wheelchair and rolled her into the Emergency Department, where a nurse triaged her and took all of her vital information.  Mother was able to answer questions about her medications, treatments, and more.

Then Mother was admitted to an exam room, where our favorite ER doctor (a high school classmate) was on duty.  He ordered blood work and a chest x-ray.  After the blood work had been processed, a nurse came flying into the room with orange juice, crackers and peanut butter, and she began to feed Mother. “Your blood sugar is 30!” she declared.  The doctor explained that with a blood sugar level of 30, most people cannot walk or talk…much less make any sense!  A subsequent blood test indicated that Mother’s glucose level was dipping even lower – the reading was 17.

The doctor said he could not let Mother leave the hospital with such a seriously low blood sugar level.  By all rights, she should have been comatose at this point.  He looked at Mother and said, “You are exceptional.”  Well, we all knew that!  He also said that the fever indicated infection somewhere in her body.  So six hours after we entered the Emergency Room, my mother was admitted to a hospital room, where IV glucose and antibiotics were begun.  It was determined that Mother had virtually stopped eating when she got pneumonia…but she was still taking medication for diabetes…and that bottomed out her blood sugar.  The medication was immediately ceased.

Knowing that I was exhausted from the virus I was just getting over AND the death of Greg’s brother, my sister left work and declared that she would sit with Mother overnight.  And she did…and for several more nights to follow.  I returned the following morning and met with the hospitalist, who ordered a complete round of tests for my mother…head-to-toe CT-scan…more blood work and x-rays. He told me, “She will not be going anywhere until at least Monday morning, and only IF she is 100% stable will I allow her to travel to Houston.” Mother continued to run fever and was not responding to the constant administration of glucose.  Her blood sugar level continued to be far too low.

By evening, the report on the CT-scan was in, and it was not good.  The tumors had almost doubled in size since late September.  One that was 10 cm in September was now 17 cm…and pressing on her lungs.  Another was pressing on the adrenal gland to her kidneys and causing her serious back pain.  And the fever was keeping Mother in a stupor.  She was hallucinating and “talking out of her head.”  A nurse suggested to my sister that perhaps it was time for Hospice care.

Sunday morning – January 3rd…the day of my brother-in-law’s funeral, I awoke EARLY.  I was back at the hospital by 5:30 a.m., sitting with my mother. When the hospitalist examined her mid-morning, we stepped outside to talk, and I asked her about Hospice care.  She said, “I think that is a wise choice at this point.”  Mother was clear enough for us to discuss this with her, and she said, “Yes, that is what I want.  I want this to be over.”  She said these words to me twice…“I want this to be over.”  She also said, “I want to go home.”

I asked the doctor if she felt I had time to attend my brother-in-law’s funeral.  She told me that she felt sure that I had time for that…but that Mother probably didn’t have many days left.  She encourage me to go and be with Greg and his family.  So a dear friend of Mother’s sat with her – and Mother’s husband – and I spent most of that day saying “Good-bye” to Greg’s brother.  It was an extremely hard day for all of us.  The Hospice team agreed to wait until I returned to the hospital late that afternoon to come out and start their paper work.

Monday morning, we made the final preparations to move Mother home.  It was January 4th. Christmas and New Year’s had come and gone, and it was all a blur for Greg and me.  He would still plug in all of the Christmas lights on our trees and decorations, so I came home at night to a warm and cozy house.  But the joy and excitement of the holidays had certainly come and gone for us now.

We got Mother settled in a hospital bed in her living room at home.  Her doctor told me, “I don’t think she will be on Hospice long.”  The nurses at the hospital whispered that it would probably be “only a few days,” and Mother’s doctor concurred.  Tuesday, two of Mother’s step-daughters arrived from Tennessee, along with other family members.  Both women are nurses…one a Registered Nurse, and the other a Nurse Practitioner.  They were life-savers.  They helped my sister and me with Mother’s care…and they helped their dad to come to grips with the fact that Mother was dying and would not recover.

