Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Update
As I was leaving work my father called me.
"It's bad," he said.
After the nurse visited with my parents yesterday, they went into the hospital because her pain was so severe. Instead of going towards the emergency room, they headed towards the fifth floor of in the inpatient clinic tower. The staff found a room for her immediately.
My mother's pain and swelling had become too severe. Her lungs were filled with fluid, blood pressure was dropping, and her hemoglobin was low. No ascites was found in her abdomen.
The doctors think she has little time left.
"Your mother didn't want me to call you. She didn't want to worry you."
I sat in my car as he spoke, and I wasn't sure whether I needed to fly out to Los Angeles immediately. She refused both the breathing and NG tube.
The doctors were prepping my mother to remove the fluid from her lungs. A small incision will be made in her back and somehow the doctors would remove the fluid from there.
"I'll call you when I get home. I need to get back to her."
"Do I need to come home?"
"I don't know." He sighed. "I'll call you later."
"It's bad," he said.
After the nurse visited with my parents yesterday, they went into the hospital because her pain was so severe. Instead of going towards the emergency room, they headed towards the fifth floor of in the inpatient clinic tower. The staff found a room for her immediately.
My mother's pain and swelling had become too severe. Her lungs were filled with fluid, blood pressure was dropping, and her hemoglobin was low. No ascites was found in her abdomen.
The doctors think she has little time left.
"Your mother didn't want me to call you. She didn't want to worry you."
I sat in my car as he spoke, and I wasn't sure whether I needed to fly out to Los Angeles immediately. She refused both the breathing and NG tube.
The doctors were prepping my mother to remove the fluid from her lungs. A small incision will be made in her back and somehow the doctors would remove the fluid from there.
"I'll call you when I get home. I need to get back to her."
"Do I need to come home?"
"I don't know." He sighed. "I'll call you later."
May 27, 2009
Yesterday at work, I received a call from the home health nurse. “Your mother,” she said, “is very sick.” Yes. “Have you considered hospice care?”
Initially we dismissed hospice care because we wondered whether the environment might speed her towards death, and as always, we hanged tightly to our denial and desperate hopes. But after my visit, my mother’s decline was marked different. The jaundice remained and in addition edema had spread to her limbs. Her arms, hands, legs, and feet were swollen. Heavy bags beneath her eyes were formed by months of inconsistent sleep. The skin on her neck was loose, but I could see her veins pulse quick and shallow. I asked to check her ostomy bag and I when I did, I saw the magenta stretch marks that yielded under the strain of the ascites. My poor, dear old mother was bulging and collapsing.
Throughout the visit, I feared she would die in her sleep. Sometimes she would awaken and mumble incoherently. My father and I would share a look of fear and panic.
Hospice care seems to be a viable option considering the state of her condition and the toll of providing care for her has weathered my father. And yesterday, when I came home from work, I wanted to speak with my parents about this. But they have not answered the phone. I tried throughout the night, spacing the calls 15 minutes apart. Both landline and mobile phone rang on end. My heart is hammering through my chest.
Initially we dismissed hospice care because we wondered whether the environment might speed her towards death, and as always, we hanged tightly to our denial and desperate hopes. But after my visit, my mother’s decline was marked different. The jaundice remained and in addition edema had spread to her limbs. Her arms, hands, legs, and feet were swollen. Heavy bags beneath her eyes were formed by months of inconsistent sleep. The skin on her neck was loose, but I could see her veins pulse quick and shallow. I asked to check her ostomy bag and I when I did, I saw the magenta stretch marks that yielded under the strain of the ascites. My poor, dear old mother was bulging and collapsing.
Throughout the visit, I feared she would die in her sleep. Sometimes she would awaken and mumble incoherently. My father and I would share a look of fear and panic.
Hospice care seems to be a viable option considering the state of her condition and the toll of providing care for her has weathered my father. And yesterday, when I came home from work, I wanted to speak with my parents about this. But they have not answered the phone. I tried throughout the night, spacing the calls 15 minutes apart. Both landline and mobile phone rang on end. My heart is hammering through my chest.
search
I’m looking for metaphors everywhere. I’m hoping for patterns, which will emerge from the daily cacophony, and indicate that everything will be all right. I’m desperate for a message and my distractions gravitate towards the worlds of underdogs. I’m seeking the loophole of quantum mechanics when statistically impossible manifests so that entropy could cease, reverse itself, and heal. I’m smoking cigarettes and staring into the clouds wondering whether she’s there already.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Journal Excerpt: Friday, May 22
Some thoughts and moments from my Memorial Day weekend visit.
---
"Your father doesn't know how to do it right." She stood slowly. "Help me."
"Where are you going?"
"To the kitchen, turn the lights on."
My father had left to pick up some ingredients for the sauteed tofu dish, and a block of tofu was left on the cutting board to dry.
"He doesn't know how to do it, so I'll just get it started. A person needs to cook every once in a while or they'll just have no idea. I'll make it delicious. For you. A mother should be able to make her son's favorite dish."
She held onto her IV pole with her left hand, and I hooked my arm beneath her right armpit to steady her as she shuffled to kitchen. Every few feet she paused to catch breath with an audible whew.
"You need to prop me up. I can't stand by myself." She leaned against the counter and picked up the chef's knife.
"What are you doing?"
"Just making it right. He doesn't know." With an unsteady hand she sliced into the block. "You see? Like this. Like this."
The knife plunged into the soft whiteness forming uneven slices. "It's supposed to be even." She paused. "I'm too weak to hold a knife." As her strength flagged further, each new slice was larger than the previous.
"Keep me up, keep me up. I'm too weak."
My eyes welled with tears and the knife appeared to shake as she processed the block.
"This helps it dry... I...I need to sit." She placed the knife down. "Help me...help me get to the couch."
Before she reached for her IV pole, my mother saw a tear fall from my chin onto the cut tofu. "Stop that...they'll never dry if you do that." She turned away from me, and wiped away her own tears.
---
"Your father doesn't know how to do it right." She stood slowly. "Help me."
"Where are you going?"
"To the kitchen, turn the lights on."
My father had left to pick up some ingredients for the sauteed tofu dish, and a block of tofu was left on the cutting board to dry.
"He doesn't know how to do it, so I'll just get it started. A person needs to cook every once in a while or they'll just have no idea. I'll make it delicious. For you. A mother should be able to make her son's favorite dish."
She held onto her IV pole with her left hand, and I hooked my arm beneath her right armpit to steady her as she shuffled to kitchen. Every few feet she paused to catch breath with an audible whew.
"You need to prop me up. I can't stand by myself." She leaned against the counter and picked up the chef's knife.
"What are you doing?"
"Just making it right. He doesn't know." With an unsteady hand she sliced into the block. "You see? Like this. Like this."
The knife plunged into the soft whiteness forming uneven slices. "It's supposed to be even." She paused. "I'm too weak to hold a knife." As her strength flagged further, each new slice was larger than the previous.
"Keep me up, keep me up. I'm too weak."
My eyes welled with tears and the knife appeared to shake as she processed the block.
"This helps it dry... I...I need to sit." She placed the knife down. "Help me...help me get to the couch."
Before she reached for her IV pole, my mother saw a tear fall from my chin onto the cut tofu. "Stop that...they'll never dry if you do that." She turned away from me, and wiped away her own tears.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Distance
Some days ago, I received a phone call while I stepped out from work to pick up some lotto tickets and donuts. The 920 area code was unfamiliar, and the phone recognized the call was from California; so I pulled into a parking lot and answered. I dread calls from unfamiliar numbers that originate from California. Before my mother's illness I couldn't fathom the tragedy that would trigger a call, but now my suspicions are narrowed to a couple of probabilities. (1) She's dead. (2) She'll die shortly, book your flight.
In either case, I take a couple of breaths before answering.
The call was from the oncologist who was seeing my mother for the appointment that day. It turns out there were no Korean translators at LACUSC hospital. That is to say, the hospital in the city that holds an estimated 1.2 million Koreans had no translators. So my father gave my mobile number to the doctor and she called me. In some way, I'm glad she did. I was able to provide the doctor with an update of my mother's condition since I speak with her and my father daily. Plus, I was able to ask about the bilirubin numbers. The onc said the numbers were holding steady at 17, so though her numbers haven't increased, the frail liver continued to deteriorate under the strain. All this, and I knew the liver problems were a red herring to the biliary cancer, which proceeded to march onward, conquering organs.
Over the past few weeks, my mother's nausea has waned, and she's been drinking juice - a mixture of carrot, celery, and sweet potato - that, according to my dad, helps to improve the liver. I'm skeptical, but the small pleasure of her drinking something delighted me. Perhaps she'll be able to engage in some basic joys before the great nothingness pulls on her sleeve.
In either case, I take a couple of breaths before answering.
The call was from the oncologist who was seeing my mother for the appointment that day. It turns out there were no Korean translators at LACUSC hospital. That is to say, the hospital in the city that holds an estimated 1.2 million Koreans had no translators. So my father gave my mobile number to the doctor and she called me. In some way, I'm glad she did. I was able to provide the doctor with an update of my mother's condition since I speak with her and my father daily. Plus, I was able to ask about the bilirubin numbers. The onc said the numbers were holding steady at 17, so though her numbers haven't increased, the frail liver continued to deteriorate under the strain. All this, and I knew the liver problems were a red herring to the biliary cancer, which proceeded to march onward, conquering organs.
