A shot I took of my church back in MN after my mom's memorial service.

Did you know that Long Island was first inhabited by people from Connecticut? Bill taught me that.

Looking for a good counselor is kind of like dating. A first appointment is like a first date - you are forced into a one-on-one conversation about yourself even if it isn’t comfortable yet. You spill your guts and then hope they like you for who you are. You want them to reassure you and compliment you, but you also want them to be interesting and thought provoking. Otherwise they are boring (or in this case, unhelpful).

Last night I went to an appointment with Bill. This was my third visit. Two times, last fall, I went with Chris. Bill is our second counselor at this place. The first one stared at me. Not in a quiet-reflective-listening sort of way - it was more of blank-boredoutofherskull-slow death way. Chris was about 25 minutes late for the appointment and she apparently thought that since it was a marriage counseling appointment that we should wait for the other part of the marriage. It was a long 25 minutes. We got rid of her and asked for someone better. We got Bill. He’s from “back East” and has a strong New Jersey/New York type accent that accompanies his large belly and not-so-cool casual attire. I’ve tried to like him. He swears and mocks Mormons whenever he can, which is fine, but it gets a little old. He is blunt, which I usually appreciate, but not in a counseling setting. Well, not in MY counseling situation. I can be blunt to my clients, but I expect only complete empathy and strong compassion when I am the client.

I awkwardly sat down in Bill’s VERY poorly decorated office. He started the chit chat. “So, how were things back east? Where are you from again? Jersey?’ “No,” I stated. “I’m from Minnesota and my mom died.” “Oh.” Being the typical insecure female people pleaser that I am, I quickly tried to brush it off and make him feel more comfortable. I told him about Mom’s final weeks and the toll it took on me. “That’s why I’m here. I’m kind of feeling overwhelmed. Several people in my life think I need drugs. I don’t think I need drugs, but I thought that I should probably schedule an appointment with you to get them off my back.” We talked for about an hour. I gave him my laundry list of stressors – health issues, kid issues, marriage issues, weight issues, work issues, stuff leftover from my mom, etc. He agreed that I had a lot on my plate. For about half the hour, I dwelled on my weight gain. We discussed body dsymorphic disorder. He told me it wasn’t real - it was just distorted thoughts all in my head. I reminded him that I knew that - that I had introduced the topic into the conversation. I reminded him that I had written my thesis on the topic. His advice for my problem was to stop eating as much and to start exercising. Thanks, Bill.

I have been thinking about my appointment off and on all day. A part of me wants to demand that my EAP allow me to go outside of this consulting counseling firm and find someone better. Maybe even a psychologist. Another part of me wonders, though, if maybe Bill isn’t right. So I have a few extra stressors in my life. If I just made a list, and worried about them one at a time, things would slowly get back in control. As far as my need to figure out why I am so consumed with my body image – maybe I just need to forget it. Could it be possible that I just like to large amounts of unhealthy food? If so, then I have good reason to be unhappy with my body because I’m not taking care of it. What if I just admitted that if I want to be a size 4 I can only eat vegetables and Boca burgers along with vigorous exercise five to six days a week. If I choose not to do that, then I need to accept the weight gain.

I keep trying to find someone who has the answers. I know, from a psychological viewpoint, that the answers are within myself, but that doesn’t make them any easier to find. I continue to feel sorry for myself. I know a lot of terrible things have happened to me, but they are nothing compared to the real tragedies that happen to innocent people daily all over this world. Why do I feel so sorry for myself? When will I be able to accept that I have it better than most?

I’m having a particularly hard time this evening thinking about my mom. I talked to my dad in Florida and he’s pretty lonely. He told me that some of her friends down there are going to plant a tree in her honor. I am overwhelmed by that gesture. I have been on the verge of tears all evening, but thinking about talking to her about all of my recent anxiety makes me smile – my mom was actually a little like Bill in that her advice to me on my weight issue was also very matter-of-fact and simplistic. One time, a few years ago, when I was complaining about my body and what I didn’t like about it, she said, “Carol, you shouldn’t look at yourself naked in the mirror.” As she said over and over the last few months of her life, “What you focus on is what you get.” I just don’t know if I have it in me to diet again. I know what I want, but I’m so tired.

