In the days that followed the meeting with Mom's Doctors, I tried to focus myself on the journey that was beginning. I tried to figure out how to be the most supportive son Mom would need me to be. I also had to figure out the smartest way to make sure that my life remained optimally operational, though I knew that this journey would impact my whole life, I just needed to soften its blow. Professionally, I scheduled a meeting with my supervisor, so that he and I could talk through and figure out how the new responsibilities concerning Mom, wouldn't greatly conflict with my job duties and responsibilities.
In an amazing turn of chance, my supervisor created an air of comfortability that would be the best feasible path for me to take so that I could maintain everything that I was involved with, while enduring that tenuous time. He granted me an incredible flexibility regarding my schedule and time. He allowed me to be on an, "on-call" status so that I could be available to be there for Mom on a moment's notice. I will always appreciate him for his support.
Mom and I would discuss the gathering storm, and we discussed the thing that bothered us both, the moment of her pending mortality. We actually thought to plan as best as we could, but can you really plan for a thing like this? Mom did a great job of maintaining her spirits during the immediate days after the our meeting with the "green team," though, as is a natural flow of things sometimes when one deals with the fullness of battling a terminal disease, her spirit would reach both highs and lows. We tried to talk through the logistics involving her chemo schedule, and her medical needs. We tried to work through the issues of what the possible changes to her physically, would do to her mentally, and I even suggested that she see a Counselor, but this suggestion was a no-go. Her strength and faith propeled mine. Our battle cry was, "We can beat this!" I believed that we could. My faith was strong and my perspectives on medical technology allowed me to embrace the, "anything is possible" view.
Mom's first scheduled chemo appointment arrived, and the morning that I went to pick her up, Mom walked out wearing something new. A bald head. I looked at her and thought, "okay Mom, if it must be, then it must be." When she got into the car, I didn't even have to ask, the first thing that she said was, "there was no sense in waiting for my hair to fall out." I smiled at her, and felt empowered by her courage and boldness. All I could say in response was, "cool Mom." That first chemo session was hard on her mentally and physically. As we drove back to her apartment, she didn't really speak too much, and neither did I. What do you say in that situation? Do you even ask questions? I simply drove, only suggesting that we stop off for a bite to eat, but she had no appetite.
The news of Mom's diagnosis sent a shock wave through the body of our family, hugely due to the fact that it was so sudden, and without a pre-emptive sign. Everyone was sort of in a state of disbelief. The conversations ranged from, "she needs to get another opinion" to, "how is this happening?" My siblings and I were all retiscent and worried, but we knew not to show signs of such concern in Mom's presence. She wouldn't stand for it, nor would those sentiments be welcomed.
During the moments that I was alone, I would think about my life, and all that Mom sacrificed and suffered while raising us. I would think about the intense struggles that I witnessed her suffering through, and I became selfish. I asked God, "how could You let this happen? Hasn't she been through enough?" There were many nights when I would sit in my garage at home, and just shed tears from having to imagine her gone. During those moments, I would come face to face with my own fragility, because the man in me wanted to conquer this thing for her. The soldier-son in me wanted to fix it, and to make it all go away. Feeling powerless, I would seek answers from spiritual places, talking to Pastors and Counselors. But nothing would reconcile this moment for me. My grandmother told me, "just be all that she needs you to be, and provide as much comfort for her as you can." My family was such a strong source of support for my siblings and I, immeasurable in every way.
After a few weeks had passed, I could begin to see the after affects of the chemotherapy as it played its torturous game inside Mom's body. She started to gain weight from the steriods that they were pumping into her to combat the side affects of the chemo and the pain. Her hands started to convulse in intervals, and her mind was starting to play tricks on her. I remember sitting with Mom in her apartment after a chemo session, talking about her grandchildren. Anything to try to get her mind off of that day's fight with chemo. During our conversation, her right hand started to quiver, but then the quiver turned spasmatic, and it took every ounce of restraint inside me not to freak out. As her hand shook without control, we both sat catatonic, almost non-breathing. I was speechless, and she was trying to focus herself so that she could focus her body. Nothing helped. The next day, I went alone and without appointment to meet with her lead Doctor. I needed to ask if anything could be done to rectify the spams. He informed me that Mom would face moments where her body would react in abstract forms to the treatments, and then he said, "it would surely get worse." He also told me that he and Mom agreed that she would get a motorized wheelchair, because her ability to walk was diminishing. The vision of Mom in a wheelchair nearly paralyzed me. How could this woman who walked tall and strong for us all of our lives, be now facing confinement to a motorized chair? This thought was sickening, and even now just picturing Mom in that contraption, is hard.
Yes I struggled with the thought of seeing Mom in a wheelchair. I struggled to think about what the wheelchair would be signaling. I knew that it was a good idea, and that Mom's physical capabilities were disappearing, but I just wasn't ready to see it. Again, I was being selfish, though I knew that I would need to lose my selfish attitude.
The Doctor also asked me how Mom was doing when she was at home, away from the hospital, and I told him that she was holding up as best as she could, but that I could see things starting to take a toll on her emotionally and physically. He told me that during her treatments, she was heavily defiant and at times, almost violently combative towards the Doctors and the Nurses. He asked if I could talk to her about it, and I assured him that I would, and so I did. It was then that Mom's belligerent spirit showed itself to me, and it was then, that I knew that she was truly scared. Yet, things were getting worse and the chemotherapy wasn't having any true positive affects. Her pain from both the ravenous nature of the cancer, and the chemotherapy was starting to draw her downward, and she could no longer conceal this truth.
One morning in early January, nearly three months after the diagnosis, I arrived at Mom's apartment to find her lying on the floor. She had fallen out of the motorized wheelchair that the V.A. Hospital had gotten her, and in her condition, she had no strength to pull herself up and to get re-situated. I had no idea how long she had been lying there on the floor, and I was mortified. I knew that it wouldn't be long before she would need the presence of a care provider who could watch over her, an idea that Mom wasn't happy to consider, but my concern was bigger than her desire to retain as much of her independence and privacy. We fought about this issue, over and over, and I was reminded of Mom's inner resolve, "you won't be getting me no Nurse. I'm not that far gone. Hell no! This damned wheelchair is enough. I don't need anyone around me, whose presence would help to remind me of my weakness."
By early February, Mom's condition had turned so bad, that I could hardly bare to witness it. She still maintained her steadfast faith, but I was starting to see signs that her emotional strength was expiring. By this time, the Doctors had already increased her chemotherapy sessions, and they had even prescribed supportive medications for her, to fight the pain that was ever increasing. We were losing her, and we all could sense it. Her anger had grown, her obstinance was was towering and her physical status was worsening at an incredible pace. We all were quietly wondering if the moment of her demise, would sneak up on us, without announcement and snatch her away. Personally, on the inside, I was suffering. To watch your parent waste away, is such a horrible tribulation, one that I wouldn't want anyone to suffer.
My fear of losing Mom was growing, and stealthily, the moment of her passing was approaching, we just didn't know how it would come, and what would be the wake created by its passage. February would prove to be an incredibly hard month for us all because Mom had started to become more and more "gone," and internally my desperation and devastation was growing, and my faith was starting to fail.
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