Over the past few weeks, my mother's nausea has waned, and she's been drinking juice - a mixture of carrot, celery, and sweet potato - that, according to my dad, helps to improve the liver. I'm skeptical, but the small pleasure of her drinking something delighted me. Perhaps she'll be able to engage in some basic joys before the great nothingness pulls on her sleeve.
lost thoughts
It’s been a long time since I posted anything, and each new day without a word on my mother’s condition is a reflection of the recurrent sense of the unknown. That is to say, who the fuck knows. Though I call daily, the conversation finds the well-worn grooves of the previous call. Even my dad, who was elated that I would phone regularly, admits, “What’s left to say?” Have you ever held a conversation with someone who knew 20 or fewer words? How many times can you say hello and goodbye? This is all that I have with my mother and father. Our canvass is always painted with pain, exhaustion, boredom, and fear.
Skype too has become troublesome. In some ways the connection seems to be weak or the laptop left in Los Angeles showcases the inevitable decline of technology. I see her face but she is not my mother.
I read somewhere that a person mourns, on average, for up to six months. News of her cancer was on December 5. My sadness may be precocious.
Skype too has become troublesome. In some ways the connection seems to be weak or the laptop left in Los Angeles showcases the inevitable decline of technology. I see her face but she is not my mother.
I read somewhere that a person mourns, on average, for up to six months. News of her cancer was on December 5. My sadness may be precocious.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
April 21: Wilt
“Your mother’s going to die,” he answered. My father’s words came slowly as each sigh pushed another syllable forward. “She knows. The doctors told her this morning. She lost strength. It’s over. It’s over.”
We already knew this, but the charade was over. The jaundice increased steadily and her bilirubin numbers reached 17. Within a month, her number had nearly doubled, and the doctor said her liver was working around 5 to 10 percent capacity.
“I would cut out my liver and give it to her. Can they do that?” asked my father.
“...no…”
“I would. I would donate my liver, my stomach, anything.” He paused. “We were praying when you called.”
“How is she?”
“She lost her strength. She’s sapped. She’s tired.”
We wished that her faith stringed with hope and prayer would lift her beyond the grave, while we deflected the sharp realities. And in a moment, the doctor’s words stabbed our weak dirigible and cut what cords held her spirits.
“Pray for me. It’s in His hands.”
“Of course. Always.”
---
It’s been six weeks since I’ve returned. Either the distance or time has removed some of the worry that I carried in Los Angeles. Now I’m the familiar terrain of guilt.
---
I don’t know what to write or say any more. Every day brings a slight variation of emotion built on the same foundation. How else can I feel panicked, saddened, distraught, hopeless, defeated, or guilty? How is it possible that every day may bring another level of disappointment for my mother?
We already knew this, but the charade was over. The jaundice increased steadily and her bilirubin numbers reached 17. Within a month, her number had nearly doubled, and the doctor said her liver was working around 5 to 10 percent capacity.
“I would cut out my liver and give it to her. Can they do that?” asked my father.
“...no…”
“I would. I would donate my liver, my stomach, anything.” He paused. “We were praying when you called.”
“How is she?”
“She lost her strength. She’s sapped. She’s tired.”
We wished that her faith stringed with hope and prayer would lift her beyond the grave, while we deflected the sharp realities. And in a moment, the doctor’s words stabbed our weak dirigible and cut what cords held her spirits.
“Pray for me. It’s in His hands.”
“Of course. Always.”
---
It’s been six weeks since I’ve returned. Either the distance or time has removed some of the worry that I carried in Los Angeles. Now I’m the familiar terrain of guilt.
---
I don’t know what to write or say any more. Every day brings a slight variation of emotion built on the same foundation. How else can I feel panicked, saddened, distraught, hopeless, defeated, or guilty? How is it possible that every day may bring another level of disappointment for my mother?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
taxing day
When I spoke with my father today, he was still uncertain what the doctors had said. Something about something being high, he muttered. I regretted that I wasn't there so that I had a better understanding of the situation. To the best of my knowledge, her TPN was causing some further problems and a slight tweaking of the formula should do the trick. This I don't understand since her blood was drawn regularly and the formula adjusted accordingly. Another 25 microgram patch was placed on her chest to total 75 micrograms of Fentanyl. The additional narcotics flowing through her would stress her liver further, but such a consideration is unnecessary given the circumstance.
We don't know when she might be discharged, and we're clueless to everything.
When I spoke with my mother her voice sounded as though it was wrapped in gauze. She sounded so weak and tired, it was as though her voice walked the miles of line to get to me. I couldn't understand what she said, so I kept asking her to repeat herself. In frustration she tried to scream her response, but all I heard were senescent syllables that died as they reached my ear.
We don't know when she might be discharged, and we're clueless to everything.
When I spoke with my mother her voice sounded as though it was wrapped in gauze. She sounded so weak and tired, it was as though her voice walked the miles of line to get to me. I couldn't understand what she said, so I kept asking her to repeat herself. In frustration she tried to scream her response, but all I heard were senescent syllables that died as they reached my ear.
for april 14
The MRI was scheduled for 8 a.m. My parents arrived early and patiently waited for the doctor. Again an unfamiliar face had them wait and answer questions, all of which were answered previously for another white coat.
(This made me wonder what to call a group of doctors who descend upon my mother during this trying time. A gaggle? A flurry? I settled on a disappointment. Whenever doctors rushed in a blur of white coats, we were always unsatisfied and frustrated, which makes me think that a group of doctors are called a disappointment.)
A cursory look at my mother made it obvious that things weren't going nicely, so a review of her blood work was requested and reviewed. The doctor asked my parents to stay in the waiting room until he or she (my dad never told me the gender of the doctor) could decide what to do. Seven hours later, about 3 p.m., the doctor decided that my mother should be admitted to the hospital before deciding what to do next. A bed was found for her four hours later.
When I spoke with my dad, he didn't know the precise reasoning for my mother's readmittance to the hospital. My mother's primary concern was her PICC line, which tended to get "sticky" lately, and she didn't want any occlusion of her line, fearing that it may need to be removed and reinserted on her other arm. Depending on the nurse's skill level, inserting another PICC line is horribly painful, and I cannot shed the sound of my mother's screams that echo in my memory. She wanted to know how to say saline bag in English so that she could ask the nurse for a drip line to flush the PICC line. The last words she said before we hung up were "saline bag, saline bag."
(This made me wonder what to call a group of doctors who descend upon my mother during this trying time. A gaggle? A flurry? I settled on a disappointment. Whenever doctors rushed in a blur of white coats, we were always unsatisfied and frustrated, which makes me think that a group of doctors are called a disappointment.)
A cursory look at my mother made it obvious that things weren't going nicely, so a review of her blood work was requested and reviewed. The doctor asked my parents to stay in the waiting room until he or she (my dad never told me the gender of the doctor) could decide what to do. Seven hours later, about 3 p.m., the doctor decided that my mother should be admitted to the hospital before deciding what to do next. A bed was found for her four hours later.
When I spoke with my dad, he didn't know the precise reasoning for my mother's readmittance to the hospital. My mother's primary concern was her PICC line, which tended to get "sticky" lately, and she didn't want any occlusion of her line, fearing that it may need to be removed and reinserted on her other arm. Depending on the nurse's skill level, inserting another PICC line is horribly painful, and I cannot shed the sound of my mother's screams that echo in my memory. She wanted to know how to say saline bag in English so that she could ask the nurse for a drip line to flush the PICC line. The last words she said before we hung up were "saline bag, saline bag."
Thursday, April 9, 2009
for april 7
Today my mother and father go to the oncologist at 8 a.m. to see whether her bilirubin numbers have decreased enough to allow some attempt at treatment. I fear the numbers will have either increased or remain elevated. If then this were to be true, I fear my mother will ask what this means, what options are available, and the doctor puzzled by this question will have to explain that ignorance does not deter death. The doctor may explain that cancer can destroy faith as easily it does the body; that prayers may not work; that modern medicine does not perform miracles; that you, dear woman, should not be so foolish.
I’m at work checking the clock, subtracting the time difference between central and pacific. They would be up by now, they are driving, they are at the hospital, they are waiting, they are seen by the doctor, and they are eviscerated by the horrible news.
My hands are folded, while I pray at my desk. I don’t even know what to ask for: is it a painless death, is it recovery? I apologize to the ether for not having done more. Whether it’s the caffeine or my fear, I’m unsure, but my heart pounds as each second blinks past.
Since my return to MN, I’ve called daily to check on her condition. Some days good, others bad. I tell her that she’ll recover because I’ve thrown my fantasies behind reckless hope rather than dwelling on absence. The truth is her passing will hurt whether I prepare for it or not. There is no solace in preparation.
--
Update
My parents met a different doctor, so an MRI is scheduled for April 14. I can feel my heart start to ramp up. Dear cosmic being of untold power...let everything be okay. The truth of it is the inevitable horrible news will be a devastating blow. We'll have a visual representation of her ravaged liver, the constellation of chaos inside her. I'm thinking something not unlike tea leaves, where the organs and the ridges of tumors will auspice the unfortunate.
I’m at work checking the clock, subtracting the time difference between central and pacific. They would be up by now, they are driving, they are at the hospital, they are waiting, they are seen by the doctor, and they are eviscerated by the horrible news.
My hands are folded, while I pray at my desk. I don’t even know what to ask for: is it a painless death, is it recovery? I apologize to the ether for not having done more. Whether it’s the caffeine or my fear, I’m unsure, but my heart pounds as each second blinks past.
Since my return to MN, I’ve called daily to check on her condition. Some days good, others bad. I tell her that she’ll recover because I’ve thrown my fantasies behind reckless hope rather than dwelling on absence. The truth is her passing will hurt whether I prepare for it or not. There is no solace in preparation.