Just when you feel like parenting is too much work, they amaze you with their insight

Kindergarten is still going really well for Harrison. I haven’t had any reports of poor behavior from his teacher – that’s usually my guide. He attends the same preschool as Ella in the afternoon and I thought that was going well also. Again, using a lack of negative reports by his teachers as my reference.

Long story, really short, things aren’t going that great at preschool after all. We are on the verge of switching schools again. Bottom line: Harrison is bored and misbehaving in the afternoons and Ella isn’t getting much, if any, structured programming anymore. I think we have narrowed alternative schools down to one choice and will switch in March after giving 30 days notice. Another change for the kids and another stressor I could do without.

Tonight, however, just when I thought the kids couldn’t misbehave any worse, the seas parted and angels began to sing…Harrison and I had a really great quiet time reading before bedtime. I’ve been gone so much with work, and other distractions, lately that being alone with Harry was quite a treat. He read to me from one of his school reading books. Instead of getting frustrated and impatient, he read the whole thing without complaint. “See? I read the whoooole thing!” Then we started reading a great Dr. Seuss book and it provoked a lot of questioning from him. It was really great. All of a sudden, during this book, he asked me how old Oma (my mom) was when she died. I told him that she was 78. Nights are my hardest time, grief-wise, as I tend to have more time to reflect. Just as I worried that I might get really sad with him, he surprised me and made me smile. “Seventy-eight. That’s a really big number,” he said. He then proceeded to count it out for me. “One, two, three, four…..seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight.” In some weird way it was an extremely comforting moment. As I listened to him diligently count out each individual number, I realized how many years of life she was given. Is it possible that he knew I needed that reminder?

Hiking in Mill Creek Canyon

...heading out

...blue skies

...rushing creeks

...sometimes it's hard to keep up

...thank goodness!

...many skiers passed us by

...snow on branches

...riding on shoulders

...friends from Wisconsin

...and of course there was some eating of snow.

point and shoot

Saturday night, Chris and I had a night out with some of his buddies that were in town, for skiing, from Wisconsin. I haven't been out a lot since ... about...October. Anyway, the wait for a table was two hours. I really didn't think I had too much to drink. I just ordered a few beers. I ate a great meal (orange roughy), had a nice glass of Pinot Noir and then went home feeling fine.

We have a great babysitter and she politely listened to our stories of the evening and even smiled nicely as Chris showed her how he had cleaned the inside of the refrigerator Saturday afternoon. "Look Hannah! Each shelf sparkles - it took me TWO hours!" (Hannah is an obsessive cleaner and apparently he felt she was the only one who would truly appreciate his effort.)

She then filled us in on her evening. She made us feel better about Ella's clinginess lately, "Ella only cried for a minute after you left", and then expanded with lots of compliments about how great our kids are. (She knows we are suckers for that!) "They went right to bed, but Ella started to cry again. They decided that she would feel better if she slept with Harrison." I was completely shocked when she told me this. Ella and Harry have never slept together, and when we have ever tried (on vacation,etc.) it's always a disaster that includes lots of goofing around and kicking. Hannah said that they went right up in Harrison's upper bunk and fell asleep immediately.

I grabbed my camera as I had to capture this moment. The room was pitch dark, and I was standing on a step ladder to get the perfect shot. I remember thinking that I had really centered the shot and got a good one after taking this.

Maybe I should have skipped the wine. 

If I ran the world...

(I need to preface this with a disclaimer – I had a terrible appointment yesterday morning which just reminded me of every awful doctor's experience I've ever had.)

I wish that the medical profession was more service oriented. If it were, maybe things would run more like this:

- On-time appointments would be publicized like Northwest Airlines advertises it’s on-time flights.

- Friendly receptionists and nursing assistants would be the norm, not the exception.

- The little rooms, that the doctor visits you in, would be stylishly decorated, heated and filled with current, intelligent reading materials and snacks.

- Medical practices would not be overbooked, and understaffed, thereby allowing each person directly dealing with patients a chance to read the appropriate chart prior to meeting with “customers.” This would eliminate repeating the same information, that has already been written on at least two different forms, to at least two different people.

- Doctors would all be required to find a bedside manner. Bedside manner defined as: good listener, able to ask open ended questions, sincerely empathetic, speech at a conversational rate – not an auctioneer’s rate.