It was a long week.  We were busy every day with helping Mother turn in bed, sit up, get to the bathroom and to the table for a few bites at mealtime.  She was so swollen and distended that she breathed better sitting upright.  So often, we would help her to a couch and sit with her.  Mother knew from the outset that she had very little time, and she was quite practical about it all.  One evening as I sat with her on the couch, she asked about Greg’s mother.  Having lost a son herself, my mother knew that indescribable heartache that she said was like no other.  I told her that Greg’s mother was doing okay.  Mother said, “She’s a strong woman.”  “So are you!” I reminded her.  “Well! There’s no other way to be!” she retorted.  She then asked about Greg.  I told her we were doing okay, and she said, “You and Greg both have a lot to process.”  I couldn’t hide my tears, and I didn’t even try.

Several times in the hospital – and in the days at home – I kissed my mother, held her close, and cried.  I couldn’t stop the tears…and we shared several tender, precious moments.  I told her at least once, “It is so hard to leave you.”  And by late in the week, I was staying virtually around the clock.  My sister still came in and out through the day, and she stayed at night, but I slept in my old bedroom…or I would doze on a couch near Mother.

My mother last spoke to me in the night of January 10th.  One of the last things she told me was, “I love you so much.”  Over the course of that ten days, we had more than said everything we needed.  We understood one another, what was happening, and what Mother’s wishes were.  At times, she would say funny things…other times she made little to no sense.  Once, when I excused myself to go to the bathroom, she sarcastically said, “GREAT!  Good for you!”  She hated her catheter!  And then a couple of days later when she was too weak to walk to the bathroom, she said, “I’ve decided this catheter is my friend!”

Timothy and my mother, August 2015

When my sister and I tried to walk Mother across the room to a couch, my sister became tangled in the dozens of feet of tubing, and Mother quipped, “I’m okay!  You just choked me with the oxygen…but I’m okay!”  My niece brought her three children to visit, and Mother loved hearing them play on the sun porch…the “ring-ring” of their tricycle bell, and the “quack quack” of some duck-billed noisemakers she had for them.  One by one, they would inch up to her bed and talk to her.  Four-year-old Zola even insisted on giving her kisses.

The Friday before Mother passed, my niece brought 3-year-old Nathan and stayed much of the afternoon.  Nathan played and “did his thing,” just like it was an ordinary “Friday at Granny’s” from back in August/September.  I commented to Mother that it was just like a regular “Friday with Granny” for him…and she added…”except this time I don’t have to watch him by myself!”  She also whispered to me one day as I lifted her from the bed, “I have probably done permanent damage to your body with this lifting.”  I assured her that I would be just fine…and I am.

Monday morning, I woke early and slipped out of the house and drove across town to my own home.  I took a shower and gathered clean clothes, repacked my bags, and returned.  Mother smiled at me when she saw me…but by noon, she was virtually comatose and did not respond to anything or anyone except to grumble in pain when we turned her.  After everyone went to bed that night, I sat with her as she tossed and turned and “talked”.  Her fever soared to 103.3 degrees, and she was terribly swollen and clammy.

I woke my step-sister, Suzanne (the R.N.), and she helped us ice Mother down with zip-loc bags filled with crushed ice and wrapped in towels.  We placed them under her arms and along her legs, and her temperature dropped by a good two degrees.  But we had to keep cooling her down for hours.  The next morning, a Hospice aide came to bathe Mother and dress her in a clean gown.  About 11:00, a dear cousin who was very close to Mother came for a visit.  She leaned in and talked to her, and then we stood beside Mother’s bed and caught up on the family and recalled memories of fun times we had shared.  I looked down at Mother, and her breathing had changed markedly.  Step-sister Suzanne noticed it, too, and ran to get her dad.

In a few brief minutes, my mother had stopped breathing and drifted away from us.  We kissed her and released her to go with the angels…to greet my dad and brother and others…and to meet Jesus face-to-face.  And she did exactly that.

The days have been a whirlwind and a blur since then.  People think that everything is over when you leave the cemetery.  In many ways, it’s just beginning.  There are business matters to attend to…thank-you notes to write…bills to pay…people to greet and entertain…and lots and lots of things to “process.” I finally took down our Christmas decorations on January 18th. My mother was a very wise woman in many ways…but probably the most profound statement she has made to me in years was that, “You and Greg have a lot to process.”  And we are still trying to do that.