--
Update
My parents met a different doctor, so an MRI is scheduled for April 14. I can feel my heart start to ramp up. Dear cosmic being of untold power...let everything be okay. The truth of it is the inevitable horrible news will be a devastating blow. We'll have a visual representation of her ravaged liver, the constellation of chaos inside her. I'm thinking something not unlike tea leaves, where the organs and the ridges of tumors will auspice the unfortunate.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
corners
Every new day brings routinized, sanitized normality. The soothing ease of knowing what will unfold before you. The work load, the petty chatter, the water cooler topics, the senescent drive, the relief of another hapless day quieted by the darkened night - all the trappings of an adult life, which is neither horrible nor wonderful. And despite the familiarity of the day, there are both subtle and jarring reminders of an unsettled life.
The coworkers, friends, acquaintances, even the dog (poor Saul) appear to extend looks of sorrow and pity. This I cannot accuse those around me of any malice, but I know of having been on the other end of exchanges that there is nebulous haze, which smother honest sentiment into stunted and distorted responses.
Every new day buries me in worry. I want to eradicate all fear and doubt in an oblivion of alcohol and reckless emotional effusion, but I worry about the call that will come.
A friend pointed to the call when she surmised that a bag packed with my black suit, shoes, and little else would be ready by the door. The first call I received from my cousin saying my mother had cancer had removed a pillar of faith and stability. The second call, I fear, will disturb nothing because I exist in this moment as an individual who has expected the shoestring to break.
Every new day is a mixed blessing filled with false hope and bittersweet joy. When my mother says through the telephone that she can sense recovery around the corner, I cannot help but feel remorse and wonder.
Every new day is a corner.
The coworkers, friends, acquaintances, even the dog (poor Saul) appear to extend looks of sorrow and pity. This I cannot accuse those around me of any malice, but I know of having been on the other end of exchanges that there is nebulous haze, which smother honest sentiment into stunted and distorted responses.
Every new day buries me in worry. I want to eradicate all fear and doubt in an oblivion of alcohol and reckless emotional effusion, but I worry about the call that will come.
A friend pointed to the call when she surmised that a bag packed with my black suit, shoes, and little else would be ready by the door. The first call I received from my cousin saying my mother had cancer had removed a pillar of faith and stability. The second call, I fear, will disturb nothing because I exist in this moment as an individual who has expected the shoestring to break.
Every new day is a mixed blessing filled with false hope and bittersweet joy. When my mother says through the telephone that she can sense recovery around the corner, I cannot help but feel remorse and wonder.
Every new day is a corner.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Looks like
My first day of work looked typical and usual. Coworkers greeted me enthusiastically, and they seemed genuine in their concern and happy for my return. It’s odd for me to think the last time that I was here was in November 2008. Even this morning as I dressed and readied for work, I was unsure of my movements. The series of actions were familiar, and I wasn’t sure whether I had left everything out. In some ways, it was as though I started my first day on the job, but I left on time, changed the station to the morning show that drowns my frustrations, merged into the right lanes, made the correct stops, arrived early, and sat at my desk.
Somehow the morning routine ended with me here, though my thoughts were ensconced firmly in what I had left behind in Los Angeles. In some ways I feel like an amnesiac who had arrived at an endpoint without being fully aware of what had transpired. But my greater fear is that I shall somehow lose the sense of longing and grow comfortable enough to be immersed in the minutiae of the day.
Which brings me to how I grieve and worry while I’m here, miles away from my family. I wonder whether some will be suspicious if I don’t break down in tears, unable to control my emotions. What is the expectation of my grief? How shall I justify my absence? After all, months spent away in the luxuries of Los Angeles; shouldn’t I show the situation was dire enough that I should pound my chest and expose my heart? Where’s the wailing? Where are the tears?
There shall be none. I am numb and fatigued. The marrow of whom and what I was has been drained. There is concern that I shall return to the essence of who I was before – he, who is adrift and buoyed by aimlessness. Perhaps I shall be better, but that is not my concern. The future remains grim, ever more so that I am so distantly removed.
I worry about my father especially when my aunt returns to Korea, and he is left to fend for his wife who is like a palimpsest. Every new day brings another woman who is part wraith, part vestige. My fear is that he will doubt his strength and his love and become terrified and fearful of the person that he is surely able to protect. My fear is that love is not so strong after all.
Somehow the morning routine ended with me here, though my thoughts were ensconced firmly in what I had left behind in Los Angeles. In some ways I feel like an amnesiac who had arrived at an endpoint without being fully aware of what had transpired. But my greater fear is that I shall somehow lose the sense of longing and grow comfortable enough to be immersed in the minutiae of the day.
Which brings me to how I grieve and worry while I’m here, miles away from my family. I wonder whether some will be suspicious if I don’t break down in tears, unable to control my emotions. What is the expectation of my grief? How shall I justify my absence? After all, months spent away in the luxuries of Los Angeles; shouldn’t I show the situation was dire enough that I should pound my chest and expose my heart? Where’s the wailing? Where are the tears?
There shall be none. I am numb and fatigued. The marrow of whom and what I was has been drained. There is concern that I shall return to the essence of who I was before – he, who is adrift and buoyed by aimlessness. Perhaps I shall be better, but that is not my concern. The future remains grim, ever more so that I am so distantly removed.
I worry about my father especially when my aunt returns to Korea, and he is left to fend for his wife who is like a palimpsest. Every new day brings another woman who is part wraith, part vestige. My fear is that he will doubt his strength and his love and become terrified and fearful of the person that he is surely able to protect. My fear is that love is not so strong after all.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
bilirubin
My apologies to those who've attempted to contact me the past week. We had a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, March 10, and the news was disheartening.
-
Since I was returning to Minneapolis, my father, mother, and I went to the doctor's appointment together. This allowed my father to identify the significant landmarks - the blood laboratory, the clinic, the outpatient tower, the pharmacies: inpatient and outpatient. As we waited before our appointment, my father was noticeably agitated by the dance steps; that is, the chain of events necessary before initiating any processes. The benefit of our long wait was that my mother and I had the time to alleviate his fears and teach him what he needed to know. And besides, we said, I was a phone call away, and skype will allow us to be in close contact.
We hoped for the best when our time came to meet with the doctor. After a quick check in, the doctor's tone shifted noticeably. We had waited two weeks to see whether my mother's bilirubin numbers had decreased, but it hadn't. Rather, the grim number ticked steadily higher. Normal numbers should be below 3. A special phase I trial for patients with severe liver dysfunctions was available but for patients whose numbers were no higher than 6. My mother's number was at 7.1 on February 23. The next week it rose to 9. Today, her number was at 10.1.
I translated the news to my parents. My father wondered whether any surgery was possible or if any medications could be prescribed. Since we still hadn't told my mother about the severity of the cancer, I was unable to tell him that a doctor wouldn't want to attempt surgery to excise any section of the liver nor prescribe medication when every attempt was sure to end in futility. My mother's hands fiddled with the canvas bag handle. What can I do she asked in a quiet voice. And the room was silent.
The doctor thought my mother's bilirubin numbers were going to rise steadily and that we should seek palliative care. Instead we set up another appointment for April 7 in the hope that her numbers would decline, and we left the office.
Outside in the cold hallway, beneath the dying fluorescent light, we sat in silence.
Can't they fix her liver, my father asked the closed door. And I saw my mother's hands tremble as they crimped the canvas bag handle.
-
Since I was returning to Minneapolis, my father, mother, and I went to the doctor's appointment together. This allowed my father to identify the significant landmarks - the blood laboratory, the clinic, the outpatient tower, the pharmacies: inpatient and outpatient. As we waited before our appointment, my father was noticeably agitated by the dance steps; that is, the chain of events necessary before initiating any processes. The benefit of our long wait was that my mother and I had the time to alleviate his fears and teach him what he needed to know. And besides, we said, I was a phone call away, and skype will allow us to be in close contact.
We hoped for the best when our time came to meet with the doctor. After a quick check in, the doctor's tone shifted noticeably. We had waited two weeks to see whether my mother's bilirubin numbers had decreased, but it hadn't. Rather, the grim number ticked steadily higher. Normal numbers should be below 3. A special phase I trial for patients with severe liver dysfunctions was available but for patients whose numbers were no higher than 6. My mother's number was at 7.1 on February 23. The next week it rose to 9. Today, her number was at 10.1.
I translated the news to my parents. My father wondered whether any surgery was possible or if any medications could be prescribed. Since we still hadn't told my mother about the severity of the cancer, I was unable to tell him that a doctor wouldn't want to attempt surgery to excise any section of the liver nor prescribe medication when every attempt was sure to end in futility. My mother's hands fiddled with the canvas bag handle. What can I do she asked in a quiet voice. And the room was silent.
The doctor thought my mother's bilirubin numbers were going to rise steadily and that we should seek palliative care. Instead we set up another appointment for April 7 in the hope that her numbers would decline, and we left the office.
Outside in the cold hallway, beneath the dying fluorescent light, we sat in silence.
Can't they fix her liver, my father asked the closed door. And I saw my mother's hands tremble as they crimped the canvas bag handle.
midwest
I arrived yesterday afternoon to an unusually warm Minneapolis. The landscape wore the same shit-brown coat that it dons every spring. Bare arms, chopstick-thin bikers, and mildly obese people appeared and every familiarity became repulsive and wearisome. In short, the scenery, the people, the colors, became reminders that I left my parents behind, but I do not know what else I could have done.
