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.
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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.
