Feb 23, 2011
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 15, 2011
And A Few More
A birthday girl, her new "killer boots," and a stolen sweater.
Hopefully a real post will be coming soon. However, my Mama is home after a surgery this past Thursday. So that's good.
Feb 10, 2011
I didn't mean for 365 to fall away. I've been doing it, kind of, but not uploading.
The last several weeks have been a whirlwind of driving and laundry and working and school. My Mom is not doing well. On a Friday, I believe it was the 14th of January, she signed a DNR and entered hospice. Since, she's been receiving hospice home care. Colostomy bag, PEG tube, excruciating pain and what does she do? Laugh through it. I know it's how she copes, because it's how I cope too. I didn't go last weekend because Emily turned five and I gave her a birthday party. It was amazing. And loud. I was planning on driving to my Mom's tomorrow, but just got a phone call that I need to get there today. I'm leaving in about an hour. There's a family meeting with doctors tonight at 6:30.
She's, in the last five days, had seven litres of fluid removed from her left lung, and there is talk of doing a surgery/treatment tomorrow to prevent more fluid from getting in. At her house there is now a commode, oxygen, more dilaudid and morphine and methadone than I can imagine, colostomy supplies, PEG supplies, and a mess of other supplies.
When my Grandpa died, we moved his bed out of the house and brought a hospital bed in. He was a grumpy old man, but had the biggest heart I think I've ever encountered. My Grandpa was my hero, the person who gave me a place in my Dad's family. I cared for him. I quite my job senior year of high school and did nothing but school and care for him. He died seven years ago this month. February has always been doom month, until Emily was born. I used to hope and pray that Emily would actually be born on her due date of January 20th and when I was at the hospital on February 3rd, fading in and out of myself, being ripped open by contractions, I was convinced that I was not leaving that hospital. I thought God had a punishment planned for me. Then my beautiful nine pound daughter was born, purple, and she turned pink and began screaming and screeching, letting us all know that she was alive. Well, happy, vibrant, and alive.
I used to push the nutrition supplements through my Grandpa's feeding tube, being careful not to jiggle it. The site was infected, always, angry and red and threatening to open. To this day the smell of that awful stuff makes me sick to my stomach and light-headed. Before my Grandpa died, he went to the hospital for some reason or another.
Now, I'm watching cancer take my Mom. I thought I had been through this already, enough pain for a lifetime. I spent a lot of time being angry with the world when he died because he was supposed to be immortal. I learned that we are not.
This process with my Mom has been long. Terrifying. Hopeful. And now, we're in that phase when there are emergencies, and then she bounces back, smiling, laughing, watching Peter Pan with Emmy for the nine thousandth time. That phone call today is one I'll never forget. I hate dying. I hate it. I'm in this place where I want her to be out of misery, out of pain, away from all of this hard stuff. I want the tubes out of her body, the lines out of her veins and the clouds out of her eyes. But. But but but but but. I want my Mom too. And I can't have it both ways.
I know I am not unique in this situation, that many others have been through it. I know that this is how it goes. That lucidity becomes less frequent as hospital visits become more frequent. I know the order of things, and because I am a hopeless geek and researcher, I know the numbers of it all too. I know that if my Mom leaves the hospital that it won't be long, and I know that my Mom will not see the rest of my life. She will not be here to yell too loudly when I take over the world. And in my life, knowledge is power. It is the only power, the only sword one can brandish in the face of difficult things. My sword of knowledge gets in the way of a lot of things and a lot of people do not understand it or like it or approve of it. But in this fight, not my Mom's fight... in my own fight, knowledge is truly my only power. It is my only stabilizer, my only resource, my only way of getting through.
This post has no cohesion. I'm sitting here on my couch waiting for my clothes to be dry so I can put them in a bag. I need to go to Emily's room and find her a couple books, a baby doll, a blanket. I need to go to my brain and find the will power to be Emily's Mama before I am Patty's daughter. I cannot wait to see an Uncle. This Uncle is one I want to talk about.
In the way that my Grandpa gave me a place in my Dad's family, he has given me my place in my Mom's. My Grandpa was the missing piece, the person that showed me that I do indeed have the blood of that paternal side floating in my veins. Talking with him showed me that I did belong, even though I had spent so many years knowing that I didn't. This Uncle is my Mom's brother. He and I re-met a few weeks ago, my Mom in a bed at hospice between us, and I felt it again. That little click of recognition, a piece fitting perfectly into place, placing me in this family. It was so unexpected. I truly thought my Grandpa was the only one with that power. I'm so lucky that I found this out and that my Mom got to witness it.