And a part of me is horribly disappointed for the reprieve. That I may sleep past 6 a.m., that I'm not checking the clock constantly, that I'm not calling the pharmacy, that I'm not praying repeatedly, that I'm not choking on every spoonful during meals because my mother is six feet away from us while we eat dinner and she's nourished by the memories of her last meal five months ago.
All catholics wear regret with as much ease as they do their skin. But the act of leaving my father and mother behind has sliced me open. My heart goes plumbum, and it pulls despair into my throat.
And a part of me is horribly disappointed for the reprieve. That I may sleep past 6 a.m., that I'm not checking the clock constantly, that I'm not calling the pharmacy, that I'm not praying repeatedly, that I'm not choking on every spoonful during meals because my mother is six feet away from us while we eat dinner and she's nourished by the memories of her last meal five months ago.
All catholics wear regret with as much ease as they do their skin. But the act of leaving my father and mother behind has sliced me open. My heart goes plumbum, and it pulls despair into my throat.
Monday, March 9, 2009
moment
The night is stuck on 3 a.m.
The parquet floor whines beneath his heavy steps. A bedroom door opens slowly. A sigh lingers on the periphery. At one end of the apartment, the whir and click of the machine pulses nutrients. He tiptoes the best he can, and exhaustion and age give him the grace of a barge. Steady into the night.
Standing at the base of the bed, he stares at the figure in the wan halogen light. Her jaundiced skin fades into the darkness, but her arm remains tethered to the IV pole - her anchor to the world.
His breath slows to matching her rhythm. In, 1, 2, 3, out, 1, 2, 3. Again.
Before he turns away, she is wrenched away from sleep. Rising bile with deep bone pain. He sits beside her, rubs her back, reads the braille of her spine. The pink gown, given as a present some weeks earlier, is worn thin from the hours of massage. Skin and bone. The fingers feel only skin and bone.
"Where is the pain? In the shoulders? Stomach?"
"Shoulders."
"Okay. Do you want some Dilaudid?"
"..."
"Okay."
She stifles groans, he kneads shoulders, a car alarm cries.
The narcotic submerges her. Back to sleep, away from tonite. What are we gonna do, he asks. What are we gonna do, dear? What are we gonna do?
He stands to leave. I hear his heavy feet plod against the floor. He returns to his room, and the door clicks shut.
The parquet floor whines beneath his heavy steps. A bedroom door opens slowly. A sigh lingers on the periphery. At one end of the apartment, the whir and click of the machine pulses nutrients. He tiptoes the best he can, and exhaustion and age give him the grace of a barge. Steady into the night.
Standing at the base of the bed, he stares at the figure in the wan halogen light. Her jaundiced skin fades into the darkness, but her arm remains tethered to the IV pole - her anchor to the world.
His breath slows to matching her rhythm. In, 1, 2, 3, out, 1, 2, 3. Again.
Before he turns away, she is wrenched away from sleep. Rising bile with deep bone pain. He sits beside her, rubs her back, reads the braille of her spine. The pink gown, given as a present some weeks earlier, is worn thin from the hours of massage. Skin and bone. The fingers feel only skin and bone.
"Where is the pain? In the shoulders? Stomach?"
"Shoulders."
"Okay. Do you want some Dilaudid?"
"..."
"Okay."
She stifles groans, he kneads shoulders, a car alarm cries.
The narcotic submerges her. Back to sleep, away from tonite. What are we gonna do, he asks. What are we gonna do, dear? What are we gonna do?
He stands to leave. I hear his heavy feet plod against the floor. He returns to his room, and the door clicks shut.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
skype
Through some combination of fortune and misfortune, I purchased another computer. The old one will be left with my parents. A couple of Webcams and the Webs will allow me to see my parents once I return to MN. We had a crash course in skype today. It went like this:
Me: Okay, so you double click here. Once the program opens, you should be signed in automatically. Just click here, which says call with video, and it will call me up. It's pretty simple.
Mom: Click here, and here?
Me: Yup.
Mom: Got it.
Mom's the quick learner. My dad walks through the door.
Me: Dad, c'mere. I'm teaching mom how to skype.
Dad: Your mom's the smart one.
Me: Mom, why don't you teach dad. It'll help to reinforce what you've learned.
Mom: Your dad can't do it.
Dad: I really can't.
Me: C'mon, you need to learn in case mom doesn't want to help you.
Dad and mom: I can see that happening.
Mom goes through the steps to initiate a call, but my dad seems to have a hard time seeing the pointer.
Dad: Where is the damn thing? Do I click here?
Mom: Don't be a goat.
Dad: I can't find it.
Mom: (shaking her head) It's right here! Geez! Do what I just did.
Dad: I can't remember. Is this it? (futzes with the keys for a second) Do I press this one?
Mom: Cripes.
That's all verbatim folks.
Me: Okay, so you double click here. Once the program opens, you should be signed in automatically. Just click here, which says call with video, and it will call me up. It's pretty simple.
Mom: Click here, and here?
Me: Yup.
Mom: Got it.
Mom's the quick learner. My dad walks through the door.
Me: Dad, c'mere. I'm teaching mom how to skype.
Dad: Your mom's the smart one.
Me: Mom, why don't you teach dad. It'll help to reinforce what you've learned.
Mom: Your dad can't do it.
Dad: I really can't.
Me: C'mon, you need to learn in case mom doesn't want to help you.
Dad and mom: I can see that happening.
Mom goes through the steps to initiate a call, but my dad seems to have a hard time seeing the pointer.
Dad: Where is the damn thing? Do I click here?
Mom: Don't be a goat.
Dad: I can't find it.
Mom: (shaking her head) It's right here! Geez! Do what I just did.
Dad: I can't remember. Is this it? (futzes with the keys for a second) Do I press this one?
Mom: Cripes.
That's all verbatim folks.
Good grief
Meghan O'Rourke lost her mom to cancer last year on Christmas. She writes for slate.com, and she captures some things that I'm unable to cage. You may want to read her stuff in case my writing is nonsensical, poor, and/or too happy. I dunno.
http://www.slate.com/id/2211257/entry/2211256/
http://www.slate.com/id/2211257/entry/2211256/
whisper
As my departure date creeps closer, I gauge my mother's health. I worry that my parents won't be able to navigate the LACUSC rigmarole, which may inhibit access to medications. Given her precarious condition, one would think that she'd have all the narcotics of the world at her disposal, but the oncologist is wary of prescribing any stronger medication in fear that it may kill her. That is to say, the doctors are worried that she may die from the medication rather than from the cancer. I dunno, sounds like the captain of the Titanic may have been keeping an eye out on the curtains than say an iceberg.
My mother has been cornering my aunt whose been visiting from Korea (AWBVFK) since she volunteers at a cancer ward in Seoul. Jaundice, swelling ankles, and abrupt cessation of chemo has clued my mother that she may be closer to "purchasing real estate" than one would hope. That's my euphemism for death. Mom has been intensifying her questions to AWBVFK. What are the survival rates for cancer patients? Jaundice means the end, doesn't it? I'm not getting better am I? It's gotten to the point where AWBVFK avoids being alone with her.
Plus, she found my black suit, and wondered why it was hanging in the closet. "Um, in case I had to look for work in Los Angeles." "sure."
My mother has been cornering my aunt whose been visiting from Korea (AWBVFK) since she volunteers at a cancer ward in Seoul. Jaundice, swelling ankles, and abrupt cessation of chemo has clued my mother that she may be closer to "purchasing real estate" than one would hope. That's my euphemism for death. Mom has been intensifying her questions to AWBVFK. What are the survival rates for cancer patients? Jaundice means the end, doesn't it? I'm not getting better am I? It's gotten to the point where AWBVFK avoids being alone with her.
Plus, she found my black suit, and wondered why it was hanging in the closet. "Um, in case I had to look for work in Los Angeles." "sure."
forward
My parents may move and upheaval may be the magic word the past few weeks. In preparation of the possible address change, I've packed up my books, trashed old papers, tossed all the jewel cases for my cds (hmmm...I don't remember owning a Sarah MacLachlan retrospective album), and tore up all those unfortunate report cards that lay hidden among the pages of Calvin & Hobbes and Geneaology of Morals (now that's ironic). The strata of years in these plastic bags weigh heavy. Why did I hold on to those things?
Monday, March 2, 2009
unexpected
During the past few months, it's been easy to understand that there have been a number of surprises, most of which have turned out to be the unpleasant variety. Medical disclosures, revelations, and all those intimacies that one holds throughout the years are exposed by simple questions asked by doctors. I mean, you want to know what's wrong, so secrets become not so secret. And though what's been exposed may not seem to be horrible or intimate or special or meaningful, silence covers the mystery in a patina - shame like beauty is in the eyes of the beholder...for that matter so is most everything else. But everything hasn't been so terrible.
I may have mentioned that my mother and I have been watching a lot of cooking shows. Sometimes one tires of the endless tripe on the soap operas, and sometimes my mom can't stand the bob-style haircuts that so many of the Korean youth sport. How'd she put it again? Ah, yes, onions. They look like onions. So we flip through all the prodigious digital tv stations until we find a cooking show. From this, she's learned of the Cuisinart (she'd like to own one of those, as would I), pasta maker (ditto), and other contraptions that ease the toil of cooking. As with Korean soap operas, we can't control which shows appear and when and on which channel. One day we ended up on a Spanish-language station where they were cooking something or other. A list of ingredients appeared on the side, and I was able to translate what most of the ingredients, except one.
Me: Mantequilla, that's butter. Juevos, eggs. Harina, flour. Oh. I don't know what that one is. Calabaza? It looks like sweet potatoes.
Mother: Pumpkin.
Me: What?
Mother: Calabaza means pumpkin.
Me: ?!?
Me: (Laughing) Did you know what the other ingredients were too?
Mother: Sure. I've even tried that dish too.
Me: Well I never.
Actually, I may have said Zounds or Gadzook. The thing is, you never know.
I may have mentioned that my mother and I have been watching a lot of cooking shows. Sometimes one tires of the endless tripe on the soap operas, and sometimes my mom can't stand the bob-style haircuts that so many of the Korean youth sport. How'd she put it again? Ah, yes, onions. They look like onions. So we flip through all the prodigious digital tv stations until we find a cooking show. From this, she's learned of the Cuisinart (she'd like to own one of those, as would I), pasta maker (ditto), and other contraptions that ease the toil of cooking. As with Korean soap operas, we can't control which shows appear and when and on which channel. One day we ended up on a Spanish-language station where they were cooking something or other. A list of ingredients appeared on the side, and I was able to translate what most of the ingredients, except one.
Me: Mantequilla, that's butter. Juevos, eggs. Harina, flour. Oh. I don't know what that one is. Calabaza? It looks like sweet potatoes.
Mother: Pumpkin.
Me: What?
Mother: Calabaza means pumpkin.
Me: ?!?
Me: (Laughing) Did you know what the other ingredients were too?
Mother: Sure. I've even tried that dish too.
Me: Well I never.
Actually, I may have said Zounds or Gadzook. The thing is, you never know.
Friday, February 27, 2009
apologies
Cholangiocarcinoma. The mouthful is what undermines my mother. I have access to wine and the Webs, so I can prattle on without coherence nor care. The past few hours I've looked at plane tickets to return to MN. My FMLA is almost up, and sometimes I wish I can dash the whole thing. Neither the $ or the job is an issue, but my return to work would allow my dad to quit his job and rest his body for a bit. His blood sugar levels have climbed steadily higher since my mother's illness, and soon I may be caring for another parent; however, all that will be for another blog, another time, and another date.
In the years before this moment of heartache, I knew that something to this effect would happen, and that I, as the only child, would need to take care of my parents. Of course, the chain of events are never as neatly compartmentalized or resolved as what one may think. Even during the most pessimistic cases, I never dreamed that the world would look like this. Back in college, I used to share my concerns with another only child, and we'd worry about our parents, as we fretted for our futures and the sacrifices that we would have to make. Yet, during this time with my parents, I have not become frustrated that my life has been uprooted and all routine remain unrecognizable. The greatest frustration is from the inability to do anything.
On this side of the glass, one can become inured to the daily struggles of my mother. I worry that I may be too numb at the end of this, and all I want right now is to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes despite not having had one during my entire stay.
I don't think I'll love anyone or any thing as much as my parents. In so many ways, the extent of their struggle in the United States are completely ineffable. One cannot capture the toil and cumulative effect of sacrifice in a blog, a post, a sentence. Shit, I've become maudlin. It's the wine, I swear. Somehow it's always night when I write.
In the years before this moment of heartache, I knew that something to this effect would happen, and that I, as the only child, would need to take care of my parents. Of course, the chain of events are never as neatly compartmentalized or resolved as what one may think. Even during the most pessimistic cases, I never dreamed that the world would look like this. Back in college, I used to share my concerns with another only child, and we'd worry about our parents, as we fretted for our futures and the sacrifices that we would have to make. Yet, during this time with my parents, I have not become frustrated that my life has been uprooted and all routine remain unrecognizable. The greatest frustration is from the inability to do anything.
On this side of the glass, one can become inured to the daily struggles of my mother. I worry that I may be too numb at the end of this, and all I want right now is to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes despite not having had one during my entire stay.
I don't think I'll love anyone or any thing as much as my parents. In so many ways, the extent of their struggle in the United States are completely ineffable. One cannot capture the toil and cumulative effect of sacrifice in a blog, a post, a sentence. Shit, I've become maudlin. It's the wine, I swear. Somehow it's always night when I write.
collapse
What is hope? I’ll spare you the dictionary definition. Thank my laziness for the reprieve from the high school device of introducing a theme. No, there is no whimsical resolution at the end with some quote from Gandhi or Jesus or Martin Luther King, Jr. There is no query of what you should be doing for your country. This is to you, dear friend. What is hope? When does it become desperate?
The days seem to unfurl with no apparent difference from each moment to moment. My mother and I, we have become accustomed to the atrociously poor processes at LACUSC. When her PICC line became occluded, when her colon was perforated, when her stomach was obliterated…all these things were mere shit toppings on a craptastic sundae. I know, poor and lazy metaphor. What I’m saying is that these instances are the filigrees on a baroque catastrophe. (here’s a note: when you’re scared and worried that your mother is going to die, don’t look up the survival rates of biliary cancer…here’s a hint it starts with number 0 and ends with it…discuss).
Today my mother and I had a visit with the oncologist. This is standard procedure, to follow up with them every four weeks to assess whether there might be any complications, whether doses for medications need to be increased, whether things are supposed to go the way they should, given what the circumstances are. Though our appointment was for 8 a.m., we were able to meet the doctor by 8:45 a.m. This is spectacularly fast. The first matter was whether she was feeling okay. She was. The second matter was her jaundice. I may have mentioned the morbid thought of whether one can tell if an Asian person has jaundice. Turns out you can, and it’s pretty fucking easy to tell. Some weeks ago, my mother’s eyes have turned yellow, as has her skin, especially along her belly. In the sunlight, her eyes look like lemons, and I can’t turn away. She’s caught me staring and has asked why I was doing so. Of course, I tell her it’s because she’s pretty. Which is true in some sense, because I’ve been attempting to etch her face into my brain. I don’t want to forget, though I know time will ravage my memory of her, and I shall be left with a decayed relic. It is inevitable, and every picture will be a false sketch. She is not two dimensional, and she never was a 5x7.
As her liver enzymes have crept perilously upward, we’re facing the possibility of liver failure. She will be taken off of the chemo regimen, and Phase I alternatives will be the next step. The chemo doesn’t work. The cancer has spread further.
The days seem to unfurl with no apparent difference from each moment to moment. My mother and I, we have become accustomed to the atrociously poor processes at LACUSC. When her PICC line became occluded, when her colon was perforated, when her stomach was obliterated…all these things were mere shit toppings on a craptastic sundae. I know, poor and lazy metaphor. What I’m saying is that these instances are the filigrees on a baroque catastrophe. (here’s a note: when you’re scared and worried that your mother is going to die, don’t look up the survival rates of biliary cancer…here’s a hint it starts with number 0 and ends with it…discuss).
Today my mother and I had a visit with the oncologist. This is standard procedure, to follow up with them every four weeks to assess whether there might be any complications, whether doses for medications need to be increased, whether things are supposed to go the way they should, given what the circumstances are. Though our appointment was for 8 a.m., we were able to meet the doctor by 8:45 a.m. This is spectacularly fast. The first matter was whether she was feeling okay. She was. The second matter was her jaundice. I may have mentioned the morbid thought of whether one can tell if an Asian person has jaundice. Turns out you can, and it’s pretty fucking easy to tell. Some weeks ago, my mother’s eyes have turned yellow, as has her skin, especially along her belly. In the sunlight, her eyes look like lemons, and I can’t turn away. She’s caught me staring and has asked why I was doing so. Of course, I tell her it’s because she’s pretty. Which is true in some sense, because I’ve been attempting to etch her face into my brain. I don’t want to forget, though I know time will ravage my memory of her, and I shall be left with a decayed relic. It is inevitable, and every picture will be a false sketch. She is not two dimensional, and she never was a 5x7.
As her liver enzymes have crept perilously upward, we’re facing the possibility of liver failure. She will be taken off of the chemo regimen, and Phase I alternatives will be the next step. The chemo doesn’t work. The cancer has spread further.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Excerpt
From Without by Donald Hall, Porcelain Couple:
He hovered beside Jane’s bed,
Solicitous: “What can I do?”
It must have been unbearable
While she suffered her private hurts
to see his worried face
looming above her, always anxious to do
something when there was
exactly nothing to do. Inside him,
some four-year-old
understood that if he was good – thoughtful,
considerate, beyond
reproach, perfect – she would not leave him.
Though about a husband and wife, the sense of futility is understandable. And the image of the young boy standing there in the hopes of being able to provide some assistance or comfort is particularly apt in my situation.
He hovered beside Jane’s bed,
Solicitous: “What can I do?”
It must have been unbearable
While she suffered her private hurts
to see his worried face
looming above her, always anxious to do
something when there was
exactly nothing to do. Inside him,
some four-year-old
understood that if he was good – thoughtful,
considerate, beyond
reproach, perfect – she would not leave him.
Though about a husband and wife, the sense of futility is understandable. And the image of the young boy standing there in the hopes of being able to provide some assistance or comfort is particularly apt in my situation.
Without
I intend to post snippets of Donald Hall’s Without on this blog, however this post is about something else. That is to say, this post is about how beguiling and frustrating this disease, which afflicts my mother, is nothing greater than the manifestation of a vindictive hell – one that is bound with the Old Testament ideas of retribution through denial or excess. My mother has neither eaten nor drank anything in several months. A tumor slowly grows in her biliary tract where it blocks off the passage of bile (ta-da). Moreover, her stomach becomes less pliable and coarser as the cancer continues to conquer her body. For sustenance, a nutritional bag keeps her alive and bags of saline are attached to her PICC line twice a day. Though nothing passes her lips, her brain delivers a message to the stomach as it attempts to digest a product that isn’t there. The slow build of bile and acid fills her stomach so that she begins to feel the sensation that a belt is tightening from within. There is no pain, per se, so the administration of narcotics is less an attempt to quell the pain but to eliminate consciousness. Here, have another.
