Sunday, Dec. 19, 2004
12:46 p.m.

My niece stayed overnight, so Everett read her a bedtime story.

I am still in my pyjamas and housecoat. We'll be stopping in at Mom and Dad's for an hour or so before motoring on to Winfield to have supper with friends. Better get my ass in gear.

Mom was "on the mend" late yesterday afternoon when I spoke to Dad. With luck it will be the same story today.

Friday, Dec. 17, 2004
12:30 p.m.

I have been taking a break from carrying the camera around all the time, since Scott said he could never get his hands on it because it was always with me. So he’s been playing with it, thus you get photos like the one above, where he’s been experimenting with various settings. Don’t ask me what, or why.

Flower shop just called, someone has sent flowers that will be delivered later this afternoon. Scott denies it’s him — again — but I can’t imagine who else would be sending them.

We have Jordan here for the day while Joan goes out to do some of Mom and Dad’s Christmas shopping. Mom’s doc has added a steroid to her medication mix, and the bone pain was gone yesterday for the first time, but she was nauseated all god damn day. So much for claims that patients don’t have to suffer from cancer because there is medication for the pain. This looks like suffering, to us, even though things could be far worse. Mom is not complaining, mind you; she’s just trying to make the best of it and get through her days.

I am in the middle of my work day, but there is other news. It looks like we’ll be moving at the end of January, to a large and lovely home 10 minutes from Mom and Dad’s. I’ll have to fill in the details later. Right now, back to work.

~ morning hair, morning light, morning dress ~

Hi kiddo,

Oh, to be where you are in the Christmas shopping department! I've barely even thought about it so far. And there isn't much time left.

We have been actively looking for a new place closer to Mom and Dad's. Mom wants me nearer in the worst way, and our deck and driveway are just too frigging risky for Emil. We've really seen that in the past week, once it snowed up here. So Scott has been calling ads and we've been to see several places. Now that he's taking his mission seriously I have no doubt we'll be moving before long.

I appreciate the thought, sweetie, but it is impossible to comfort me, really, in this instance. The only thing that seems to help when I am in a bad way is to tune in to Mom, as I would when I do a tarot reading. That calms me and even helps me sleep. I think it's because I then feel she is a little less alone in this. I don't know. Maybe it's because she is more okay with what is happening than I am. As she says, it's probably worse for us than for her. That may well be, though I find it hard to believe. She has to have some rough emotional moments, aside from the pain.

Jordan has been here since 7:30 this morning. Joan has gone up to Big White to go snowboarding. So it's cartoons on TV behind me, after she and Emil watched a Barney video.

Well, I must shower, dress, eat, and get to work. Didn't do anything yesterday. Mom called before 9, in enough pain to be desperate for help. The nurse hadn't gotten there quickly enough with the pain medication. Mom had called Dad to go buy her a light blanket because the hospital ones were too heavy and added to her discomfort. And would I come and rub her feet? So we rushed down there, walked into her room ahead of her doctor and Dad. As soon as Doc asked her how she was, she threw up her breakfast. This is common with her; definitely a mind thing. We took off the heavy blankets and put on the new one, I rubbed her feet, and she kicked us out so she could sleep.

Before leaving the hospital we stood in a corridor and talked with Dad. He said the spot on Mom's liver has grown continually since the beginning and is quite large. He is not hopeful for her long survival; we are in for some serious shit, he thinks, and has prepared himself for the worst. I suppose he's trying to prepare the rest of us too.

After that he went his way and we went ours, to a restaurant for breakfast. I was not in a very good mood, and spent the afternoon feeling tired and as if coming down with a cold, so I didn't get any work done, just rested. Fortunately I did not get sick, so I can still spend time with Mom. We had a wonderful visit together last night. She has a lot on her mind.

Her remarks:

"I don't want to talk about cancer again till after Christmas. I am tired of talking about it. I'd just like to feel good for a few weeks, enough to enjoy Christmas. I've talked about cancer too much."

"I don't like it when people -- even you girls -- tell me 'We'll get through this' and 'We'll beat this thing.' We have to accept that this is going to kill me. We have to accept it. That's the way it's likely going to end."

"You're a very good mother. All three of you girls are."

"I'm proud of you." I'd just told her about some writing I'm doing, and she was excited about it being "published."

And now I really must away.

Keep on writing, I love getting your emails.

xoxo
Kathy

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.

email:

~ Dad and his Aunt Hazel, who visited on the weekend ~

Wednesday, Dec. 1, 2004
7:15 p.m.

Cath,

What are the portions for mixing keri lotion with olive oil for a good massage? I did it at home but now want to mix some here so I can give Mom a good rubdown from time to time, and I don't remember how much of each. Please let me know a.s.a.p.; I want to be ready whenever there is a window of opportunity. Mom doesn't often feel up to it, but I'd like to give her a full body massage when she does.

It sure doesn't feel as if things are looking up. The tumours are going the right way, but Mom's been feeling shitty for a month now and there isn't any improvement there. There is no bowel obstruction, so at least that's ruled out; tomorrow night they are giving her brain a c.t. scan just to make sure there isn't metastasis there. No one can figure out where the abdominal pain and nausea are coming from. Maybe the tumour is pressing on a nerve.