- Follow up information and appointments would be taken care of by a health care concierge. This person would start a file for you. They would have neatly written notes of everything the doctor told the patient. Any follow-up appointments would be made for the patient. (I have three follow-up appointments to make after yesterday’s appointment, as well as a video to watch about my new medication.)

- Hours for appointments would start as early as 7:00 AM, if the office closes at 5:00 PM, and/or they would go into the evening. This would allow, and encourage, more people to schedule medical “maintenance” into their lives.

I made a promise to my mom. She insisted that I schedule a mammogram. She started asking me to promise her that I would go do this back in October. I kept putting it off and she kept pushing me. I finally scheduled a physical with an internist for mid November. Since I extended my trip to Minnesota, when I was caring for my mom while my dad was in the hospital having heart valve replacement surgery, I had to cancel the appointment. It was on the Monday morning that I was returning to work after two weeks absence. I didn’t think it was appropriate to take off any more time. My mom understood, but continued to push me.

I had my physical this morning. I got weighed. This really got things off to a great start. I have gained back a lot of the weight I lost on Weight Watchers this summer and fall. I blame my busy schedule and my mother’s last months, but I think I just can’t keep up the healthy lifestyle thing. It’s really hard. For my body to stay at the weight I like requires extensive exercise with limited caloric intake. I’m not sure I’m up to doing that forever.

I asked for a mammogram. “Any history of breast cancer?” “How old was your mom when she had it?” “How’s she doing now?” It was a fun conversation.

The doctor looked at my back for abnormal moles and freckles. Just my luck – she found two. “Have you ever had a sunburn?” What kind of question is that? She told me to go find a dermatologist. Now I'm thinking about melanoma.

I also need to have my cholesterol checked.

I came home and cried in Chris’ arms. I’m feeling better now, but between my mom’s death, waiting for my follow-up MRI and the implications that may go along with that, the new “dermatology” issues, some unsettledness at work and the weight gain – I’ve just about had it.

I wish someone would invent diet rum to go with my diet coke. I really think it would be the magic elixir I’m looking for.

Skiing with a five year old

I would have to admit that teaching a five year old is easier than a three year old.
Before our arduous descent, (Harrison went down the mountain - for about an hour - under Chris' arm. He had a much smoother ride than his sister!) the afternoon was actually pretty fun.

Harry's skiing skills improved dramatically, as did Ella's. Both were nervous and timid as they attempted to first ski down the bunny hill. It was a pretty "bunny" bunny hill, though. There was a sign at the bottom of the run listing all the important facts - name of the run, etc. The only fact I remember was the vertical rise - 8 feet. The rise was so shallow that it was hard at times to keep the skis moving!

The great thing, though, is that both kids even went up the T-bar solo after a few runs and gained some confidence. Well...until the blue run fiasco.

Skiing with a three year old

She's cute, yes, but she's heavy. Everything was going fine until we tried to ski down a couple of blue (intermediate) runs to get to the bottom of the mountain. Our kids are little. They have only skiied three times. This turned out to NOT be a good idea. I skiied with Ella between my legs for almost an hour. She did little to nothing to help me, unless she felt that swinging her skis back and forth was helping me with my rhythm.

My quads ache. I had charley horse type cramps in my feet and worst of all - my biceps were so sore I had trouble lifting my beer at dinner.

Lesson learned - take the gondola down. 

long week

My stress level is still high. Week one back at work is over, though. It was harder in some ways and easier in others. Some of my students have been amazing. I received flowers, cards and hugs. I have a renewed faith in America’s youth.

The house needs so much attention and neither Chris nor I have the time or energy to take care of it. The piles of clothes in our bedroom are really starting to overwhelm me.

I phone my father daily. He is struggling to finish up all the details that are lingering after Mom’s death as well as learn how to take over the financial responsibilities that she used to handle. Two days before she died, she continued to direct all of us. I was sent to buy gift certificates for a few of her closest friends to thank them for their help this past year. My brother, on the other hand, got the hard job of explaining my mother’s accounting system to my dad. At one point, that afternoon, she even got snippy with him when he asked her what she needed him to do – “Just teach him how to do the bills!! That’s all I want you to do!” She was in charge till the very end, but now she’s gone and we’re all trying desperately to adjust to our new roles. My dad is leaving for his condo in Florida next week. I’m hopeful that the sunny climate and change of venue will help his emotional state as nothing I say to him seems to help too much.

Ella is acting out. She had her first time out at preschool yesterday. She screamed at one of her friends. I can imagine how it sounded as she has been screaming at me a lot lately. I can’t blame her, though. Her mom hasn’t been consistent or reliable for some time now. She has seen me cry a lot and I’ve been gone so much the last two months. Our once laid-back little girl has the attitude of a hormonal pre-teen.

To add to this “uplifting” post, my final stressor at this moment is my fear of Multiple Sclerosis again. I’ve had some periods of numbness in my face and my spine over the last few days. I need to schedule a follow up MRI, but I keep putting it off. I’m sure it’s stress related. I know I’m supposed to take this all one day at a time (didn’t I make that rule??), but I’m starting to think that theory sucks! I just want it all to go away.

We’re going skiing tomorrow. I pray the distraction of trying to keep my kids, and myself, from breaking any bones is enough to keep my mind off of all of this.

We tried two brand new winter sports activities. Ice skating on Saturday...

 

...snowshoeing on Sunday

I have been wanting to go do some of these things for so long. We live about a mile from an Olymic venue skating rink, but my kids have never been in skates until last Saturday.

I talked about it for a few days, but when Saturday morning arrived I couldn't imagine the energy it would take to get them into their car seats, let alone their winter gear. This past week has been slow and comfortable. The kids and I have been staying home, playing with Christmas toys and doing a lot of drawing. I have been doing a lot of sitting. I haven't run, or gone to my spinning class, since I flew home to be with my mom those last few days. I didn't do laundry last week, nor did I clean much.

Mostly I sit and eat. Or sit and think. Or sit and look at pictures. I'm doing a lot of reflection these days, but don't ask me about resolutions. I don't want to think beyond now.

Chris has been amazing through all of this. He, as well as Ella, seem to have a keen sense of when I am more sad than other times. He hasn't been upset at my lack of productivity lately. The house has been a shambles and he doesn't let it bug him. I am so grateful for my family.

Saturday, as I dragged my ever expanding be-hind to the ice rink, I started to feel better. Harrison, my more negative, apprehensive child, actually laughed the entire time while he attempted to stand on ice in hard boots with thin blades. "Mama! This stuff is sooooo slippery!" It was wonderful. The more he laughed, the more I smiled until I actually laughed with him. Out loud. It wasn't hard. It made me feel better. So much better that I decided I wanted to celebrate New Year's Eve. The kids ate organic whole wheat macaroni (AWFUL) while Chris and I grilled a steak and some tiger shrimp. We made garlic mashed potatoes and a salad. It was wonderful.

One day at a time. Isn't that the expression people talk about when things are sad? I guess that will be my mantra for 2006. I will try to figure out how I am supposed to go back to work after three weeks tomorrow. I will try to figure out how I am supposed to stop thinking about my mom most of my waking hours. I will try to figure out how to stop the image of my mom laying in bed, not breathing, from popping into my mind every few hours. I have a lot to work on. One day at a time.

Snowy barn park.

I'm so glad they get to grow up here. 

We found some snow. 

Why are kids fascinated with eating snow??? 

Granddaughter Ella

I have good days and bad. I cried myself to sleep last night. That started a bad period for me that I'm currently in. I know this is all a part of the process, but I'm really looking forward to the "moving on" stage, although I'll feel guilty when I reach it.

I haven't wanted to post much lately because I don't want to write about the sadness over and over. It's nothing I'll likely want to read about later. I know it can be healing, but I really don't have the energy.

Today, however, I found this photo and wanted to explain it before I forget. The day after my mom's memorial service, my dad told me to go check in my parent's room to see what Ella was up to. I grabbed the camera and this is what I found. She was sitting on the side of the bed that my mom was on for the last year. Her back to the door, she was busily cutting out pictures she had drawn for "'Opa" (what she calls my dad - German for grandpa). She would then tape them to the wall on his side of the bed so that he wouldn't be lonely.

She drew him a few "Oma" angels, as she calls them. I got one yesterday. She must have known I needed one. 

My Christmas Gift. Out with the old...

 

...in with the new.

 

 

 

One last gift to her

This Christmas I planned on giving my mother a letter expressing my deep love and respect for her. At 78, she did not have a large need for material gifts. Words on paper seemed to be more appropriate for both of us. I’ve always written deep feelings in the cards I’ve given her over the years.

This is the letter I would've given to her on Christmas...I chose to read it to her instead at her memorial service.


Dear Mom,

I want to give you the gift of gratitude this Christmas. This letter will be an attempt to show you how much I appreciate you.

You are such a positive role model to me – as a mother, a wife and a woman. I’d like to share some memories with you that are examples of the qualities I most admire in you.

As a child, I remember your willingness and drive to expose Mark and me to all types of experiences. When we first moved to Minnesota, you made sure we had ice skating lessons. This was the beginning of many activities that you encouraged; dance, gymnastics, Indian Princesses, Camp Fire Girls, softball, tennis, golf, art classes, swimming lessons, clarinet lessons, skiing and so on. We were taken to the Children’s Theater, Theater in the Round and various museums throughout our youth. To this day, I have been shaped by the multitude of experiences I had as a child.

I am an extremely sentimental person and I truly believe it is because of the exposure we had to your parents and relatives and their German heritage. Instilled in me is a pride in a background that I’ve never really lived in. Your reverence for family heritage spilled over onto me. This is probably why I have so much of your parent’s furniture in my home and keep most of the drawings my children make each day. I love being surrounded by items that have deep meaning.

As I became a student, I always knew how important education was to you. Our weekly trips to the library, when I was in elementary school, are etched in my mind. Remember your rule? We were only allowed to check out as many books as we could carry. You would also check out some books – mysteries were usually your favorite. After we would get home from the library, I would run in my room and dive into some of my books right away. You usually waited till nightfall. I have vivid memories of you sitting in bed reading. Television viewing was restricted to an hour a day for many years so that homework and reading were kept in the forefront. Reading was an integral part of our life.

You instilled in me a will to want to be successful. Giving my all to my school work and music were expected. I used to resent the thirty minutes you required me to practice my clarinet daily, but I wanted the reward. Private lessons would be dropped if I didn’t fulfill this expectation. Now as a parent, I can only hope that my children will discipline themselves for a reward that isn’t electronic or filled with sugar. You gave me the greatest gift – the drive to do my best at any task or in any situation.

As the figurative head of our household, your strength was something I never questioned. I have always seen you as independent and determined with many educational and career accomplishments. It was understood that I would go to college, get a career and maybe – somewhere along the way – get married. Looking for a husband and becoming a mother were never priorities to me and I believe that is because of you. Fulfilling my own goals first was your unspoken mantra. You were single longer than most in your era, but you never settled for just anyone. You taught me that marriage wasn’t a goal. It was merely something that occurred along the way. I remember you telling me once or twice that you had plenty of proposals over the years, but you were waiting for the right man at the right time. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been back in the fifties. I have always been so proud of you for this.

Your loyalty to me is another asset that I deeply appreciate. Through all the struggles I’ve been through, you and Dad have stood by me. Each mistake I made was met with your frustration, but also with a steadfast love behind it. My strongest memory of this was when I divorced. I opened up to you with details that were so painful and yet you accepted me with open arms. As I struggled with my own self esteem and acceptance, you guided me through the healing. I can even remember when you directed me to church to get a cassette of one of Arthur’s sermons on “grace”. You knew what I needed to hear. You’ve stuck with me through ups and downs and never once have I doubted that you would not support my decisions 100%. You always present your opinion, but if I decide to go in a different direction, you stop expressing your thoughts and just encourage me through the journey.

Another trait you passed down to me was a respect for money. Your bookkeeping skills are phenomenal. I love telling my friends that you can account for every dime you have spent. If I want to know how much you spent on the kids for Christmas last year, I know you’ll tell me to go get your books – you’ll look it up. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit your sense of organization and attention to detail. I don’t keep meticulous records, and my house and desk are a nightmare most of the time, but I do try to incorporate your values in this area into my life whenever I can. Just ask Chris, I often have a hard time opening my wallet.

Even though you appreciate the value of a dollar, the dichotomy of this is that you taught me how important it is to surround yourself with things of high quality. My earliest memory of this was shoes. You always insisted that we have good shoes – we weren’t allowed to buy any from a discount store. Our house was always decorated with the help of interior designers and you always dressed with attention to detail. When I was in eighth grade, my friend and I went downtown a few times on the city bus to bum around and buy chocolate stars at Woolworth’s. I distinctly remember that you insisted that I dress up for these trips. This made going downtown on the bus an event, not just an outing. You are the person who taught me how important it is to dress for success. I’ve always been proud of your great sense of style and taste.