This of course contributes to her weakness. She sits all day and refuses to lean or sleep on her left side where the PICC line is inserted in her upper left arm and follows the vein towards her heart. This, they tell me, is okay. Her hesitance stems from the time when the line was occluded, and we spent a day in the emergency room. As with all patients who are prone for far too long, she has begun to develop a pressure sore.
I say this disease is about absence or excess. There appears to be no moderation. She can’t drink but vomits bile steadily (by my count she averaged 18 times a day before we upped her anti-emetic). She doesn’t eat, but the administration of the TPN starts the digestive process, which causes her considerable discomfort. She can’t sleep but drowses constantly. She takes Reglan to encourage her digestive system to move, but the narcotics she receives to stop her pain slows the digestive tract. She has a son, but there is only one and he is ineffective.
This of course contributes to her weakness. She sits all day and refuses to lean or sleep on her left side where the PICC line is inserted in her upper left arm and follows the vein towards her heart. This, they tell me, is okay. Her hesitance stems from the time when the line was occluded, and we spent a day in the emergency room. As with all patients who are prone for far too long, she has begun to develop a pressure sore.
I say this disease is about absence or excess. There appears to be no moderation. She can’t drink but vomits bile steadily (by my count she averaged 18 times a day before we upped her anti-emetic). She doesn’t eat, but the administration of the TPN starts the digestive process, which causes her considerable discomfort. She can’t sleep but drowses constantly. She takes Reglan to encourage her digestive system to move, but the narcotics she receives to stop her pain slows the digestive tract. She has a son, but there is only one and he is ineffective.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Updates
There's little to say, in part because I've been attempting to do BGI work, which is poorly written and executed. I'm weighing my return to MN and skyping in to check in with my parents. I wish it were as simple as attempting to go with my head or heart, but life is rarely this simple. Both wiseacres and fortune cookies have told me this. They are both accurate. Though only one of them is deliciously sweet after a meal. I'll let you guess.
And there's this economic downturn, which is sort of like saying my mother has a health downturn, that has put fear in my parent's hearts, but for some reason I am nonplussed. This is either because I'm a market bear or I'm stupid. I'll let you guess.
But there are far more poignant or seemingly poignant things that i wsh to say, but I cannot address at this time because the library only allows for 2 hour parking. I'm working on getting Internets for my parents place.
Um, my mom is amazed with pasta makers, Cuisinarts, Jacques Pepin, and the Internet, among other things.
And there's this economic downturn, which is sort of like saying my mother has a health downturn, that has put fear in my parent's hearts, but for some reason I am nonplussed. This is either because I'm a market bear or I'm stupid. I'll let you guess.
But there are far more poignant or seemingly poignant things that i wsh to say, but I cannot address at this time because the library only allows for 2 hour parking. I'm working on getting Internets for my parents place.
Um, my mom is amazed with pasta makers, Cuisinarts, Jacques Pepin, and the Internet, among other things.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Timeless
We went into the emergency room again this past Thursday because my mother felt pain in her abdomen that wouldn't go away. In these instances I sometimes hear the persistent clacking of scissors, as Saramagao somehow puts it. He means death, but I first thought he meant murderous tailors. Anyway...
The funny (and I mean funny uh-oh) thing about the ER is that given the tremendous strain of limited resources faced by the county, the place is ill-equipped to handle the flood of people who come to use the service. Among the dozens there are some legitimate cases who need immediate assistance, but triage relies on the accurate relay of information from the incoming patient. In most cases, there are those who know that he or she won't receive immediate treatment without some indication that he or she is in some world of hurt. If one's symptoms warrant further review, one is ushered into another room where one waits until a bed becomes available, whereupon one waits to see the doctor. At every stage, one requires patience.
During our first visit to the ER in 2008, we waited over 24 hours. On subsequent visits, our wait has been reduced due to her condition and her apparent pain. The funny (this time ha-ha) thing with the ER waiting room is that there those who have become well-versed in what one needs to do before entering the inner sanctum. Once having gained entry into the waiting room, one knows that it may be hours before a bed is available to take one in. Even if one is placed in the STAT category, one may well expect to wait 16 hours as one poor woman had to endure. Though others simply take in a movie and dinner before arriving some hours later because they know that there is nothing but time to kill. Like anywhere else, there are regulars.
So, if you ever have to go to the emergency room with someone bring coins for phone calls if your mobile phone doesn't work, bring your mobile phone charger should your phone work, bring a newspaper and/or magazine, a sweater, some snacks, bottled water, and any other distraction. Even if you have a severed finger, it may take an hour or so.
The funny (and I mean funny uh-oh) thing about the ER is that given the tremendous strain of limited resources faced by the county, the place is ill-equipped to handle the flood of people who come to use the service. Among the dozens there are some legitimate cases who need immediate assistance, but triage relies on the accurate relay of information from the incoming patient. In most cases, there are those who know that he or she won't receive immediate treatment without some indication that he or she is in some world of hurt. If one's symptoms warrant further review, one is ushered into another room where one waits until a bed becomes available, whereupon one waits to see the doctor. At every stage, one requires patience.
During our first visit to the ER in 2008, we waited over 24 hours. On subsequent visits, our wait has been reduced due to her condition and her apparent pain. The funny (this time ha-ha) thing with the ER waiting room is that there those who have become well-versed in what one needs to do before entering the inner sanctum. Once having gained entry into the waiting room, one knows that it may be hours before a bed is available to take one in. Even if one is placed in the STAT category, one may well expect to wait 16 hours as one poor woman had to endure. Though others simply take in a movie and dinner before arriving some hours later because they know that there is nothing but time to kill. Like anywhere else, there are regulars.
So, if you ever have to go to the emergency room with someone bring coins for phone calls if your mobile phone doesn't work, bring your mobile phone charger should your phone work, bring a newspaper and/or magazine, a sweater, some snacks, bottled water, and any other distraction. Even if you have a severed finger, it may take an hour or so.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
On faith
When I mentioned that I was a cavalier catholic, I think it's necessary that one minds the lower case 'C's. Most times, being catholic for me is a descriptor like saying that I grew up in Los Angeles. These indications describe my current embattled and disenchanted condition. My mother, on the other hand, is a Catholic. Nay...CATHOLIC. I'd put spotlights on that word if possible. However, my current thoughts are less on the focus of faith and more on the act or state of faith itself. Catholicism merely serves as the structure or formality in which my mother believes. Lately, I've been thinking of faith increasingly because it contrasts so easily with my father's lack of it. There seems to be a chiaroscuro of faith and that which may be the opposite of it, say the Dodgers.
It's interesting to see my mother's decline and mordant stagnancy. She seems to linger on the fringe of life (or is it death). My father seeing this decline has started to pray, or that is, he has claimed to have prayed. He's promised to attend church with my mother when she recovers. He talks of miracles. "A word for miracles exist because they occur," he said one night in a moment of reflection and sadness. He has beleaguered a silent god. "Why would he harm one of his daughters," he asks. Save for the fist shake, the venom in his voice is how his cynicism kills. His god existed only for his questions and doubts. When my mother kept silent, I thought her faith fell too. And it shook me.
But I doubted her faith. See paragraph 1. She's one of those all caps Catholics. She's left it in His hands, by the grace of God.
There are values of faith that I often overlook because I recall too easily the jackasses who hide behind their god and ideologies and wield these structures as weapons. It's the glib one-liner that comes to mind - a knife can be a tool...or a weapon. (How about nukes? What are those? Anyway...)
My mother's faith has kept her calm in the face of the impending maw of death. Somewhere in her basic fiber, she knows that she'll return to the previous state of nonbeing (thanks Schopenhauer), and I hope that she finds the peace that she was unable to have on this plane.
It's interesting to see my mother's decline and mordant stagnancy. She seems to linger on the fringe of life (or is it death). My father seeing this decline has started to pray, or that is, he has claimed to have prayed. He's promised to attend church with my mother when she recovers. He talks of miracles. "A word for miracles exist because they occur," he said one night in a moment of reflection and sadness. He has beleaguered a silent god. "Why would he harm one of his daughters," he asks. Save for the fist shake, the venom in his voice is how his cynicism kills. His god existed only for his questions and doubts. When my mother kept silent, I thought her faith fell too. And it shook me.
But I doubted her faith. See paragraph 1. She's one of those all caps Catholics. She's left it in His hands, by the grace of God.
There are values of faith that I often overlook because I recall too easily the jackasses who hide behind their god and ideologies and wield these structures as weapons. It's the glib one-liner that comes to mind - a knife can be a tool...or a weapon. (How about nukes? What are those? Anyway...)
My mother's faith has kept her calm in the face of the impending maw of death. Somewhere in her basic fiber, she knows that she'll return to the previous state of nonbeing (thanks Schopenhauer), and I hope that she finds the peace that she was unable to have on this plane.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Update
Chemo drips for two days in veins. 46 hours. Nothing much, steady.
The home health nurse has been kind enough to reschedule her visits and draw blood for us at home so that my mother is saved a trip to the hospital. I bring two vials of blood to the lab and in turn bags of TPN are delivered from the pharmacy.
The days in Los Angeles are hot, and I don't say this to be mean to those who are blue and numb by the weather in colder states. Maybe it's just for the record when I revisit these words in a haze of alcohol, regret, and pity. Maybe not in that order.
