The Wordmistress

How Do You Want To Die?

The past few weeks have been very tough. My mom came out of brain surgery doing very well. She actually looked pretty, if that is possible. See, she has been sick for a long time. That damn brain tumor was wreaking all kinds of havoc with her and, I guess, no one really knew it. So it was heartening to see her looking, well, good. My sister took a bus all the way from Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania to see her for about ten minutes. Don't ask. But it was the couple weeks after the surgery that have been the hardest.

Do you know what it means when a doctor gives you nine months to live? It means that out of 1000 people with your same symptoms, most people survive a mean average of nine months. For all you mathematically challenged folks out there, this could mean that a person with nine months to live could survive 2 months or two years. This is why you hear that so-and-so's Aunt Helga who was given 6 months to live has lived 10 years and is still going strong. Now, I'm not saying that my mom is going to be so lucky, but what if she is?

See, she wanted to go home. She wanted to skip radiation and chemo and, well, die. And if she went that path, she would. Die, I mean. Surely and painfully. Her stage 4 lung cancer has advanced enough that it would wrap around her windpipe and literally strangle her. If she wanted to die that way, I would respect it. But I wanted to make sure she understood that she had options.

See, my mom suffers from depression. On a good day. And she hadn't been taking her normally prescribed Prozac . And, can you imagine, that on one day, she had gone from a walking, talking, high-heel-wearing woman-about town, to a frazzled old lady with a hole in her head and a death sentence? She was overwhelmed. So, she wanted to die.

And I was prepared to honor her wishes, but I wanted her to be clear on her options. Thing was, she also couldn't hear. Her hearing aid was completely broken and so my dad was passing her notes. And he was tired, and angry and frustrated. And gee whiz, it was a big fucking mess.

She begged us to let her die. It was heartbreaking. I am not opposed to honoring her wishes. I would get hospice over to their apartment in a minute, but I wasn't completely sure that she understood the reality of the situation. I told her over and over that if radiation and chemo meant just a few more months, I wouldn't expect her to do it. But I thought it was worth a chance. Y'know, the woman hasn't even had a symptom of the cancer yet.

Well, I talked to the oncology psychiatrist. And he put her on the meds. On Saturday, I went up there and brought her back her jewelry, all freshly cleaned. I also brought her a note that I had written that clearly indicated how I felt about the situation (I will post it here later). And, of course, I brought Mia. Guess what happened? She started feeling better.

My sister-in-law Margit came and spent time with her and really took hands-on care of her. And you know what? She felt even better. She started working with the rehab people. She got a new hearing aid. She is now in in-patient rehab and wearing her own clothes and wearing make-up. She's still going to die, just not today.

"Robin, I looked in the mirror and had Dad bring me some make-up. How could you let me look like this?" she said to me yesterday.

Mom. You have no idea.

Queen of Sorrow

Things change and yet they stay eerily the same. I started this weblog to work out my feelings about my brother's tragic early death and raising my daughter. Rosy optimism in the wake of horrible pain. As time passed, and it does, I felt stronger and got more busy. Started working quite a bit and then, of course, there's my daughter, who is now almost 2 and a half. So I stopped posting.

Then sadness again. I can't retread it all right now, but suffice to say that my mother is very ill. I knew it, I could tell she was doing badly. She didn't look right for weeks. And then there was no early morning call, endearingly and annoyingly asking how little Mia was that morning. And then I couldn't reach them and I knew something was wrong. See, I thought my mother had just succumbed to grief, the energy and pain it took to lose a beloved son. But instead it was cancer. She is being operated for a brain tumor tomorrow that, if successful, will help to extend her life for up to eight months.

My dad thinks that eight months is like winning the lottery. My mother doesn't see the point. She feels terminal and wants to go. A couple of months ago, I asked my mother why she was with my dad. I just didn't see them together. But now I see my dad, trying valiantly to buoy my mother's spirits, while he grieves for the family that is disappearing in front of his eyes, and I get it.

I love my mom, and I promised her two things. I won't let her experience pain and I won't let her lose her dignity.  I just hope I can keep that promise.