These last seven years introduced me to a different side of you. Watching you fight cancer with such a positive attitude is so inspiring. Through the hair loss, intense fatigue and weekly chemo appointments, you never complain. It’s just a fact of life. Something you need to do – almost like a daily chore. You never allow anyone to dwell on the negatives associated with this illness. I quote you all the time to my students, “What you focus on is what you get.” Even though you’re in bed, you continue to be optimistic. (She would always say that she was in perfect health except for the cancer. “I don’t have any heart problems or arthritis, etc. I feel like I’m just sick – a little under the weather – not suffering from cancer.” This attitude continued till the end. In her diary, on the day before Thanksgiving just three weeks ago, she wrote, “Working on my thymus exercises (positive imagery meditations) 3 times a day and am feeling better – the cancer must be erased.”)

One of the greatest attributes I love about you, though, is your non-judgmental attitude. You are interested in people first, not their skin color, religion, sexual orientation or class. It took me until I was in my twenties to really realize this. Remember when I rented a room with that marketing Vice President in Uptown? She was very eccentric with lots of different ideas. You embraced that. I couldn’t believe it when I told you that she read Tarot cards and you wanted her to read your cards. I was nervous because of the diversity of her friends. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. You laughed out loud, after I gingerly told you that most of the men who would be at our house were homosexuals. “Why would I care?” you said. I doubt you ever realized how eye opening that moment was for me.

Finally, I need you to know that it has been an honor to be your daughter these past forty one years. You are an amazing woman. Your integrity, intelligence, loyalty and elegant grace exude from you. I was so lucky to be born into this home.

I love you more each day, Carol

One more day

I've never had a more hectic week, nor more painful. Thank you to everyone who wrote such meaningful comments since this all began. I appreciate them all.

Today is her Memorial Service. No body, just family and friends gathering in a chapel room at her favorite church. There will be a roaring fire, a wreath over the fireplace and lots and lots of pointsettias. I will speak along with a few others.

I can barely remember the last funeral I attended. I hope we can memorialize with her spirit in mind.

My mom (on the right) with her best friend from high school and college. I think she's about 20. 

The end.

Nurse #2 woke me at 5:00 AM to tell me that my mom had just died. I was with her till about 1:00 AM when she finally settled down and seemed to be somewhat comfortable. Even as I write this I am still shocked. This all happened too fast.

I've had so much time to prepare, but I'm not.

The beginning of the end - Part 2

I don't know where to begin.

My mother has deteriorated dramatically. She is very jaundiced, her eyelids are dark, she slips in and out of sleep, she throws up bile every few hours and she had her first "restless" episode. That's medical-ease for delusional talk. Around 11:30 PM last night she asked me to tell the person she was on the phone with that she couldn't talk anymore. She wasn't on the phone.

Hospice is now in place. A hospital bed is in our living room. A commode was delivered. At 3:00 PM today, Don came - our first nurse for round-the-clock care. The social worker helped us talk through funeral plans. The case worker told us she will probably die this week. Needless to say, I won't be going home at 5:36 tonight. My husband and kids will come on Saturday. My mom's sister is coming from Florida tomorrow night.

She is very uncomfortable. My brother is numb. My dad is angry (feels it should be him). And I'm just sad. Really, really sad.

The beginning of the end.

I’ve been awake since 4:30 AM. The thoughts racing through my head are awful. I don’t wish them on anyone. Around my neck is a necklace carved from bone in the shape of an edelweiss flower. My German-immigrant grandfather gave it to my mother in 1955. On his own, he went to a jewelry store in Chicago and picked it out for his daughter. She gave it to me this summer along with that story. This is the first time I’ve worn it. I stumbled upon it this morning. I don't even know what I was looking for, but the minute I saw it I knew I wanted to wear it today.

I’m on an airplane. Nothing I expected to be doing this morning as I went through my day yesterday. In fact, I’m supposed to be at work right now. It’s 9:20 AM. Parents and prospective students will be walking through our doors in 40 minutes for our Saturday recruitement event and I will not be there to welcome them. Instead, I’m going to Minnesota to be with my mom. Did you know the going rate for a flight from Salt Lake to Minneapolis eleven hours in advance is $1,168! Thank God my mother gave me her password last month. I have stolen her last World Perks miles. Unfortunately, she won’t need them. Yesterday her oncologist told her that she would be dying this month.