In Mother’s last days, I continued to write my devotionals – when I could.  I missed a few days, but not all of them.  It was cathartic for me to spend time in reflection and Bible study…to pray about what to say…and to share my heart.  I posted an update each day on Facebook – the easiest way to answer everyone’s questions.  My mother had a LOT of friends and people who loved her, and they all wanted to know what was happening.  So I would write a “report.”  People would comment…and until Mother could no longer respond to us, we read her each and every word.  It was like hearing your funeral before you die.  Mother would tell me who certain people were when I didn’t recognize a name.  She would laugh and smile at the comments of her former kindergarten students.  One of her piano students said, “Tell her I wish I had practiced more.”  Mother said, “Write back and tell her there is still time!”

I am grateful for the gift of writing to be able to sort out my thoughts – to “process” what has happened.  I thought I understood grief.  The nineties were a great time of loss for my family, beginning with my father-in-law in 1992…my favorite great-aunt in 1993, then my maternal grandmother in 1994…a beloved cousin in 1997, another cousin and my baby brother in 1998…and my dad’s passing 13 months later in 1999.  Surely I had a handle on this!  Well, that’s baloney!  Each loss is different and leaves its own mark…and these two recent deaths have been a swift kick in the gut!

A friend told me that there are losses in life…but there is nothing that compares to losing your mother.  She was right!  In the last eleven days, I’ve thought of dozens of things that “I must remember to tell Mother.”  I’ve opened my e-mail account and anticipated her message…the report on her Sunday morning at church…what she and Lee watched on “Netflick” the night before.  I saw a friend’s Facebook post of pictures he took this past week in Yellowstone National Park – a place my mother adored, and where she and Lee spent last summer as Workampers…and I thought, “Mother would love that!”  Then I realized…she can visit there anytime she likes now.

In a devotional I wrote shortly after Mother died, I spoke of grief.  Greg and I took his mother to the cemeteries today to visit the graves of our brother…and my mother. January 23rd would have been my brother-in-law’s 67th birthday.  His birthday was our first time back at the cemeteries since the funerals.  I am not hiding from grief this time…or running away from it.  As I said in my devotional, to do so seems to say to God, “I don’t need you – I’ve got this!”  And nothing could be further from the truth.  God wants to console us.  He wants us to lean on Him and let Him do the hard work.  He wants us to cry out to Him when it all seems to be too much.  God wants us to let Him help us process all of this.

I don’t know how long it will take…or if I will ever be the same.  And that’s okay.  I know that I had an extraordinary mother who loved me as best she could.  Like any human being, she made mistakes…and she told me often that she had many regrets about her efforts to rear three children.  I assured her that it was all over and done…that everything was “good” between us. And I know that today, everything is better than good for her.  She is with Jesus…and my dad and brother and her best dogs, Spot, Otis and Carmen…and she is healthy and whole and tumor free…and “life” is very, very good.

And life will be good for us again at some point…until it is our turn to join the heavenly party, when it will rise to a whole other level!  Meanwhile, we will keep on processing all that has happened…all that will happen in the days/weeks/years to come.  And we will remember the lessons of our mothers…and fathers…brothers and others.  And with God’s help and grace, we will work through it all.

What's in a Haircut? A Reality Check...

When Timothy was about a year old, I took him for his first haircut. As the barber trimmed his curls and gave him a "big boy" shape, I watched our baby disappear before my eyes - and a toddler appeared in his place.  I used to take my grandmother for her weekly visits to the hairdresser, and I laughed at the contrast - the "straight-across-the-forehead" bangs of a one-year old vs. the softly teased white curls of someone in their late 90s.

But an experience last week was a total "first" for me...one that I did not expect.  I drove my mother to the beauty shop for a haircut to trim her hair to a one-inch length all over. This was in anticipation that any day, she would lose her hair completely as a result of chemo.  The trepidation felt by both our then-one-year-old Timothy and my 76-year-old mother was palpable...obviously, for very different reasons.  One did not understand what the man was doing to his hair...the other was probably asking herself, "How did this happen to me?"