Conservation of cash remains a priority as there seems to be a recession or a giant sucking sound outside these walls, so I've pared my vices to chocolate milk, the NYTimes, and the gym. This may explain why these posts have a bit more lactose-based, worldly insights.
My mother remains the same, and even the anti-emetics seem to lose efficacy when confronted with the cancer and chemo. I wonder how long her decline will continue. What good can come of this?
The home health nurse has been kind enough to reschedule her visits and draw blood for us at home so that my mother is saved a trip to the hospital. I bring two vials of blood to the lab and in turn bags of TPN are delivered from the pharmacy.
The days in Los Angeles are hot, and I don't say this to be mean to those who are blue and numb by the weather in colder states. Maybe it's just for the record when I revisit these words in a haze of alcohol, regret, and pity. Maybe not in that order.
Conservation of cash remains a priority as there seems to be a recession or a giant sucking sound outside these walls, so I've pared my vices to chocolate milk, the NYTimes, and the gym. This may explain why these posts have a bit more lactose-based, worldly insights.
My mother remains the same, and even the anti-emetics seem to lose efficacy when confronted with the cancer and chemo. I wonder how long her decline will continue. What good can come of this?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Update
I'm still in Los Angeles, and the FMLA ends on February 6 though I'll extend my stay here at least another two weeks, which should be about the time when the oncologists will know whether the chemo will be effective. I'm not sure what effective chemo may mean to a terminal patient. I believe the doctors indicated that her symptoms would be diminished in some way. Perhaps this means less nausea and vomiting and a reduction of her intestinal constriction.
Currently, a mass may be forming in the left side of my mother's abdomen. When I press my hands to her side, there is a slight give and a hardness. I explained to my cousin that it was like as if one placed a towel on a table and pressed down - there's a half centimeter of softness before reaching the table. Think that, except skin and mass.
We maintain our visit to the hospital twice a week to have her blood drawn, but the nurse who visits to change the dressing for the PICC line has been timing her visits so that the blood is drawn at home while I whisk the tubes to LACUSC myself.
Momma goes with chemo on Monday.
Currently, a mass may be forming in the left side of my mother's abdomen. When I press my hands to her side, there is a slight give and a hardness. I explained to my cousin that it was like as if one placed a towel on a table and pressed down - there's a half centimeter of softness before reaching the table. Think that, except skin and mass.
We maintain our visit to the hospital twice a week to have her blood drawn, but the nurse who visits to change the dressing for the PICC line has been timing her visits so that the blood is drawn at home while I whisk the tubes to LACUSC myself.
Momma goes with chemo on Monday.
Mindfulness II
As I read through my previous post on mindfulness, I can't help but feel that I did a shitty job of trying to explain what I mean and where I intended to go with the topic, so in the best interest of making sure that two shitty posts will somehow make up for one shitty post, I'll try to indicate where I was going the previous time.
I think in some way what I wanted to explain was how the difficult task of maintaining mindfulness towards another individual was mitigated when one knew that that person would die. But in some crass and glib way, we all die. It's true, I looked it up. Though the fact that my mother was given a projection of 11-14 months (I subtracted the month gone by) to live, somehow compounds the importance of every moment is not a given. This fact is an assumption that every forthcoming moment should, in some way, hold some greater importance because of the possibility that each new event may be the last. But why haven't I held and cherished each previous moment or hold each moment as as a sacred one as it occurs?
Simply, it is because when I assume that I should embrace the fleeting moment that I have with every individual, place, and event, I am overwhelmed and disinterested. This is a daunting and exhausting and Sisphyean exercise, and we know how he ended up.
Though Camus brings up this very point that we are all too focused on the end result while overlooking the beauty of the moment, as it were. In a way, the process is the purpose.
So, I still don't know where I'm going with this but I'm glad you followed along.
I think in some way what I wanted to explain was how the difficult task of maintaining mindfulness towards another individual was mitigated when one knew that that person would die. But in some crass and glib way, we all die. It's true, I looked it up. Though the fact that my mother was given a projection of 11-14 months (I subtracted the month gone by) to live, somehow compounds the importance of every moment is not a given. This fact is an assumption that every forthcoming moment should, in some way, hold some greater importance because of the possibility that each new event may be the last. But why haven't I held and cherished each previous moment or hold each moment as as a sacred one as it occurs?
Simply, it is because when I assume that I should embrace the fleeting moment that I have with every individual, place, and event, I am overwhelmed and disinterested. This is a daunting and exhausting and Sisphyean exercise, and we know how he ended up.
Though Camus brings up this very point that we are all too focused on the end result while overlooking the beauty of the moment, as it were. In a way, the process is the purpose.
So, I still don't know where I'm going with this but I'm glad you followed along.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Mindfulness
I've been practicing mindfulness to a degree that I thought impossible. Each day when I wake up to administer the anti-emetic to my mother (now 4 mg Zofran and 2 mg Reglan), each dose must be given over the span of 3-4 minutes. During the initial shots I counted to 180 until my mind started to wander and I lost count. Before long, I realized that each shot was taking 5 minutes. So I began praying the Our Father and Hail Mary. As a Catholic who doesn't practice, I'm kind of like an Intramural team that shows up to play but doesn't really care who wins or loses. These two prayers are sort of embedded into my psyche I can recite them slowly without losing my place. Each of these prayers have a line in them that sort of kills me inside, which may be why I recite them. From the Our Father, "lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil" and from the Hail Mary "pray for us sinners, now at the hour of our death."
Every time I hold my mother's hand or stroke her hair, I think perhaps it may be the last time. When she first was afflicted with this disease, I would become frustrated when her nascent pain would make her grumble with displeasure at every simple gesture that one may provide in the hopes of alleviating her discomfort. Now when she scolds me for doing something improperly or half-assed, I smile and say that I will try harder. And over time, she too has softened.
I wonder whether I can try to be like this with others. I cannot conceive of how this may be possible...to act with such love and effort and consideration. It's ineffably tiring. I may post more on this later. I gotta run.
Every time I hold my mother's hand or stroke her hair, I think perhaps it may be the last time. When she first was afflicted with this disease, I would become frustrated when her nascent pain would make her grumble with displeasure at every simple gesture that one may provide in the hopes of alleviating her discomfort. Now when she scolds me for doing something improperly or half-assed, I smile and say that I will try harder. And over time, she too has softened.
I wonder whether I can try to be like this with others. I cannot conceive of how this may be possible...to act with such love and effort and consideration. It's ineffably tiring. I may post more on this later. I gotta run.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Usual
I have time, so let me tell you a little about the past two hours...
Now, don't get me wrong. LACUSC nurses are wonderful, the facilities that opened in November 2008 are splendid, and some of the doctors are keen. If there's one thing I'd love to fix about this place is their systems.
For example, our next chemo appointment is at 8 a.m., but we need to have her blood drawn and labs done before then. Unfortunately, our appointment for her chemo and blood draw is on the same day at the same time, then we have an appointment with the colorectal department at 10 a.m. on the same day, except one treatment of chemo runs 2 hours. I think our day will be just as confusing and ugly and exhausting as the previous sentence.
Another case to demonstrate the heinous system at LACUSC is our attempt to drop off her prescription before we leave. One of them is for a Fentanyl patch at 37.5 mg. Except the pharmacy doesn't have a 37.5 mg patch. So after waiting in line for 40 minutes, I'm told to go back across the campus to get another prescription. But I don't have to wait says the lady. I can cut to the front once everything is squared away. I return, the doctor writes another prescription (one 25 mg patch and one 12.5 mg patch). Take the elevator down. Walk across the campus. Remove belt and objects with metal to go through the metal detector. Down a flight of stairs. Go to the pharmacy drop-off counter, where I no longer see the lady who had told me to cut to the front once everything was squared away because she has probably left for the day. I wait again for 40 minutes. The pharmacist looks at me like I'm a deranged marsupial and says the pharmacy doesn't carry a 12.5 mg patch for Fentanyl. I'm told to return and get another prescription. I do and I return whereupon I realize the doctor rewrote the prescription without any changes. You know, everyone knows a new sheet of paper with the same words means it's a different prescription. I'm confused, and this place makes my head hurt.
I think every place of this size and complexity has a number of issues, but I can't fathom why steps haven't been taken to streamline the process and avoid all the rigmarole. LACUSC has done so much to provide a new facility that gives the workers a better work place and hence an improved attitude simply because they're not working in a wreck of a building (it's the very same building that one sees at the opening of General Hospital). Couldn't they work on improving processes as well? Mind you, the two instances above happened only today in the past couple of hours. It's constantly like this at this place. And we, like so many others, have no where else to go.
Now, don't get me wrong. LACUSC nurses are wonderful, the facilities that opened in November 2008 are splendid, and some of the doctors are keen. If there's one thing I'd love to fix about this place is their systems.
For example, our next chemo appointment is at 8 a.m., but we need to have her blood drawn and labs done before then. Unfortunately, our appointment for her chemo and blood draw is on the same day at the same time, then we have an appointment with the colorectal department at 10 a.m. on the same day, except one treatment of chemo runs 2 hours. I think our day will be just as confusing and ugly and exhausting as the previous sentence.
