Yesterday was an intense, painful day, which was preceded by a string of intense days. About a week ago, Jill and I were informed by the oncology team that she had weeks, maybe days to live. That wasn't news to us, or me (better to speak for myself) but hearing it stung, especially in the way it was said. Her body has been, and still is, going through a lot. Last Friday, I think, the palliative care team spoke to her directly about the prognosis. Erin was in DC and Jill was getting Craig, so I was there by myself. This was the first time, to my knowledge, that Mom has been talked to in a real way about her death and where she is in that process. I thought that my heart was going to rip out of my chest when I had to ask the doctor to "please tell her, because I can't." It felt like giving up. Like not being strong enough to reassure her that everything was going to be okay anymore. After they left, I put my head on her chest and told her that I love her with everything I have and we sobbed together. It still felt then that we were helping her through this; that maybe we had more awareness of what was going on than she did.
Yesterday was different. I walked into the room in the morning and sensed a change. Jill and Erin were red-eyed and sitting by Mom's bed, holding her hand, and I had the immediate uh-oh feeling. Mom looked more alert than she ever has, thanks to the lumbar-tap, and said hello and good-morning in a stronger voice then she's had in weeks. After Jill and Erin left, I started to feed her lunch. She was looking at me with such an intensity that I started to cry. For the first time in my life, she didn't start to cry too. I knew then that she has accepted her death and is ready, relatively speaking. Her eyes told me what I had know intellectually for the past several months and thought I had accepted. I thought I was ready before, when she wasn't ready. But looking at her and seeing her change, that made it real. And I'm not ready. I asked her if she had any worries, was scared, and she said "no." I asked her if she was at peace and she said "yes." I share this not to be maudlin or melodramatic, but to let all of you who know our Mom, love her, see where she is in her process. It's not like the movies, at least so far as I can tell. Accepting death doesn't mean you like it. She still wants to fight, whether it's for two more days or two more weeks. So we'll support her. I love you Mom.
D
May I ask one of you girls to do a favor for me. If you find the appropriate moment, would you please tell your mother that she was always a good big sister to me and I love her for that. And that I will be here for you girls to be a good listener whenever you need to talk. Thanks. Love, Aunt Joan
ReplyDeleteHi Diane, I've read your website often, and I sit here tonight, reading the latest and am balling like a baby. Snot is running down my nose (reminds me of the song, isn't it Iron Lung or something?) My dogs look up at me, wondering what I'm doing. My heart breaks for you all, but it also sings for all the joys you've shared. Tears are dripping as I type. I'm going to bed.
ReplyDeleteA big cyber hug across the miles. I am thinking of you and your family,
Paula
P.S. I hope it's ok that non-family write comments here too.
ReplyDeleteMary is in my thoughts from morning till night.I have special thoughts for Jim who must be grieving for everyone of you for so many reasons. I myself can't bear to think of the awful disruption caused in the lives of such young people as you ,girls, by Mary's and Craig's cancer. Yet Mary, somehow , is very fortunate in having her husband and her four children at her bed-side in such times, in spite of all the horror it's a comforting thought. Whatever happens, I am confident that you will get on with your lives so as to remain what you have always been, your parents' pride and joy. A big hug to Mary from her French sister. Chris
ReplyDeleteGlad you commented, Paula. We love all comments -- and you are family! D
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