I thought Mother's new haircut looked cute. We took "before and after" photos, and the hairdresser and I teased that she should use some gel and spike it up and "go wild!"  Mom barely laughed and said she would NOT be doing that!  A day or so later, she returned to the hairdresser with a wig that she had purchased but was not totally convinced she liked...and the hairdresser cut and styled it for her. 

Mom posted a picture of her new "do" on Facebook, and many commented how beautiful she looked - and how nice her hair was.  I think that was the only day she actually wore the wig.  She said since she mostly just lies around the house, there was no sense in putting it on for that.

Yesterday morning, I received an e-mail from my mom saying that her hair was coming out in clumps...and that her hairdresser would buzz her head for her - but not until the next day.  The hairdresser was busy and could not work this yesterday.  I "buzz" Greg's head every week.  We have clippers, and I know how to use them.  So I offered to come and buzz my mother's head.  She responded almost immediately and said yes...this would be a great help to her.

So I gathered the clippers and a bed sheet and drove to my mother's house.  We "set up shop" on her sun porch, and I clipped her already-short hair down to a fine "fuzz" all over her head.  She's not slick-bald yet...but she probably will be soon.  Once we were finished, Mother got up and tied on her little cotton turban.  "Aren't you going to look in the mirror?" I asked.  "No!" she emphatically responded.  And several hours later, she told my sister that she still had not looked at herself in the mirror.

I didn't think Mom looked that bad without her hair.  I don't know what I expected...and maybe it's because I do buzz my husband's head every week with the clippers. I am used to that "look".  But I did have the sense as it was happening, "What am I doing?"  And then I remembered...Mom's hair is falling out in clumps anyway.

We are only one treatment into this journey, and so far, my mother has pretty much had one "normal" day in the last three weeks where she felt "good" all day long.  And she made the most of it, with a trip out for lunch and to the Dollar Tree. She stuffed Halloween treat bags for the children.  She worked on her blog posts and answered e-mail.  Many days, she has been able to do small tasks for a few hours...but ultimately, she has ended up back in bed - or on her couch...drained...spent...totally exhausted.  

We are told that the treatments have a cumulative effect.  We're also told that some people start to feel "normal" just in time for the next treatment.  It's so early that we still don't really know what to expect.  This Thursday, Mom will get her "port"...and then she will have a 3-hour chemo treatment, as well as blood work and a visit with her oncologist.  Maybe we will know more about what lies ahead after all of that.

Mom's surgeon explained to her that her chemotherapy drugs attack cells that are dividing...and cancer cells divide.  So do the cells that make up hair follicles...hence, the hair loss.  It's daunting to think that the poison that can kill cancer cells - and cause you to lose your hair - could also be healing you at the same time. 

I told Timothy that his hair would grow back...and it has, over and over again.  We've made numerous trips to the barber shop...and in recent months, Timothy's Granny (my mother) had taken on that task.  Hopefully, in time, HER hair will grow back...and maybe they can once again make these trips together.  For now, we'll all step in to do what must be done and pray that the drugs are working...and that we are headed in the right direction.  After all, it IS just hair...right?

This Sandwich Has a New Slice of "Bread"

My mother...Arline Chandler Smith

Life has a strange way of taking turns you never expected.  When my 76-year-old mother began to complain of pain and soreness in her abdomen last February, I thought little of it...particularly given that her long-time internist in Little Rock did not even examine her when she mentioned it to him.  In fact, he brushed it off and said, "You're not telling me anything that raises concern."  But the pain and discomfort continued through the summer.  And a few months after Mother's internist told her that this was nothing to worry about, he was arrested and charged with running a prescription painkiller ring from his office.  He now faces federal charges, as well.

So Mother found herself without a doctor, and after praying about what to do, she opted to start seeing a nurse practitioner at a local clinic.  Her thinking was that this person could at least refer her to specialists who drove the 65 miles from Little Rock to practice in the outpatient clinic at our local hospital.  Mother mentioned the pain to her NP, who suggested maybe she needed to see a surgeon for an endoscopy.  This was in August...the first available appointment for a consult was November 12th.