Another case to demonstrate the heinous system at LACUSC is our attempt to drop off her prescription before we leave. One of them is for a Fentanyl patch at 37.5 mg. Except the pharmacy doesn't have a 37.5 mg patch. So after waiting in line for 40 minutes, I'm told to go back across the campus to get another prescription. But I don't have to wait says the lady. I can cut to the front once everything is squared away. I return, the doctor writes another prescription (one 25 mg patch and one 12.5 mg patch). Take the elevator down. Walk across the campus. Remove belt and objects with metal to go through the metal detector. Down a flight of stairs. Go to the pharmacy drop-off counter, where I no longer see the lady who had told me to cut to the front once everything was squared away because she has probably left for the day. I wait again for 40 minutes. The pharmacist looks at me like I'm a deranged marsupial and says the pharmacy doesn't carry a 12.5 mg patch for Fentanyl. I'm told to return and get another prescription. I do and I return whereupon I realize the doctor rewrote the prescription without any changes. You know, everyone knows a new sheet of paper with the same words means it's a different prescription. I'm confused, and this place makes my head hurt.
I think every place of this size and complexity has a number of issues, but I can't fathom why steps haven't been taken to streamline the process and avoid all the rigmarole. LACUSC has done so much to provide a new facility that gives the workers a better work place and hence an improved attitude simply because they're not working in a wreck of a building (it's the very same building that one sees at the opening of General Hospital). Couldn't they work on improving processes as well? Mind you, the two instances above happened only today in the past couple of hours. It's constantly like this at this place. And we, like so many others, have no where else to go.
Rundown
Ascites has been building in my mother for quite some time again. The fluid is the initial reason why I flew home on November 6, 2008; the damn thing occurs out of nowhere, and the top two causes are tuberculosis and cancer. My mother got the latter.
In my mother's case, she starts to feel bloated and one starts to see her stomach distend, which makes her look like one of those poor starving children one sees in the World Vision commercials. The fluid builds in the peritoneal cavity - the sac that houses the internal organs (yeah, I didn't know we had an organ holder either...good thinking evolution...or God...or whatever likes to take credit). The fluid buildup is symptomatic of the stress the cancer causes, and though the ascites returns my mother feels relief from the removal. The first time the doctors withdrew 1 liter. This time they removed 1.4 liters, which may not seem like much, but my mother weighs approximately 100 lbs and is about 5' 2". The fluid looks like apple cider as it sits in glass 1 liter containers.
--
We've been watching a fuck ton of Korean soap operas, but these 30 minute or hourlong dramas utilize the hackneyed and prosaic devices that have propelled all soap operas forward. In turn, this means that we've encountered the (wait for it) medical emergency stage in the series. Unfortunately both dramas prominently feature matrons who are facing a terminal disease, except in each case a mystery donor will emerge, and once again deus ex machina becomes the plot device of choice. We don't have any of that...neither mystery donor nor plot devices, though if you were to ask my father he'd say we're lacking the deus part.
I watch as she loses interest. The characters, she knows, will end with the show. And we'll be left here alone.
--
I think we go home tonite.
In my mother's case, she starts to feel bloated and one starts to see her stomach distend, which makes her look like one of those poor starving children one sees in the World Vision commercials. The fluid builds in the peritoneal cavity - the sac that houses the internal organs (yeah, I didn't know we had an organ holder either...good thinking evolution...or God...or whatever likes to take credit). The fluid buildup is symptomatic of the stress the cancer causes, and though the ascites returns my mother feels relief from the removal. The first time the doctors withdrew 1 liter. This time they removed 1.4 liters, which may not seem like much, but my mother weighs approximately 100 lbs and is about 5' 2". The fluid looks like apple cider as it sits in glass 1 liter containers.
--
We've been watching a fuck ton of Korean soap operas, but these 30 minute or hourlong dramas utilize the hackneyed and prosaic devices that have propelled all soap operas forward. In turn, this means that we've encountered the (wait for it) medical emergency stage in the series. Unfortunately both dramas prominently feature matrons who are facing a terminal disease, except in each case a mystery donor will emerge, and once again deus ex machina becomes the plot device of choice. We don't have any of that...neither mystery donor nor plot devices, though if you were to ask my father he'd say we're lacking the deus part.
I watch as she loses interest. The characters, she knows, will end with the show. And we'll be left here alone.
--
I think we go home tonite.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Go
After a series of false starts, miscommunications, damnations, frustrations, aggravations, cuss words, muss words, fuss words, blasphemies, absolutions, misgivings, doubts, pouts, screams, and bewilderments, we've finally begun chemotherapy. That is to say, we've finally secured a room, where I type these words, but have yet to begin the actual treatment. Doctors appointments to secure appointments with other doctors to meet with doctors to secure appointments, we've crossed the bureaucratic and nuanced river of hell to get to this point, whereupon we peer at the banks of progress. Maybe I know how Charon may have felt.
You see, at LACUSC, one must call for an available bed in the oncology/hematology ward before coming in. There are 16 beds available. I'm going to avoid guessing at the number of cancer patients who are trying to secure a spot, as my bewilderment will grow proportionally. We need to make a call to see a bed is available every 3 weeks or so.
Having called Thursday night, a nurse had mentioned that a bed was available for my mother (bed 144) and that we were to call early the following morning to make sure the bed was still available because beds may fill up to make room for emergency cases.
I awoke at 4 a.m. the following day to remove the TPN from mom, give an IV push of Zofran, flush out her lines, and prepare her items for the day. I called again to make sure there was a bed still available..."Sung, S-U-N-G, yes, she's my mother. Is a bed still available?" "Sung? Yes, yes, but you need to come early." My aunt skipped work that day and was on our doorstep at 6:30 a.m. We gathered mom's items - underwear, maternity pads, a change of clothing, plastic cups (so she can vomit in them), bottled water, facial tissues, and an orange (they mask the smell of bile) - and placed her in the wheelchair. Dad wheeled her outside and waited for me to bring the car around. My aunt and I placed mom's items and wheelchair in the car while dad told mom to keep faith, strength, and love in her heart. Once in the car, I changed the radio to the local NPR station, and we headed for the hospital.
I dropped my aunt and mom near the clinic tower while I parked the car. We arrived at the admission's desk and handed over her appointment papers and patient identifcation card. The woman at the front desk called up to make sure the bed was available. "Yes...Sooong. S-U-N. No. N. N as in no. S-U-N-G. G-G-G. No, one G. S-U-N-G. Sooong. Her number is 823-38-50. What? No, it's a woman. Okay, hold on."
And, on and on, it went.
The nurse who I called the night had indeed secured a bed, but it was for another Sung. We were asked to try another day. Sorry. That's how cookies and mothers crumble...
This is how it's been for the past three months. Stutters of progress, where defeat and patience walk hand in hand. We are both thankful and frustrated to be where we are.
You see, at LACUSC, one must call for an available bed in the oncology/hematology ward before coming in. There are 16 beds available. I'm going to avoid guessing at the number of cancer patients who are trying to secure a spot, as my bewilderment will grow proportionally. We need to make a call to see a bed is available every 3 weeks or so.
Having called Thursday night, a nurse had mentioned that a bed was available for my mother (bed 144) and that we were to call early the following morning to make sure the bed was still available because beds may fill up to make room for emergency cases.
I awoke at 4 a.m. the following day to remove the TPN from mom, give an IV push of Zofran, flush out her lines, and prepare her items for the day. I called again to make sure there was a bed still available..."Sung, S-U-N-G, yes, she's my mother. Is a bed still available?" "Sung? Yes, yes, but you need to come early." My aunt skipped work that day and was on our doorstep at 6:30 a.m. We gathered mom's items - underwear, maternity pads, a change of clothing, plastic cups (so she can vomit in them), bottled water, facial tissues, and an orange (they mask the smell of bile) - and placed her in the wheelchair. Dad wheeled her outside and waited for me to bring the car around. My aunt and I placed mom's items and wheelchair in the car while dad told mom to keep faith, strength, and love in her heart. Once in the car, I changed the radio to the local NPR station, and we headed for the hospital.
I dropped my aunt and mom near the clinic tower while I parked the car. We arrived at the admission's desk and handed over her appointment papers and patient identifcation card. The woman at the front desk called up to make sure the bed was available. "Yes...Sooong. S-U-N. No. N. N as in no. S-U-N-G. G-G-G. No, one G. S-U-N-G. Sooong. Her number is 823-38-50. What? No, it's a woman. Okay, hold on."
And, on and on, it went.
The nurse who I called the night had indeed secured a bed, but it was for another Sung. We were asked to try another day. Sorry. That's how cookies and mothers crumble...
This is how it's been for the past three months. Stutters of progress, where defeat and patience walk hand in hand. We are both thankful and frustrated to be where we are.
Mother's Index
8: The number of hours between Zofran (anti-emetic) via IV push
18: Average number of times mother has vomited per day since December 21, 2008
2: Number of times we visit the hospital to draw blood
5: Day in December when we found out about mother's cancer
6: The number of hours between each bag of Bactrim (antibiotic)
10: Units of insulin in each bag
3: Months allowed for the Family Medical Leave Act
16: The number of hours the total parenteral nutrition (TPN) bag runs
2050: The total ml of each TPN bag
1000: The ml of sodium chloride mother takes for dehydration
4: The stage of the cancer
6-8: Weeks before one knows whether the chemo is effective
12-15: The estimated number of months she has to live
18: Average number of times mother has vomited per day since December 21, 2008
2: Number of times we visit the hospital to draw blood
5: Day in December when we found out about mother's cancer
6: The number of hours between each bag of Bactrim (antibiotic)
10: Units of insulin in each bag
3: Months allowed for the Family Medical Leave Act
16: The number of hours the total parenteral nutrition (TPN) bag runs
2050: The total ml of each TPN bag
1000: The ml of sodium chloride mother takes for dehydration
4: The stage of the cancer
6-8: Weeks before one knows whether the chemo is effective
12-15: The estimated number of months she has to live
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