I have decided to go over every morning, so Dad can know when he's free to go out on a regular basis and for my own peace of mind. I realized last night that I want to be there every day if I can, though there isn't much one can do. Mom isn't up to visiting or enjoying company most of the time, and wants to be alone to sleep, but skipping a day now just feels somehow wrong.

I was afraid of being intrusive by being there too often, and told Dad so, but he said no, come if I want to. Maybe he doesn't find me too hard to talk to about what's on his mind these days, and it can't hurt for him to share the responsibilities a little bit more than he does, or at least have the same person there for a while every day so that person is part of the flow and knows what's going on. He is busy giving Mom needles for pain and nausea, and calling nurses, and getting drugs, and setting up appointments, and everything else. He's doing a really great job of taking care of her, but it's a big job and has to get overwhelming eventually.

Joan and I pinched perogies this afternoon, the leftover filling that didn't get used on the weekend, and she and Karen went shopping after Karen got off work. I came home, hadn't seen my boys all day and have to work at the computer tonight for as many hours as I can. Don't know what I'd shop for anyway, don't have a list made for Xmas yet.

Cait will be what ... 14 this year? Kee-Rist. What colour is her hair this week?

xoxo
Kathy

~Everett on his 12th birthday ~

Tuesday, Nov. 30, 2004
9 a.m.

“The family doctor wants to put her in the hospital,” Dad said on the phone yesterday afternoon.

“I’m coming over.” I threw pyjamas and my toothbrush into a bag, wrote a cheque for December’s rent, left it on the desk, and bolted out the door.

Hospice nurses have been at Mom and Dad’s every day. They have put “butterfly” needles into each of her shoulders; one for nausea, one for pain. The needles stay there and we can administer the drugs ourselves easily. Mom has had several comfortable days and nights now.

Joan and Karen both came over yesterday too and together we waited with Dad for the oncologist to call. Without her agreement, Mom didn’t want to go to the hospital. First she and Dad wanted the results of Friday’s c.t. scan, and then Dad wanted all the doctors to be agreed and advising the same thing.

Mom attempted to leave her bedroom, but the movement made her sick right away so back to bed she went, and kicked us all out of there so she could sleep.

The oncologist called just after five, and Dad took the phone and went into another room to talk with her. When he came out, it was to announce that Mom’s remaining six tumours have all shrunk, and the doctor wants to keep her on the experimental drug.

All four of us danced our way into Mom’s room to tell her the good news. She was happy of course, but soon evicted us again so she could sleep. The drugs make her groggy.

So it’s good news. The drug is doing what it’s hoped it would. The abdominal pain and nausea could be caused by drugs, or there could be some other problem -- that’s what further tests will be for.

But the drug is doing something. Woo hoo!

~ grapes destined for ice wine ~

Sunday, Nov. 28, 2004
3:30 p.m.

Cameron,

If you're bringing gifts at Xmas, they have to be unwrapped when you go through security at the airport. Not sure if I mentioned that or not.

Mom and Dad get the results of her most recent round of tests, tomorrow we hope, and Dad is expecting bad news because Mom has had so much discomfort in the abdominal area lately. We hope it's only because of constipation caused by the pain drugs, but it could be that the cancer has spread to the pelvic bone or liver. In that case, they'll probably take Mom off the experimental drug, and if they do, it's going to be a real kick in the teeth. Mom and Dad would have a very rough couple of days while Mom decides whether to try another kind of treatment or not to bother. They are known to make you really sick, and she's not sure it's worth it.

Dad will probably be calling to let you know what the tests show. If he doesn't, you can call me, see if I know anything. They have both been depressed lately, and it's good when you call, they always like to hear from you. Dad is having a hard time coping with his emotions, but he is taking care of Mom like a hero. I am really proud of him.

They have asked to be left to themselves tomorrow with whatever news they receive, and they'll let us know as soon as they're able to phone. Cross your fingers.

We are all looking forward to seeing you at Christmas.

Love,
Kathy

Thursday, Nov. 25, 2004
10 a.m.

It is grey out here. So grey. But mild and moist, which I like. Still, it could be a long winter if we don't get some sunshine more often.

Mom is having abdominal pain and nausea, and Dad is joining her in getting depressed, so right now my biggest concerns are for the two of them. I am there to listen and there to do what I can, but feel pretty helpless. Mom asked Dad to call me Sunday and ask me to come and spend the night, as she'd been having a very rough day. I found my two sisters there watching a movie, so was surprised that Mom had called me. When I went into her room, where she was in bed, she said "I just wanted you" and started to cry, saying "I'm such a big baby." She hadn't been able to sleep most of the day and could get no relief. I worked her feet and hands and brought her some morphine tablets (more than she wanted but I pushed her to take them) and she seemed to settle down and get to sleep, finally. The foot massages relax her, she says.

It feels like I am the mother and she is the child. I kiss her tears and call her "little girl" and try to gather her up in my arms.