Greg pushes Zola in a swing installed in the
backyard at Mother and Lee's house. Behind
them is the platform for the new playhouse.

Meanwhile, Mother was going about her busy schedule pretty much as usual.  She and her husband, Lee, traveled to Tennessee in July for a family reunion.  She tended to Lee as he saw doctors about health scare that some thought might require surgery.  Thankfully, Lee is healthier and stronger at 77 than many men in their 30s, so he is in "watch-and-wait" mode with his health issue.  He put a new roof on their house last spring, and after getting his "good" diagnosis this summer, he set in to build a play house in their back yard for my great-niece and nephews...Zola, Timothy and Nathan.  Lee and Mother had installed a new wood fence around the yard a couple of summers ago, and he saved the fence boards.  They are now being repurposed into a playhouse - complete with front porch, pitched roof, and windows!

Mom offered to keep our 3-year-old great-nephew on Fridays while my niece and her husband work.  The other two children are in school, but a place was needed for Nathan.  Greg and I kept him this summer on Mondays and some Fridays and other weekdays...but Mother wanted to take the "Friday shift."  She enjoyed several visits from Nathan...and my niece, Jasmine would come after work and bring Timothy and Zola and spend an hour or so visiting and letting the children play in the back yard.

All of this changed on September 21st, when Mom awoke with what she thought was a UTI.  We laughed, because she immediately "doctored" herself with Cipro, an antibiotic that she had purchased at the "pharmacia" in Mexico while she and Lee wintered in Arizona.  In fact, she messaged me before noon and said, "I'm much better already, and I feel silly to go to the clinic.  But I guess I will go ahead and keep my appointment.

At the clinic, my mother saw another Nurse Practitioner.  She mentioned again the pain in her abdomen...and this woman examined her.  "Your stomach is 'hard'," she told Mother.  She ordered a CT scan at the hospital for the next morning and told my mother that she would call in the afternoon with the results.  Before noon, she had phoned to say, "You have a mass in your stomach, and you need to return to the hospital for blood work.  We will probably order a biopsy."

My mother is an avid traveler.  She is a free-lance writer, author of eleven books, and weekly contributor to a website for RVers - RVLife.com - where she maintains a blog about her travels with Lee in their 42-foot motorhome.  When Mother received this news, she had a PR trip planned to Branson, Missouri - which is something of her "second home." Businesses and attractions in Branson were hosting writers and media people from across the country for the weekend.  It would be almost 3 days of good food, great shows and entertainment, and topnotch hospitality.  Mom got the blood work done and opted to go to Branson.  She and Lee returned home late Sunday evening.

Monday morning, I got an e-mail from Mother..."I have a serious problem, Debbie. The tests show cancer markers and it’s my ovaries. But there is more than one mass. [The Nurse Practitioner] has blocked off an hour to talk to me—to us—in the morning at 10:00, unless they can do the biopsy tomorrow. She offered to come to my house and talk to us tonight—in fact, she said she felt so heavy about this that she almost called and asked to come last night. I want you and Suzanne [my sister] to go with me to talk to her, as well as Lee. This is going to be OK—no matter what. Just going to be a battle ahead." 

So the following morning, Greg and I met my mother and Lee, and my sister Suzanne, at the clinic.  We all squeezed into a tiny exam room where the Nurse Practitioner came in and introduced herself to each of us, then sat in the floor with her laptop and a folder of test results...and she began to give us the "report."  Mother has multiple masses, ranging in size from 2.5cm to 10cm...and they were all over - near her liver, in the lower quadrants of her pelvis, and floating in her abdomen.  None were thought to be attached to organs.  While the CA125 blood test for ovarian cancer is not reliable - often giving a false negative - Mother's did indicate a positive.  "Normal" range is less than 30...my mother's count was 300.  The nurse kept telling her how sorry she was.

