6/13/13

This is my grief, raw, open, deep and so hard to understand.  I loved my mother, I know that I loved her.  But there are times when I find myself completely fine with her loss, after only 2 months I fear I am handling this too well.  I barely cry, barely give her much thought.  And then it will hit me, and I dissolve into the madness of grief.  That irrational bargaining that comes with wanting just one more year, a day...even an hour to see them once more.  That sadness that fills all the hollows of your body and overwhelms you.  You can't move, can't think, can barely breath.  I don't dare to breath, I hold my breath to keep from screaming.     

I have such guilt, such futile desire to have her back for one more day to make up for 36 years of stupid mistakes.  All the times you hurt her, all the times you made her mad and all the promises you made that you did not keep.  It would take more than one day, one year, one lifetime to fix my blunders.  How do you fix what you broke when the only person left who cares is you?  And given the chance, I am not entirely sure I could.  I got a second chance after her first cancer, but I went on with my life and blundered through five more years of our weird, strained and loving relationship never sure where I stood with her.
 
I loved her, I hated her, I knew her so well, and know so little, I wanted to be her, and wanted not to be anything like her, I admired her and I reviled her.  They say this is the typical mother-daughter dynamic.  My aunt says that this was how it was between my mother and grandmother.  My mother never told people what she felt about them, she didn't tell you she loved you, not without prompting- not the first person to say it on the phone.  She never told me she was proud of me.  I always knew I was the child who blundered through life unaware of how to just be a adult.  I know they were proud of my brothers, I heard them say it enough. 

I wanted so much to have more time, for me.  Not for her.  I know this.  I needed to prove myself to be more than they thought I am.  I needed her to see me as a success so I could show her I was worthy of love, that I was someone to be proud of.  In the end, I think my grief is purely selfish.  That her  loss has settled into my thoughts as how her death effects me, not how I have lost her my mother the woman who gave birth to me and raised me.  Instead, it is about how I have lost my mother the woman who I use as a mirror to show me who I am.  

9/4/12

One of the women I work with, her mother died the other day.  A person driving way too fast, possibly drunk, hit her on the street in front of her house at 1 in the morning.  And drove away.

I wonder who has it better- the quick death or the slow death?  I get time to say I'm sorry, I love you and eventually good-bye.  She got no time.  I have to watch her suffer.  Her mother died fairly quickly, not right away, but soon after.  I sit by mourning her while she is alive, and when she is dead I will mourn her even more.  She has only now to mourn, to grieve to feel pain.

Is it better to have someone die quickly- a band aid torn off in one rip, or to have more time?

I don't know...I just don't know.

8/29/12

I had my CT Scan today.  I learned the hard way, the contrast makes me puke.  I puked all over my shirt.  Apparently, next year, I have to tell them to slow down the contrast.  I wanted to look at her and say "you think there's going to be a next year?"  There will be a next year, I just wanted to be snarky.  I would rather puke all over myself once a year, then die of a pancreatic tumor.  I learned two things, they do not have Cherry Limeade flavored crystal light for my CT liquid and bringing a spare shirt is a good idea. 

The results are, I don't have Cancer.  Which I knew.  But now, I have to wait for the blood test to come back to know if I have the gene or not.  There is no doubt in my mind that I have the gene.  There have been too many people in my family, especially in my direct line of family- mother to daughter, granddaughter, to eventually me- great granddaughter, for this to be a mere fluke or just plain bad luck.

But my mother got even better news.  The chemo is working.  Blood tests have revealed that her enzymes are coming back to normal and that things appear to be getting much better.  It's not gone.  It's not going to be operable any time soon, but things are getting better.  She's losing all her hair, and she can barely make it through an episode on TV, she falls asleep a lot...but things are getting better.

8/27/12

Elizabeth Kubler Ross described five stages of grief.  Right now, I am in the Anger stage.  I know that anger helps no one.  That according to my mother, anger will not solve anything.  But I don't agree.  Anger is what we need.  I am ANGRY at the doctors, especially her cancer doctor who repeatedly asked her about her family history and completely ignored the fact that she is afraid of dying of pancreatic cancer, the cancer that killed several other family members. 

I am angry because she kept telling them she was afraid of it, but did nothing about it.  I only had to mention it once to my doctor and he was quick to start a game plan.  He set me up with blood work and a CT Scan, and is sending my information to the Cancer center and discussed my case with a person who works in genetics who recommended I be sent to see someone in Portland who works in genetic oncology- I believe thats what he said.

Five minutes and maybe five words and my doctor was quickly setting out the plan to keep me from finding out too late that I have pancreatic cancer.  I told him the one thing I was afraid of was that this is my middle age, and that I will die of this cancer.  He didn't even need convincing.  He didn't even question my fears.  He didn't even consider my age.  He just heard me.  I wish more Doctors did. 

8/22/12

I know fear.  I worked in a jail.  I walked into cell blocks without a gun, a weapon of any kind, or body armor, I frequently went in alone.  I can't tell you how many times I knew I was inches away from being beaten badly.  I can't even guess at how many times I was close to being attacked.  And I can remember, vividly, the times that I was.  I have been spit on, head butted, kicked in the ribs, punched, I have had black eyes and bruises, skin gouges and whip lash. 

I know the fear of losing your job.  The fear of not having enough money to pay your rent.  I know the fear of being in trouble with your parents.  I know about fearing you would die, fearing you will get badly hurt in the accident you see coming.  I know fear of heights- I love to rock climb in a gym and I love to hike, but I hate to look down.  I know the fear that if I walk across that bridge I might be too tempted to jump off it.  I know the fear that I will never amount to all that I have dreamed I would be.

Believe me when I say, I know fear...but I have never known a fear like this...this makes me wish I was still at the jail, because it pales by comparison.  It makes me wish I still had gall stones because that is a pain I can handle.  It keeps me up at night.  I makes my jaw ache from clenching it so tightly.  It makes me want to jump off that bridge, because if I survive that, maybe I can survive this.  And if not, I will no longer have to deal with this...But for now, I am so scared.  So very scared.

the very idea that I could lose my mother makes my heart feel like someone has it in a clenched fist.  I start to have a hard time breathing and I feel so much pain centered on my chest.  The breath just seems to have left me and I can't suck enough in to make my lungs keep from bursting.  I know it's not a panic attack because I have plenty of those over the years.  It's something worse, far worse.  It's fear, and sadness and pain mixed together.  There's no word for it.  It's not grief, not yet.  It's can't be.  I don't want to mourn her until she isn't there.  I don't want to keep thinking about it like that.  Though we have already discussed her funeral arrangements and it's there in the back of your mind the realization that these may not be the plans for a later time.   

The chemo has already started and she is well and truly sick this time.  She has little energy, dad says she just "hits a wall" and has to go back to bed.  I think he feels the doctor was trying to tie things up into a pretty ribbon at points and telling her she would be fine.  The doctor had said it wasn't going to be a tough as the interfuron and we were all ready for this to be a piece of cake.  But the interfuron was 5 years ago, she was younger, healthier and mentally at a different place.  She knew she could win it.  She had been given a time frame of how long the chemo would go on and what the results would be.  This time we are waiting on a ledge for results.  This time we have to live it in 4 month increments to see if the chemo is causing the tumor to shrink.  This time, she truly is teetering between hoping she can fight this and believing she will die. 

That's no way to live...waiting, wondering and weakening...

Finding humor in her cancer

Mum's facebook post today:

"As I was standing in my shower with my arms and head stuck through a cut-off Hefty bag to cover my port all I could think of was if I had a pair of kinky boots and a see-through umbrella I could do a damn good porn version of "Singing in the Rain" ! I did turn that Hefty bag into a Glad bag after I was done !"