The men in my life all knew. My husband and my brother are sad, but not surprised. Chris, I believe, feels that her body is just too ravaged by the six years of chemo. He’s not happy about it, but has a better acceptance of its fallibility. My brother sees her more often and started accepting the inevitable in the last week or so as her normally sharp math skills, and memory, have started to fail. She asked him the other day to take over her checkbook. I could probably write volumes on my mother’s bookkeeping skills. Suffice it to say that her inability to no longer calculate the accrued interest on my loan from her is hard to believe. My father just knew. He watched both of his parents die from cancer so maybe he senses the timing in situations like this.

The two of us women left over were fairly clueless. My mother went to her doctor appointment yesterday afternoon following the same routine she has for the six years since she started weekly chemotherapy. She would bathe, put on makeup, put on her wig, get dressed and grab her purse. The last two appointments, or so, my dad has had to help her walk to the garage. Her weakness has gotten worse and she can’t rely on the walls to keep her balanced anymore. As she was getting in the car yesterday, she panicked for a second, “Glenn, my calendar…my purse. I left them by the bed.” My dad knew exactly what she meant. She carries a little pocket calendar in her purse to record all of her doctor appointments. In fact, just three weeks ago, I bought her a new one. She wanted the two-year model, 2006-2007. Neither my mom, nor I, balked at her request. I didn’t even think about it until this very moment. (Ok, now I’m crying in public.) He brought her the purse already knowing that she wouldn’t be scheduling anymore appointments and drove her to the doctor. My father tells me that the conversation was very frank. The doctor said that there is no available treatment option left that would make any sense. Her blood test results indicate that the liver tumor is growing rapidly. He went on to say that her life expectancy was very short. Weeks…maybe four. He described the coming symptoms. It will be fairly painless. Since her body can no longer filter things through her liver properly, her body will fill with toxins and then she will slip into a coma and die. According to him, it is a pretty good way to die. He said that. (I guess I can’t be too upset with his candor. There are not a lot of easy ways to tell someone they are dying.) I asked my dad how my mother handled it. He said that she was surprised. Like me, she was expecting another option. This doctor has given us options for over seven years. At this point she just said, “Well, that’s that.”

I found out during my commute from work. I had a hair appointment scheduled last night so I decided to call before I went in. My Dad answered the phone. Up until last week, my mother answered the phone EVERY time it rang. Now she answers every third call or so. He recounted the doctor visit and then said that some people from Hospice services were coming this morning to talk to my parents. He then wanted to talk through the funeral. In detail. I was on a busy freeway in Salt Lake City (home of the worst drivers on this planet) sobbing. He wanted help and advice on who should be at the wake, etc. It was almost surreal. I cut him off when I reached the salon and told him I’d call in the morning. He suggested after the hospice meeting. Little does he know that we will be able to talk it all through in person.

After talking through every emotion I was having, for over two and a half hours (cut and highlights!) with my hair stylist, I felt better. I think if I had had to go directly home after I had received the news, it would have been harder. I needed time to regroup and grieve. By the time I got home, I was better able to focus on my kids and help get them to bed. Around 9:00 PM, I decided that I needed to see my mom right away. It’s amazing how skewed your thinking can get in situations like this. I had been very concerned about my responsibilities at work. I had to be reminded that it really doesn’t matter. If I were in Chris’ shoes, I probably would have said the same things to me that he did, but I’m not. I’m in my shoes. I’m the one who has to face the consequences of missing more work.

Thankfully I listened. In the scheme of things, family is ALL that really matters. My brother and I will both spend the afternoon with my parents today. No spouses, no grandchildren – just the four of us.

Bah-humbug

So my mom went in for her procedure today. Attempt number four. Spoke to my dad tonight. After all the waiting and hoping, it was a bust. The gastric doctor wasn't able to get a stint into her liver bile duct. Apparently the mass that blocks it is too large. She told my father that it is probably a "large" cancerous tumor.

We are back to square one. My mother will have to consult with her oncologist, but my father believes the writing is on the wall. When this blockage was first detected, the doctor said that if her blockage wasn't corrected - her life expectency would be short. I have no idea what "short" means, but probably weeks.

