Reads

Otherwise by Jane Kenyon
Donkey Gospels by Tony Hoagland
To Siberia by Per Petterson (thanks m.m.)

Deceit

In the pursuit of hope, we have led ourselves astray. Family members conspire behind mom's back. We whisper while letting the faucet run much too long for a single dish or the garbage disposal just seems to have a tough go with the single bean. "Son, why don't you come help me take out the garbage" or "Dad, show me the skyline before despair becomes our newest mantra..." You see, we haven't told mom that the cancer's terminal. And this cabal has planned her funeral and burial while urging her to muster strength.
I've spoken with friends, and they are aghast that we bind her to this ignorance. Of course she has a right to know, and we understand this. Our intentions are innocent and pure, and we know in our hearts that we cannot carry these pretenses much further. All of us must face truth. But...but we know her and her predilections. She must fight further, and we'll smother the demons beneath the bed, slay all darkness in the closet, and ply her with anodyne. Please, give us some time in this first stage of grief...
And we wait...
The first chemo treatment is scheduled next week. Already we grow fearful of either possibility - the chemo stems the pain and lets her linger in the liminal state or her symptoms continue unabated. Thereafter the truth will cut her free, and we'll wait.

Entropy

I'm unsure how to start this post. The past few days have steadily eroded hope or joy or understanding of how there might be any cosmic justice. Perhaps I start this too heavily with bitterness and impudence. Despite the stumbles and heartaches, I understand that I live a pleasant life that's stripped of the heartache, violence, and brutish reality of scarcity and hate that is a part of many people's lives.
This post and blog and disease is less about how I think the cosmos has wronged me, and more of how my mother, who is neither saint nor sinner, is suffering through a disease that strips and annihilates and abuses and defeats her so thoroughly that an aura of shattered faith emanates from her.
Adding to her burden is her husband - crippled by fear and ignorance - and her son - dumbfounded and powerless. We two moons orbit around her with the fear of her collapse and that we shall flail hopelessly into darkness. And we know this. We know that her death will send us deep into chaos and lonely without a tether.
I cannot explain the impact of the small defeats that prick our souls. The absence of insurance, the confusion with home health care, the sudden occlusions in her main line, the imminent end of her life, the betrayal of her body. Her heavy tears on Christmas. We lurch forward everyday fearful that tomorrow won't bring her death but another cut.
The only thing I wish for her is peace--away from this place, this disease, this body, this world of disappointments and regrets. I cannot do anything for her. And I stare as she crumbles.

Combats and Raids

Some years ago, ants invaded my parents home. These tiny ellipses would be found in the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms. The worst was when I would open a bag of cereal to discover that somehow ants had found the tiniest holes to wander into a sugar-coated wonderland. Though my parents fought a fruitless battle, I thought a change in their tactics would alleviate their situation despite the fact that one truly knows that one cannot win against ants when one lives in an apartment building. Simply, there's too much space. So, in the hopes of alleviating one aggravation for mom upon her hospital release, I thought to take on these menaces head on.
I first tried poison ant discs. I've read the directions and understand how they're supposed to work, but often I would find myself moving these plastic pads in the paths of ants. Sometimes, I'd line up four or five to construct a coliseum of sorts, hoping that a labyrinth of discs would draw the ants in; however, the stream of ants would eventually work around them. It seems that it was better to walk around rather than through a maze. Especially ones filled with poison. I should remember that.
Despite my failures with the ant poison discs, I continued to buy more, hoping that one ant would choose the direct path and draw its mates toward doom. But ants don't care about direct paths. They got time.
Next, I tried a poison gel. This works disturbingly well.
I checked an area where I had liberally applied the goo in a well-known ant highway. What I found was a bit unsettling. Dead ants looked like scattered pepper on the tile. Some that were still alive twitched and flailed their limbs and antennae. I don't know why I watched with fascination as these ants lingered closer to death. Did they suffer? Do ants suffer?

Reads

A brief mention of books that I'm reading:
Without by Donald Hall
Liberation Through Hearing of the Bardo, aka Tibetan Book of the Dead
Many Lives, Many Masters by Brian Weiss (thanks JR)

Release

Word was that my mother was leaving the hospital today. (And oh, I may post very bad poetry later. It's probably going to be some cringe-worthy shit, but it's how this boy shakes his tail feathers when subconscious angst needs to bubble through.) The doctors have felt that mom may fare better tasting some home cooking rather than trying to swallow the scum that's scraped upon the plates and trays that rolls through. I mean seriously. There's a money-making opportunity for anyone who would like to provide an alternative to eating shit in the hospital. I'm not kidding. Shit. On a plate. To eat. When you're sick. Not good.
So, the doctors, in their infinite wisdom, think it better to have mom go home. I agree, she agrees. Yay.
We were sent home with some medication and received some IV nutrition, antibiotics, and other item related to her home health. First the delivery from the pharmacy came in two large boxes, which revealed a daunting array of syringes, tubes, medications, and opportunities for error. Next, a nurse arrived to show us how completely over our heads we were in attempting to compete with the regimen of nurses and schedules that we had left behind in the hospital.
Yay.

Crackle.

Upon the urging of a friend and the fortuitous presence of a wifi signal, I have decided to post my trials, tribulations, and downright heartache in dealing with my mother's cancer. Though intended to be for friends, who wish to be updated on my mother's and my own situation, I think it necessary to maintain some level of anonymity, no matter how minimal.
So, I'll be properly infused with wine so that I limit editing and that my wounds are fresh and uncensored. I believe this is a foolhardy strategy, so I assume that every successive post will demand greater amounts of wine or heartache. I hope for the former.
I just realized that I may not have had an opportunity to update several of my friends on my mother's current situation, so this will be a perfect opportunity to provide a brief recap.
November 6 - I had just returned to work after a grad school intensive and a visit with a friend in Washington when my cousin left a brief and terrifying email that read simply, "Call home now." After contacting my cousin, he suspected that my mother had cancer, and I booked a flight home that very day.
November 7-December - A series of visits to the hospital includes a perforated colon during an exam, a discovery of nodules along the peritoneal cavity, and a fuck ton of tears.
Today...