You kinda knew, didn’t you? Or suspected? I think you did. Sorta. Maybe as early as summertime? Then again, maybe you had no idea at all. I don’t know. I go back and forth. I’ll never know for sure. Not now. Not ever. At least not until I see you again.
Gary called me. He went with you to your doctor’s appointment. It was the one when they did the sonogram. He said the doctor told you there were “dark spots” on your liver, lung and kidneys. The lump on your side, below your ribs, needed to be looked at, too.
You went for a CT scan and Gary went with you then, too. He called me again. This time he said that the doctor told you that you had cancer. It was on both of your kidneys, your lung and your liver. That lump was cancer, too. It had a really long root-type thing and that was where the cancer in your liver came from. Or maybe it started in your liver and ended just under the skin on your side. Either way, it was cancer. And the cancer in your lung had to be taken care of first. He said that cancer in the lung will spread because it gets into the bloodstream. It goes everywhere. Like oxygen does.
You were referred to a pulmonologist for a biopsy. You refused but we convinced you to do it. I took you to the hospital. They sedated you and ran the light down to your lung. You were still a bit dopey when he came in with your results. “Inoperable”. I really don’t like that word. It didn’t make sense to me. John’s mom had a cancerous mass on her lung. She had surgery. They removed the part of her lung that had the tumor in it and she did alright. Why couldn’t you have surgery? You said that you didn’t want the surgery but I did my best to convince you to do it. But…that was before the doctor talked to us. Before the “inoperable” word. Inoperable? Why? Well, you see, the doctor told us that you had a very large tumor. Grapefruit-sized. Not in your lung but wrapped around the main artery at your lung. Wrapped all around it. Inoperable. He said maybe radiation or chemotherapy will work. You were referred to a specialty clinic.
Gary came with us that time. That doctor was honest with us from the beginning. Radiation and chemotherapy would be useless. He said six months. Or less. I hate those “or less” words, too. You knew that there was nothing that could be done. In your heart, you knew. But you needed us to hear it from the doctor. So we’d believe it. So we’d accept it. I think I saw that in your eyes for the first time that day. Or maybe that day was the first time that I actually saw what was in your eyes. But I saw it. And I accepted it. Hated it, too. He gave me a business card for hospice and his office contacted them.
We took you home. To die. You were ready. I saw it in your eyes. I knew it in my heart. My selfish, selfish heart.
Hospice came. A nurse. You liked her. Or, I think you did. She was sweet and talked to you about what she could do for you. Baths, hair, nails…”the spa treatment” she called it. You agreed to it but I don’t think you wanted it. She offered to have a minister come by to talk to you and you agreed to that. I knew you would want that. You believed in God and I know that you wanted to be right with Him before you left this world. Like you had anything to worry about. Unfortunately, he never did come. We didn’t know it then but there wasn’t enough time left.
Standing outside with Gary, I told him that I didn’t think you were gonna make it six months. That I didn’t think you’d make it to your birthday in February. I didn’t think it…I knew it in my heart. Gary was mad. He said that there was still a chance. “There’s always a chance” he’d say. Like he didn’t hear what the doctor said. Like he didn’t see what you were trying to get us to see. He was so scared. Even though he is grown, I saw my little brother that day. Scared and hurt and pissed at you for giving up and pissed at me for not making you fight. Just like I was. The thing is, I didn’t say it out loud, but I was worried that you wouldn’t make it to Christmas. Really worried. I don’t know why I kept that to myself. Maybe because I’m such a pessimist and I was scared that people would poo-poo me. Tell me that I was giving up on you. Maybe I was trying to get to that place called denial. Maybe I was scared that if I said it out loud that it would come true. I don’t know.
I tried to be strong. To be there for everyone. I squashed my fears and kept on keeping on. Didn’t really talk to anyone. I didn’t feel like I could. Not Gary. He was wallowing in fear, pain and self-pity and started drinking again. I had to be the adult for him. Not Karen. She just…I don’t know. Drama Queen. She only saw (or sees) how things impact her. She was the only one that talked to the grief counselor and, apparently, did that a lot. I think I should have but I felt like they had their hands full with her. I didn’t talk to John. In my mind, he had enough to worry about. And I didn’t want to bring back painful memories of his mom. I didn’t wanna hurt him. And honestly, I don’t think he wanted to hear it. Memories…and he’s an optimist. I didn’t talk to my kids or to the rest of my family. I didn’t feel like I could. Still don’t. So, I tried to stay strong. To squash it all down to a size that I thought I could handle. More than anything, I wanted to be strong for you. Because, in my mind, you needed me to be. And so did everyone else.