Last night, my mom and I got in a fight. Just like the old days. She heard my kids in the background and I said something about them being "out of control". She quickly told me that I say that many times a week. She went into a lecture, of sorts, telling me that I need to take control of my out of control children. She reminded me that she hadn't parented like that, etc. It was awful. I became defensive, child-like and started crying. I was so mad at her, but so guilt-ridden at the same time.

How are you supposed to act with a mother dying of cancer? What's the protocol when their illness is in its final stages? Hell, I've never even been around anyone close to death, let alone know how to handle it.

I want to plan for the holidays, but how can I? I need to calm down and take this one day at a time. Until she meets with the doctor, I will continue to have hope.

The latest

The view from our car, on our way home, the other day. Winter is here.

My mother is still waiting for the blockage/tumor, in her bile duct, to be fixed. She was set to have a stint put in over a week ago, but they discovered at the last minute that her blood was dangerously thin and they couldn't go forward. It was rescheduled for yesterday. Her levels were checked on Thursday and everything was fine. So, for the second time in a week, she fasted for the day and then went to the hospital thinking she was going to have a tube inserted down her throat all the way to her liver. Mentally, this was taking its toll. She easily gags normally, and lately she's been losing her swallowing reflex, so she was nervous about this to say the least. Also, for the second time, she was in the gown - on the table - ready to go when a problem was found. Her potassium levels were low. This comes as no surprise to me and Dad. She hasn't been taking her potassium pills. She hates them. They are large and she can't swallow them without chopping them up. One of the reasons that I call her daily is to check on this. Sometimes it works - sometimes it doesn't. Obviously it wasn't working well enough. I feel like I've caught one of my students cheating. She's been nailed and her punishment was pretty harsh. They started her on a potassium IV infusion and checked her into the hospital for the night. She got home this afternoon, exhausted and wiser, with her procedure re-scheduled for Monday.

She's had a severe stomach since yesterday. I'm afraid that the blockage is really starting to affect her digestive system. The doctor has informed her that they may not be able to put a stint in after all. They don't know if the blockage is actually a tumor, but they assume so. If they can't open the duct, she will have to wear a bag on the outside of her body for the rest of her life. Once her liver is functioning properly, she can go back on chemo. She's been off for about 7 weeks now. That is too long.

Understandably, my father is tired and dejected. This is my mother's third or fourth stay in a hospital this year. From his perspective, things are just getting worse every day. His recovery is going well, but he still can't drive. - not until Dec. 8th (6 weeks post surgery). I have a sense that he's having trouble staying hopeful. He's where I was last week. This week, I feel better. More positive and confident with modern medicine. I just want her to get back on chemo.

A typical Saturday

 

Usually we have large plans for our weekends. We have errands to run, projects around the house, cleaning, laundry, and usually we'll try to throw in at least one fun family activity. This weekend, however, is quickly turning into a total bust.

Not one thing around the house has been done, not one Christmas gift was bought today and the laundry chute is still full of dirty clothes.

Because I knew that we wouldn't be going on a lot of fun, creative outings, I was feeling guilty. The kids, sensing my weakness, begged to do some painting. We have painted in this house ONE time. It was outside, last October. The kids sat on the driveway with their pumpkins and some paint. I walked away for about three minutes. When I returned, they were both naked and their pumpkins and bodies were full of paint. It was extremely hilarious, but it taught me a good lesson. NEVER leave your children unsupervised with paint.

Now, I certainly have my moments as a parent. I have never claimed to be good at this job. I TOTALLY fly by the seat of my pants. However, I do try to keep my repeat mistakes to a minimum - until today - when I gave in to their unison chants of request for a painting project. I cleared the dining room table. Put down newspaper. Got out three brushes. Four paint colors. Cups for paint. Paper. Then I laid out the rules. Don't mix colors. Share the brushes. Keep the paint on the paper. And most importantly - keep your clothes on.

Things went really well for about 15 minutes. I was even able to hold a phone conversation, but I certainly got distracted at this point. The kids lost interest fairly quickly and I cleaned up most of the paint cups, etc. About thirty minutes later, I realized that Harrison had been in the bathroom for too long.

I think the pictures tell the rest of the story pretty well.