I guess I was in disbelief.  Mother had not seen a doctor.  Perhaps this was all a mistake.  But a biopsy was scheduled for that Thursday morning in Little Rock.  Mother would not let us go with her...Lee drove her down for the procedure.  After the biopsy, she did ask if I would keep Nathan on Friday...she realized that she was too groggy and sore to manage him.  She was scheduled for a consult with the oncologist on the next Thursday.  After Mother and Lee met with the oncologist, they came to our house and met with Greg and me - and Suzanne - and delivered the official report.

The oncologist felt like all indications were that this was ovarian cancer; however, he wanted to examine blood work and get a PET scan to be sure. Those have now been studied, and his best guess is that an ovary ruptured and "spewed cancer cells" throughout my mother's abdomen. The good news is that there is no spread beyond the abdomen - nothing in the chest and beyond.  The oncologist is treating this as Stage 3C Ovarian Cancer...and aggressive chemotherapy was begun on Thursday, October 8th.  

Mother got IV drugs for nausea - and steroids - and then she spent the next three hours receiving  Paclitaxel (conventional) and Carboplatin.  On Friday, she got a shot of Neulasta to boost her immune system - to the tune of $5000.  Thankfully, she is told that her insurance company will cover this.  But she must have Neulasta after each of her chemo treatments, which are scheduled for every 3 weeks.  Her oncologist told her that within 2 weeks of this first treatment, she will begin to lose her hair.

Mother felt GREAT after the treatment...like she could climb a mountain (the steroids).  She didn't sleep much Thursday night, but on Friday, she still was energized...until sometime late afternoon.  She thought maybe it was the Neulasta, but she had a "small sinking spell" while shopping and hurried home.  Saturday she laid around and did not feel well...by Sunday, she had all of the side effects - nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, body aches and pains.  The only thing missing was hair loss...and she is bracing for that.  She feels lousy...is in bed a lot...and her world has been turned upside down.

In the course of less than a month, my mother has gone from planning her next trip to planning a trip to buy a wig when her hair falls out.  In the course of ten days, she has gone from spending a happy Friday with her 3-year-old great-grandson and an hour or so of play with her other two great-grandchildren and their mother to being unable to sit up and answer e-mail at her desk for more than an hour or so before returning to bed.

I will tell you...I feel pretty helpless.  I want to do for her...and there is nothing to do.  She said, "Keeping the children is helping me.  If you will keep Nathan on Fridays, that will be your part."  Somehow, it doesn't feel like enough - and yet, I know that more "opportunities" to "do" will come in the next few weeks and months.  So Friday, I kept Nathan.  Sundays after church, the children come home with us for a few hours, and we did that yesterday.  Today there was no school for Timothy, so both he and Nathan came to my house for the day while their parents worked. I take the two oldest children to Taekwondo lessons on Mondays and Tuesdays...so tomorrow, we will go to our class.  Mother keeps e-mailing me and thanking me for doing these things for the children.

Timothy rides his tricycle on Mother's carport.  They recently
bought the kids this tricycle - complete with bell and tassles!

I am still trying to process all of this in my own head.  The children do not know about my mother, other than that Granny did not feel well Friday, so Nathan came here.  At six years old, Timothy is incredibly sensitive about old age and death.  He thinks that anyone who gets sick - or old - "will die like Mam-ma Polly."  He remembers her death...and paired with the deaths of two beloved family pets who were old and sick, he has formulated the idea that when you are sick or get old, you die!  And this worries him.  When Mother starts to lose her hair, the children will have to be told something...but we have a few days until then.  And her doctor has told her that she is to avoid sick people and small children...so her contact with them will have to be limited anyway.

Nathan sits at our kitchen counter
during one of his Friday visits.

So my days are once again filled with children and their activities...and caring for a loved one at the other end of the age continuum - as much as she will allow!  I really anticipated caring for my mother when she was 90...not 76.  And I'm really not sure what to do with all of this information just yet.  I am trusting God to take me by the hand and lead me, because I feel like we're all somewhat fumbling in the dark at this point.  I know that He is more than able...and that He has my mother - and all of us - in the palm of His hand.

For now, I commiserate when Mother sends an e-mail to tell me she is going back to bed...and I color another picture with Timothy and play "superheroes" with Nathan or read a story to Zola.  It's doesn't seem like enough...but somehow, for now...it is.