“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?
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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.
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