Christmastime was weird. By then you spent all of your time in your bed. I remember laying beside you and just looking into your eyes. Really looking. At you. Trying to soak up all of you that was good so it could be part of me. We talked. Quietly. You looked into my eyes and told me you were “proud to be my daughter”. I knew what you meant. You meant you were proud to be my mom. That meant so much to me. It still does. You and I knew then, deep inside, that the cancer was in your brain. But you were not gonna give up your mind to cancer that easily. So we laid there and talked about mundane stuff like we always did. One last time before your mind was taken away.
I wanted to spend your last Christmas with you. I was selfish and didn’t want to share that with anyone. I didn’t care about anyone but me and you. John and the kids were rocks for me. They let me figure it out for myself that I was not being fair. Gary and Karen needed that last Christmas, too. So, I sucked it up and made plans to have a great Christmas together. All of us.
We all were there that day. Karen, Darren, Gary, John, Johnny, Tony, Shannon, Rick and me. When you saw Shannon you stretched out your hand and placed it on her pregnant belly. You gave it the softest rub and just smiled. We opened gifts that day but I can’t say when or where. All I know is that we got you two pairs of flannel pajamas and you opened them in your bed. I can’t remember if you ever wore them.
That was the first time that Karen and I had ever cooked together. Well, except for when she got the Easy-Bake oven when we were little. We took turns checking on you. Well, I didn’t just check on you. I’d talk to you like crazy. Probably drove you nuts. You probably just wanted me to shut up. Sometimes (most of the time) I get a little (a lottle) gabby.
When dinner was ready I made you a plate. Gary was gonna take it in to you but I told him to take it easy and relax. I wanted to give him a day off. I took your plate to you and sat with you while you ate. You ate so fast it scared me. Like it was your last meal. Turns out, it was. You had a hard time, too. You didn’t want to be fed “like a little kid” so I gave you your fork. You kept missing the ham. Oh, God. Now your eyes are going. But not completely.
When Shannon and Rick came into your room you looked at Rick with his long hair and beard and called him Jesus. It embarrassed him but he laughed about it. We all did. When they came in to say good-bye you told him that “he still had a nice butt”. Embarrassed him again but it was funny. You were tired but you seemed happy. You told us that you were gonna go to sleep now so we all went home.
It started snowing that night. It snowed a lot. Gary brought some snow in to you and you ate some of it. Later that day you woke up and told Gary that your chest was hurting really bad. He called for an ambulance and then called me. As scared as I was about driving in the snow and ice, I was more scared for you. And for everyone else, me included. That this was it. That I wouldn’t see you again. It took me a long time to get to the hospital. You were already in the back and Gary was with you. You weren’t talking much at all and, even though your eyes were open, it didn’t seem like you were seeing anything. The doctor told me and Gary that they were gonna take you for a CT scan of your head and he’d talk to us after he got the results. When they came to take you, Gary and I went out to my car and made some phone calls. That was hard. We went back in and we were only in the room for a few minutes when the doctor came back. We stepped out to the desk to talk to him. I don’t know why we didn’t stay in the room. I remember not wanting you to hear what he was going to say but I don’t know why. He told us that the tumors in your brain were bleeding. Tumors? In your brain? What tumors in your brain? Oh. The cancer. It had spread to your brain, grown tumors there at the back of your brain and were now bleeding. That’s why you couldn’t see too well. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. He said that it was time to call the family. He admitted you and you were taken to a room. You stayed there for that night.
The next day I was in your room and called Scott so he could talk to you. You didn’t talk back but I held the phone to your ear so that you could hear him. He was crying and begging you to hold on until he got here. He told you that he was coming but that he needed a few more days. He begged you over and over to hold on. And he cried so hard.
I remember that you told me that you had to use the bathroom. After being silent for what seemed like forever. I called the nurse for you. I knew that I couldn’t get you to the bathroom by myself and you had one of them stupid paper bracelets on that said “fall risk”. I figured that the nurse would come and help you get out of bed and then help you to the bathroom and back. Nope. She came in and shoved you over on your side a little and shoved a bed-pan under you. You didn’t use it. You just laid there with that thing under your butt and held it. You wanted to use the toilet. I knew that but, I’m embarrassed and sorry to say, I didn’t say anything. Not then. The hospice nurse happened to be walking by the room and saw us. She came in and I told her why you were there and what was going on. I told her that you wanted to use the bathroom and not a bed-pan. She said she’d be right back. And she was. With the nurse. They both helped you to the bathroom and back in bed. When the nurse left she told me that you deserved more dignity than you were going to get in the hospital. Exactly. She told me about the hospice center and said that they had a room for you. I wanted to cry then but I needed to stay strong. Too many people to talk to and too much to do. So, I squashed it down.