I need to get off of my computer. And I don't want to. My computer is my safety, my comfort. When I am writing I am home and I need to stop to go deal with this. I hate cancer. I hate cancer I hate cancer I hate cancer I HATE CANCER. No one should have to feel the things that so many people have to feel.
More later.
The last several weeks have been a whirlwind of driving and laundry and working and school. My Mom is not doing well. On a Friday, I believe it was the 14th of January, she signed a DNR and entered hospice. Since, she's been receiving hospice home care. Colostomy bag, PEG tube, excruciating pain and what does she do? Laugh through it. I know it's how she copes, because it's how I cope too. I didn't go last weekend because Emily turned five and I gave her a birthday party. It was amazing. And loud. I was planning on driving to my Mom's tomorrow, but just got a phone call that I need to get there today. I'm leaving in about an hour. There's a family meeting with doctors tonight at 6:30.
She's, in the last five days, had seven litres of fluid removed from her left lung, and there is talk of doing a surgery/treatment tomorrow to prevent more fluid from getting in. At her house there is now a commode, oxygen, more dilaudid and morphine and methadone than I can imagine, colostomy supplies, PEG supplies, and a mess of other supplies.
When my Grandpa died, we moved his bed out of the house and brought a hospital bed in. He was a grumpy old man, but had the biggest heart I think I've ever encountered. My Grandpa was my hero, the person who gave me a place in my Dad's family. I cared for him. I quite my job senior year of high school and did nothing but school and care for him. He died seven years ago this month. February has always been doom month, until Emily was born. I used to hope and pray that Emily would actually be born on her due date of January 20th and when I was at the hospital on February 3rd, fading in and out of myself, being ripped open by contractions, I was convinced that I was not leaving that hospital. I thought God had a punishment planned for me. Then my beautiful nine pound daughter was born, purple, and she turned pink and began screaming and screeching, letting us all know that she was alive. Well, happy, vibrant, and alive.
I used to push the nutrition supplements through my Grandpa's feeding tube, being careful not to jiggle it. The site was infected, always, angry and red and threatening to open. To this day the smell of that awful stuff makes me sick to my stomach and light-headed. Before my Grandpa died, he went to the hospital for some reason or another.
Now, I'm watching cancer take my Mom. I thought I had been through this already, enough pain for a lifetime. I spent a lot of time being angry with the world when he died because he was supposed to be immortal. I learned that we are not.
This process with my Mom has been long. Terrifying. Hopeful. And now, we're in that phase when there are emergencies, and then she bounces back, smiling, laughing, watching Peter Pan with Emmy for the nine thousandth time. That phone call today is one I'll never forget. I hate dying. I hate it. I'm in this place where I want her to be out of misery, out of pain, away from all of this hard stuff. I want the tubes out of her body, the lines out of her veins and the clouds out of her eyes. But. But but but but but. I want my Mom too. And I can't have it both ways.
I know I am not unique in this situation, that many others have been through it. I know that this is how it goes. That lucidity becomes less frequent as hospital visits become more frequent. I know the order of things, and because I am a hopeless geek and researcher, I know the numbers of it all too. I know that if my Mom leaves the hospital that it won't be long, and I know that my Mom will not see the rest of my life. She will not be here to yell too loudly when I take over the world. And in my life, knowledge is power. It is the only power, the only sword one can brandish in the face of difficult things. My sword of knowledge gets in the way of a lot of things and a lot of people do not understand it or like it or approve of it. But in this fight, not my Mom's fight... in my own fight, knowledge is truly my only power. It is my only stabilizer, my only resource, my only way of getting through.
This post has no cohesion. I'm sitting here on my couch waiting for my clothes to be dry so I can put them in a bag. I need to go to Emily's room and find her a couple books, a baby doll, a blanket. I need to go to my brain and find the will power to be Emily's Mama before I am Patty's daughter. I cannot wait to see an Uncle. This Uncle is one I want to talk about.
In the way that my Grandpa gave me a place in my Dad's family, he has given me my place in my Mom's. My Grandpa was the missing piece, the person that showed me that I do indeed have the blood of that paternal side floating in my veins. Talking with him showed me that I did belong, even though I had spent so many years knowing that I didn't. This Uncle is my Mom's brother. He and I re-met a few weeks ago, my Mom in a bed at hospice between us, and I felt it again. That little click of recognition, a piece fitting perfectly into place, placing me in this family. It was so unexpected. I truly thought my Grandpa was the only one with that power. I'm so lucky that I found this out and that my Mom got to witness it.
I need to get off of my computer. And I don't want to. My computer is my safety, my comfort. When I am writing I am home and I need to stop to go deal with this. I hate cancer. I hate cancer I hate cancer I hate cancer I HATE CANCER. No one should have to feel the things that so many people have to feel.
More later.
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