Thursday, Dec. 9, 2004
9:29 p.m.

Mom went to the cancer clinic for her regular drug treatment a week ago, and her doctors decided to keep her in so they could get a handle on the nausea and pain she's been suffering from, and do tests to rule out cancer in the brain or bones.

The photo above is my sister Joan, who is a lab tech, taking Mom's blood on the first night of her stay. Mom would kill me if she knew I put this picture of her here, because her hair isn't combed. But I don't think she looks so bad.

After a couple days they had the nausea and pain handled, and Dad was getting a much-needed rest at home. We got the results of the brain scan, and those were good. No cancer there, so that was a relief.

I'd just had a long shower on Sunday and noticed as I basked in the warm water how good I felt, how normal, and what a relief that was, when Mom was feeling decent. I had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapped in a huge towel, laying on the bed enjoying a few minutes of luxurious repose, when Scott brought me the phone.

Mom's oncologist had gone to her room and informed her that the cancer has spread to two new spots: one in her hip and one in her lower spine. This was the cause of the pain she's been suffering, and it meant she would be taken off the experimental treatment, as obviously it is not doing what was hoped.

She was crying as she told me this, and I said "Settle down, Mom. You're not done-for yet! They can radiate those places and that will help with the pain. That's good, at least."

"Yes, that's right." She began to calm down, then asked me to go get Dad and bring him to the hospital. She didn't want him driving after he heard this news.

"But, oh, I never thought -- will you be all right to drive?"

I assured her I'd be fine, that I'd get Scott to drive, and that we'd go get Dad right away. All I could think about, though, was getting to her immediately, even if it meant Dad's arrival would be delayed. I couldn't stand the thought of her there by herself, so upset, for one more moment. So I got Scott to drop me off at the hospital and carry on to get Dad.

Alone in the elevator on my way up to the fourth floor, I sent up a little prayer to those invisible spirits that I hope are there, but neither see, hear, nor feel, to help me be strong for Mom. By the time I got to her room, she had tidied it up and was sitting up in her bed quite collected. I sat next to her with my arms around her raised knees and we held each other's hands and talked as we waited for Dad.

"As soon as he gets here," I said, "I'll leave you two alone and go get a cup of coffee."

"The hardest part of this is telling you, my family," she told me, tearing up again. "I didn't know who to call, what to do first."

As soon as Scott and I left the hospital later that evening, I was right back to feeling as if I am in a phone booth and can't get out of it. Does that make sense? It's hard to describe the helplessness, dread, and grief, but it weighs heavily and there is no escape from it. I don't know what to do with these sensations, but feel trapped beneath and inside the weight of them. I am worried sick about what Mom may still have to go through. I think that is what horrifies me the most; being unable to save her from suffering.

We've all been at the hospital to visit with her every day, every evening. We space our visits out so we are not all there at once. These are good visits, as she is herself again, if a little befuddled by pain medication. She has considerable discomfort from the radiation treatment she received on Tuesday, and has to be urged to ask for as much painkilling drug as necessary. Now it looks like her doctors may not discharge her till Monday, and she is not too happy about that because Grandma and my uncle Neil are flying in from Saskatoon on Saturday.

Scott and I went to the hospital about 5:30 tonight, and I stayed there with Mom while he went to Dad's to pick up some pyjamas she wanted. I rubbed lotion into her feet, cream onto her back and belly, sat beside her bed holding her hand, chatting about this and that. After Scott returned at 7:30, I pulled the curtain and helped her change into her pyjamas, then covered her up again in the cool room. Scott went down to the cafeteria and brought back ice cream treats. At 8, visiting hours were over and Scott and I prepared to come home.

"I hate leaving you here," I said, standing at the foot of her bed in my heavy red jacket. "I bet they have sleeping chairs that could be put in your room, so I could stay overnight with you. You just have to say so, you know, and I would. I can't stand the thought of you lonely."

"Oh I'm not," she replied. "I'll sleep good now, I think." As a matter of fact, she was probably anxious for us to get out of there so that she could finally get some shut-eye.

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