First off, I've prayed a lot on the subject and for the young woman and for her family. I prayed for healing no matter what her decision was about moving to a place that legally allowed her the right to choose to end her suffering. Cancer in itself is a terrible word. It has done nothing but shatter and mold and change my life. You see, I'm the daughter of a two time cancer surviving mother, and I was the sole caretaker for my beloved father who passed from terminal cancer. I have a perspective that I know many people can share in understanding. I know many people who have been affected by the diseases in so many ways. It seems as though everyone knows someone who has heard that dreaded C-word come into their life and completely rock their world.
I have to state that having a parent with cancer or in my case two single parents, is different than the experience someone may have had with their family. I have always felt that it's different when it's in your house. I'm not talking about the house you grew up in and occasionally go back to visit. I'm talking about day in and day out, 24/7, being a caretaker. I've done it not just once but 3 times and at one point it was in two different states. I'm sharing my story for no other reason than I want to help someone, any one human who is going thru something difficult. I want them to know that given the current social discussion, I wouldn't have changed a thing.
My mother was first diagnosed with Colorectal Cancer in the Summer of 2005. I was in Italy, Venice to be exact, when I was on the phone with her and first sensed something was wrong. I had just left my job, and was traveling thru Italy and Spain with my father for a month. I had a gut feeling something was seriously wrong. Her diagnosis came as a shock to my system but by the time I had returned to the US, I was aware that whatever it was, I would take it day by day. She had waited until my second day back to tell me what was going on. By then, she had already had a plan with her team of doctors. None of us were really sure what was going to happen. Thru tears, we decided we would still find humor in life and laugh when we could to get thru whatever we were up against. When it's in your home, you live it too.
I had been accepted to Pastry School in New York and knew there was no way I was leaving at that point. I called the school and deferred my enrollment to the next term. From the time I landed in early July until the day I got on a plane to move to New York, my focus was my mother.
It sucked for me, and it sucked even more for her going thru treatment. Radiation and chemo, then surgery, followed by more chemo. The days were long, we were at the doctors offices five days a week, for hours at a time. I got to know all of the other patients and their families. Inevitably, there would be families that would stop showing up and you just knew. You just knew. It was heartbreaking, but I also witnessed so much courage.
My mom was often so frazzled by the whole situation and the stress of it that she couldn't understand or comprehend what the doctors were saying. It was tough to see such a smart strong woman, in such a state. She was never weak minded though at times the stress was overwhelming. I remember certain nights where I would awake to her screaming in pain after the portacath was sergically inserted. It was awful. Somehow we managed to find things to laugh and smile about. She has always told me, "If you're born to hang, you're not going to drown." Meaning, trust God's plan and let go of the worries you have about things that are out of your control. I live this way.
Doctor's gave her a 10% chance of making it five years. She laughed at that, did the treatments and surgeries, and by December, I was on a plane to New York to attend school. I flew back to California every other weekend while I was in school. There were many times that I had to be home to take her to appointments. At this point she was told the treatments and surgery were successful and was wearing a chemo pump for the "insurance treatment" as we called it. Just to make sure it wouldn't come back.
Several years later, I was on the phone with my father while I was at work. It was a mid-July morning, and I asked him what he was doing and he casually mentioned he was leaving chemo. Seriously, like he had just dropped off his dry cleaning casual, he said, "leaving chemo". My heart fell out of my body. He had just bought his dream home in Tennessee. I had been out to visit for a few weeks, about six weeks prior, after having tracked him down in the hospital there. At the time we didn't think anything was that dreaded term, cancer.
He assured me it was nothing to worry about and a few days later I had made arrangements to be on a plane.
Three years ago, August 8th, I arrived in Tennessee with a single suitcase. I was ready to face anything and had planned to stay as long as necessary, but had assumed it would be a couple of weeks as he went through treatments. I never left. I started my Girl Meets Tennessee Blog as a way to pass the time, and get my mind off what was really going on in our house. It was a welcome distraction for both of us. Such a precious and special time to be with my father.
By September, shortly after his 70th birthday, we were told it would be his last. They were stopping treatments, he should go do what makes him happy and enjoy his time. He asked how long. He pressed for an answer his doctor didn't want to give him. He was told 3-4 months from the initial diagnosis. It was a lot to take in.
In early October, my mother's youngest sister was found dead from a pulmonary embolism.
Days later, after seven years of survival from colorectal cancer, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It had no relation to her prior diagnosis.
There it was, my father was terminal, my aunt passed, and my mother had her second kind of stage 3 cancer. No one knew my father was terminal. He chose to continue to live his life. He didn't want people to treat him differently. He didn't want pity or awkward conversations. He was sick. We knew there would come a day where he would leave me behind to return to a healed and whole state in Heaven. He agreed to meet me where the music plays.
My father lived thru some very difficult experiences with his illness. There were awful days and falls that would lead us to the ER on a regular basis. I knew everyone in the hospital. They were so kind to us and he loved going to see his girls whenever he would have to go get fluid drained from his abdomen to relieve the constant build up that had been causing discomfort and difficulty breathing. More importantly though, there were good days too. Right up until the very end.
We met some amazing people through our hospice program. As hard as our situation was, we lived without regret. He was always joking until he didn't have anything more to laugh about. I knew then. I just knew. Things changed swiftly at that point. I found myself on auto-pilot, grief stricken, exhausted, heartbroken, yet I was still hopeful and full of love.
I miss him every day. I love that we were able to spend those months together. He far outlived the 3-4 month estimate for his life and we shared Christmas and a Valentines Day too. I wouldn't have been able to function after what we went through had things been different. I know he didn't want to suffer or see me upset but he loved me and I loved him no matter what we had to deal with regarding his illness.
As for my mother, she's pretty happy to see her granddaughter now. She was told grim things and decided to fight. My father fought as well. My daughter has her granddaddy's eyes. I'm certain had things gone down a different path, I would not have met my husband and have my precious daughter.
While I respect the state laws, I'm grateful for my family that we never had to have that kind of discussion. I also don't smoke pot. For me, there are all kinds of things that are legal in certain places that I choose not to participate in.
My heart aches for anyone who hears the word cancer. A terminal diagnosis though can be a beautiful time filled with love and memories and a legacy of strength and learning.