They took you by ambulance. Karen came and we went in her car. While they were getting you settled in we admitted you. Or, I did. They needed one of us to handle everything. Karen just sat there and looked at me. So I said I’d do it. God, how I wish somebody else would have done it! I wanted to sit with you and hold your hand. I wanted to cry and grieve for you. I wanted to spend every last second with you. But I couldn’t. I had to make sure that things were going to be done and done right. The way you would have wanted. I tried. And I hope I did right by you.
They asked me if any arrangements were made. Arrangements? Not yet. It hadn’t even entered my mind until then. Not that I had made it to that elusive land of denial. I just hadn’t thought about it. So, I asked Karen and Gary what we were gonna do. It was hard for them to say. You and I had talked about death and dying quite a bit. No subject was taboo for us. I had the impression that you didn’t do that with them. Not like we did. Karen had no idea what your wishes were. None at all. She thought that you would want a Catholic something or other. Catholic?! Still gets me. Gary wasn’t able to make any decisions. He was drinking more by then and running through all the emotions there are. So, I called them (probably Scott too but I don’t remember) and asked if they’d have a problem with me making the arrangements. I wasn’t expecting the speed with which they agreed. I mean, it was quick. I went to the funeral home and made the arrangements that I knew you wanted. And deserved. Every thing was pretty easy until they asked me what to put on your “memorial” page on their website. How could I ever tell anyone how special you are. Special. Even that’s not the right word. I don’t think a word has been invented yet that would explain it. I stumbled through it though.
After letting the hospice people know, I talked to the others about having a small gathering at your house. We wanted to invite anyone that knew you. The way I explained it was, everyone that knew you, knew a different you. The you that Ilse Taylor knew was different than the you that Betty and Paul knew. It was like that with us. The you that Karen knew was different than the you that Gary knew. And from the you that I knew. I figured that the best way for someone to know the whole you was to hear the stories and memories from everyone. Sounded good anyway.
I went to see you. I think Shannon came with me. Maybe not. I went into your room by myself and just watched you. For a little bit. I wanted to lay beside you and hold you and beg you to come back. I wanted to make you ok again. I knew that I couldn’t but I wanted to. So badly. Instead, I went to the right side of your bed and kissed your forehead. I held your cheek to mine and whispered in your ear. I told you that it was ok to go. You didn’t have to hang on for me. I would be ok. I will miss you terribly but I would be alright. I told you not to worry about me, that I was strong and that I would do my best to make you proud of me. It’s ok, mom. You can go now. I love you. I love you so much.
I told Gary what I had done. I thought that he’d be mad. That I was giving up on you. Again. He was mad at first. Until I told him that I felt like you would hang on and on because you weren’t sure that we’d be ok without you. I felt like you would be doing it for us, not for you. You were ready to go. I wasn’t giving you my permission. You didn’t need that. More like I was releasing you. Letting you know that I had accepted the fact that you were dying and that you didn’t have to worry about me anymore. I think that’s when he decided to tell you, too. So he didn’t feel like he was holding you here. I told Karen, too. She said that she had told you the same thing but, with her, you never know if it’s the truth.
I was at home chipping ice off of the driveway that morning. I didn’t want to be in the house. It sounds kind of crazy, and maybe I was by then, but I think I felt you go. John stepped out the front door with the phone in his hand and told me that I had a call. He said it was hospice. I knew for sure, then. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” is how I answered the phone. I think I shocked the lady. I don’t think she was expecting that.
I had accepted the fact that you were dying. Now, the fact that you are gone. It’s hard. Real hard. I still catch myself thinking of you like you’re still here. I want to ask you something about a plant or tell you what the kids are up to. I still want to call you when I need to vent or when I’m lonely. But I can’t. I know you’re in heaven and I do talk to you. I know that you hear me but… What I want is to talk with you. Like we used to do. About important stuff and silly stuff and mundane stuff. I want to hear your voice and see your face. I want to laugh with you and reminisce with you. I miss you, momma. Lots.
