My mom knew that by asking me to call her I would know something was wrong, so instead, she texted Daryl and asked him that we call her together when I got home from work. He held my hand as she told us the news on speakerphone. The stomach pain she had been experiencing was not stress from the death of my step dad six weeks ago. It was a tumor, and it was in her liver, and she didn’t know more than that. She told us that she scheduled a follow up appointment with an oncologist.
Inside, my chest tightened, my stomach turned, my legs lost balance. I fell to the floor. My thoughts went dark. How? Why? What the fuck?
On the phone, I stayed calm. I asked questions. I insisted that I drive home— I was in Boston, and she was just on the other side of the state. It would take me less than three hours to get there. She politely declined my offer, as she always did when people extended their help to her. She explained she would be going to work in the morning. My mom was no stranger to pain, having battled rheumatoid arthritis for several years, and she wasn’t going to let a tumor take her down.
Until it did.
The next day, she called again to tell me that she went back to the emergency room, because the pain was too much to bear. I knew her well enough to know that her voluntary admittance meant she was suffering beyond what she was letting on. What I didn’t know as a friend drove me to the hospital was that she would die eleven days later.
The days between my mom’s diagnosis and death are a blur. We found out she had stage four lung cancer that had metastasized to her liver, that symptoms went undiagnosed for almost a year, that the only treatment we could give her was treatment to lessen the pain—to make her imminent death more manageable. I was 28 years old and trying to figure out how to say goodbye to my best friend while also tracking her medicine, monitoring her pain, seeking legal advice, making sure she ate, taking her to the bathroom, and coordinating with hospice care, so she could die in the comfort of her own home. I still worry that I spent too much time planning and not enough time in her hospital bed holding her hand.
She only had a few days at home before she lost her life, and she was on so much morphine those days that she mostly slept. If she was awake, she was wincing in pain, so I’d quickly push the morphine button to put her back at ease. She didn’t deserve the agony—the button was always at my side. I sat with it, I slept with it— it was an extension of my hand. I couldn’t let her suffer. My final days with her were a mix of pushing that button, telling her how much I loved her, pushing the button, making sure she knew that I’d be okay, pushing the button, stepping away to weep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Eventually, she took her last breath.
On August 5, 2015, I started her eulogy like this: “What I’m learning about death is that losing people physically does not mean losing them completely—to love someone is to carry their light inside us forever.” I tried to focus on the things she gave me during our time together that death could not take away.
What I didn't realize then was that she'd spent all her years showing me how to be a mom. The greatest gift of all.
It's been almost three years since we said goodbye, but her spirit burns inside me brighter than ever. Her gifts were abundant, and they are eternal, and I already see her spark in Cariel.
We're both carrying her light.
Inside, my chest tightened, my stomach turned, my legs lost balance. I fell to the floor. My thoughts went dark. How? Why? What the fuck?
On the phone, I stayed calm. I asked questions. I insisted that I drive home— I was in Boston, and she was just on the other side of the state. It would take me less than three hours to get there. She politely declined my offer, as she always did when people extended their help to her. She explained she would be going to work in the morning. My mom was no stranger to pain, having battled rheumatoid arthritis for several years, and she wasn’t going to let a tumor take her down.
Until it did.
The next day, she called again to tell me that she went back to the emergency room, because the pain was too much to bear. I knew her well enough to know that her voluntary admittance meant she was suffering beyond what she was letting on. What I didn’t know as a friend drove me to the hospital was that she would die eleven days later.
The days between my mom’s diagnosis and death are a blur. We found out she had stage four lung cancer that had metastasized to her liver, that symptoms went undiagnosed for almost a year, that the only treatment we could give her was treatment to lessen the pain—to make her imminent death more manageable. I was 28 years old and trying to figure out how to say goodbye to my best friend while also tracking her medicine, monitoring her pain, seeking legal advice, making sure she ate, taking her to the bathroom, and coordinating with hospice care, so she could die in the comfort of her own home. I still worry that I spent too much time planning and not enough time in her hospital bed holding her hand.
She only had a few days at home before she lost her life, and she was on so much morphine those days that she mostly slept. If she was awake, she was wincing in pain, so I’d quickly push the morphine button to put her back at ease. She didn’t deserve the agony—the button was always at my side. I sat with it, I slept with it— it was an extension of my hand. I couldn’t let her suffer. My final days with her were a mix of pushing that button, telling her how much I loved her, pushing the button, making sure she knew that I’d be okay, pushing the button, stepping away to weep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Eventually, she took her last breath.
On August 5, 2015, I started her eulogy like this: “What I’m learning about death is that losing people physically does not mean losing them completely—to love someone is to carry their light inside us forever.” I tried to focus on the things she gave me during our time together that death could not take away.
What I didn't realize then was that she'd spent all her years showing me how to be a mom. The greatest gift of all.
It's been almost three years since we said goodbye, but her spirit burns inside me brighter than ever. Her gifts were abundant, and they are eternal, and I already see her spark in Cariel.
We're both carrying her light.
Comments
Post a Comment