Then I go sit with my dad in front of the TV. He is drinking rye and water from a small wine goblet, and tells me again that he doesn't hold out hope for Mom's survival, that he expects her death to be sooner rather than later, that she is his best friend, that she is such a good person it should be him instead of her, he has done and thought things he feels so bad about. He cries, which I have never seen, and I tell him these are normal feelings and he has been a good husband and friend to her and he is doing as well as can be expected under these circumstances... very well in fact, though he may not realize it. I hope the next day he is not embarrassed to have shown me his vulnerability. I feel honoured by both of them needing and trusting me.

And that's where things are at with me. When I wake up in the night, it's to find Mom and Dad on my mind. I haven't been there since Monday morning, though we speak on the phone each day and they know they have only to say they want me and I will go over. Joan has been there, and Karen. I'm picking Mom up from her clinic treatment today and will spend the afternoon with them. Dad's aunt is flying in from northern Alberta and I hope her company will do him some good.

Scott is here and I am very happy about that, I don't feel so alone now, the house seems warmer and the boys, especially Everett (or at least it is noticeable with him), are glad that he's here too.

So I must get myself presentable and prepared to get going. I've been putting in a lot of working hours at the computer this week and want to squeeze some more time in before I leave, since I won't be home till this evening. I've had no time to write much, might even copy this letter into the journal, kill two birds with one stone. I haven't had much time to write lately, and very little time alone.

I remember when your friend had the brain tumour wasn't it and was in the Edmonton cancer clinic. She was one of the first people I practised healing visualization on. When I had finished, I had her pictured in my mind, and beside her was her guardian angel. Before I "left" her I asked him/her (I don't remember now) to cure her and the guardian angel shook his/her head, as if to tell me that your friend was going to die. I remember being angry, thinking "Then what am I putting the effort into this for, if she's just going to die anyway?" It was my first lesson in this kind of spiritual work -- that we don't get to decide another person's life -- or death -- path. We don't have the power over life and death, no matter how faithful we are at our healing practices.

Well I'll go. I'm doing all right, really. I started doing hatha yoga again at the beginning of the month and the core of strength is already making itself felt.

email:

Sunday, Nov. 21, 2004
11:33 a.m.

There seems to be no time to write these days. Let's blame it on having a man around, one who is taking a break from the neverending work he's been doing for the past two years, and doesn't quite know what to do with himself when there is no labour demanding his attention.

He occupies himself by flipping the channels on the TV in the room behind me while I put in my working hours here on the computer; we have cable here, not the two fuzzy channels we get back on the farm. So in spite of the irritating overabundance of commercial interruptions in programming, there is also endless possibility. You just never know what might be on, eh?

It has been nice to have a companion. He wasn't one when we were on the farm, because he was always working or so exhausted that he was sleeping. Now he's rested up and finding time on his hands; we can go for a walk that isn't filled with conversation about what needs to be done next on the farm or what hasn't been done right. We shop for groceries together, and he has made supper almost every evening. The kids and I think it's great to have him at the table with us for meals.

All three of us are really, really happy that he is finally here.

The photo above was taken when my brother-in-law's mom was here from Scotland; that's her on the left. She's sitting next to my niece Jordan, then Everett with baby Gracie on his knee (she was here with my cousin and aunt, from Saskatchewan), then Mom at the other end of the couch. You'll recognize Emil on the right.

Sometimes it is almost embarrassing to have my 16-year-old son insist on kissing me (repeatedly) goodnight while ignoring everyone else in the household. If he was six it would be cute that he behaves as if he has a crush on his mother. Now that he’s a teenager, it teeters on the edge of perverse.

I know, I know ... he’s a little kid in a young man’s body, that’s all. But occasionally it is difficult to reconcile the two.

One night last month as Karen and I sat in a Dairy Queen eating burgers for supper, I saw a red and white half-ton with a white topper drive by. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest, for that is what Scott drives. Of course, I knew he was still at home in Saskatchewan, but for that split second ... I was pretty excited.

Every day I looked at his picture, set up as wallpaper here on my computer screen, and felt a sweet surge of affection at the sight of his sad smile on the morning the boys and I left Saskatchewan at the end of August.

Last Tuesday night, after Emil was feeling himself again and I'd taken up the spewage where he left off, I was laying in bed listening to Everett and my niece Jordan out in the kitchen. The cordless phone was beside me on the night table and I thought it might be a good idea to have Everett return it to its base in the living room. At the same time I'd give him instructions not to wake me, if I were lucky enough to fall asleep, unless it was Scott calling from Calgary.

Before long I heard footsteps walk up to the side of the bed. They were too heavy to be Jordan's, and sounded heavy for Everett's too, but they definitely weren't Emil's.

"Everett?" I said, face buried in my pillow. There was no answer, which seemed strange because surely I'd have heard the footsteps leaving the room. However, I was in a state, so you never know, I thought.

Then I heard the footsteps near the bed again. "Everett?" I asked again, turning over, thinking I'd have to give him hell for making me stir up the contents of my belly. But no. Standing there grinning at me in the dark was Scott.

"You!" I said, and pulled him down onto the bed. He'd seen a break in the weather and hit the road around noon.

email: