Much like April 24, 2014, June 17, 2014 stands out in my mind—and arguably far more. For much like that earlier day, June 17th seemed to open on an optimistic note. Mom and I were still in a great mood following the two-day visit of her sister and my cousins as Mom, Dad and I headed to her personal physician that Tuesday morning. It was another warm, sunny, if somewhat hazy and humid day. We didn't expect anything out of the ordinary; in fact, we continued to laugh and joke at the doctor's office even though the wait seemed excruciatingly long, lasting well over an hour. Perhaps this was the first sign that something was going to be off?
At any rate, her primary doctor noticed that her ankles were still swollen after 4 weeks. There was something odd about her blood cells which did not reach the appropriate INF level even with her daily dose of Coumadin: so he decided that she needed further blood tests and an ultrasound at the hospital, albeit reassuring us that everything would probably turn out fine since she looked so well otherwise. Along the way, there was another considerable wait and confusion as the cab driver did not know where to pick us up since the doctor’s office had two entrances. As we finally headed to the hospital, the clouds had begun to gather, with a few rays of light peeking through. By the time she had finished her blood test, it had become almost completely overcast.
Mom seemed OK, even though I could tell she was getting a bit tired: after all, she had become accustomed to her late afternoon naps. She really wanted to head back home, but she still needed to do her ultrasound. Again, we assumed everything was going to be mostly fine as she mentioned she was feeling a bit hungry—a good sign: as far as I was concerned, it was better than her having little or no appetite. We were already discussing what we wanted for dinner, eagerly contemplating some chicken with yogurt sauce.
Since I had no experience with ultrasounds, I had no idea how long it would take. Twenty, thirty, forty minutes passed by after she had been called in from the waiting room. And then the first of several blows fell. The results indicated that she had pulmonary embolism (PE)— and that she would have to go to emergency. By now, it was pouring outside. There was a brief checkup and we were told that we would only have to wait a short while for an EKG. We felt increasingly anxious as the hours passed: four hours later, Mom was getting desperately hungry; but because the doctors wanted her on an empty stomach and no one had any idea when they were going to be able to do the exam (something that still infuriates me to this day), she had to wait until well afterwards. We were all told, over and over again, they had “no idea when the doctor will arrive/we have no idea when the results will arrive." It was 9:30 pm when she was finally examined. I felt sick to my stomach as I heard some of the doctors laughing and joking amongst themselves, singing "Moon River” —all while there seemed to be so many patients in serious and critical condition lined up in the hallways because of the lack of rooms. In the meantime, they hustled all us into a narrow corridor, where there were two other beds with elderly patients. It wasn't until midnight that they got a private room for Mom. Dad and I followed as a few attendants came to wheel him to her room which was in a distant part of the hospital.
I will never forget the experience of walking down those long, dark, lonely hallways with them. It was so eerily quiet, interrupted only by the rattling of the wheelchair and the sound of empty elevators opening and shutting by themselves. There were dim lights in some of the patients’ rooms; as a horror scholar and aficionado, I half expected to see a corpse sit up: hospitals could be very creepy places indeed. (Perhaps that inspired Stephen King’s Kingdom Hospital, I couldn’t help but wonder.) The near silent walk seemed interminable. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something felt so foreboding, so wrong.
When we reached Mom’s room at last—actually, a nice one with a large window--we were informed that her PE and stroke was likely caused by cancer as preliminary x-rays detected something abnormal in her abdominal area. After all, gastrointestinal cancers tended to throw blood clots all over the body, the doctor explained. But they would have to do a closer examination later that night.
Not surprisingly, this was a rude shock—even if nothing was certain yet. When Dad and I arrived home, I discovered that not only was my iphone dead—completely shot and unchargeable—but that the lamp by my bed was shot too. No new lightbulb seemed to work. Gone, fini, kaput.
I didn't fall asleep until 3 am. I was exhausted and just falling asleep when our two cats came running to my room--something they had never done before at that hour. But I was too tired to pay much attention. I assumed they were just being frisky since we were out nearly all of yesterday. When I did wake up, I found a message from the hospital: the very time the cats, Charlie and Georgie, dashed into my room. No doubt they found it strange to hear the phone ringing at that time of the night. Or did they sense something was happening?
The message from the doctor explained that a filter was going to be inserted into one of her veins to help her blood flow. Then came the news I didn’t want to hear: "there's a high possibility that your mother has liver cancer as her cancer markers are up. She probably only has 6 months." Words cannot describe how I felt at that moment. As I sat in Mom’s favorite chair in the study, sinking my head into my hands, I felt faint and breathless. Not to be melodramatic, but this was the worst impending catastrophe of my life….a very different reaction from my reactions to rejections I’d gotten from grad schools or job applications. There could be no Plan X, Y, or Z here. There could be no substitute or replacement for Mom like there was for a school or a job. I sat there for a full ten minutes digesting the news even though I had originally intended to use this time to work on my book, whose deadline was quickly approaching. All those times when I suffered disappointment, Mom was always there: if not in person, then over the phone. Who will comfort me when Mom dies? And who will I turn to in trying times? As I will explain in future posts, I had never gotten along with Dad. Increasingly from my adolescence, he had become my nemesis—if not Mom’s as well even though she tried to deny it. With Mom’s death, I would have no one. No one to comfort me, no one to tell me how she of all people knew how brilliant I was, and how things would turn around one day. No one who would understand my dealings with racism, sexism, or anything else so fully. No one who would engage with my interests so thoroughly, from The Sound of Music to Nancy Drew, Little Women, the Narnia Chronicles, Mozart, Thomas Paine, and so much else. No one to accompany me to a Berlioz concert or a Michael Jackson movie. No one to soothe me when a relationship didn’t work out. No one, in other words, who would know, understand, and appreciate me so well. And above all, love me for what I was, warts and all.
As if the news of her cancer were not bad enough that morning, the fate of my phone turned out to be no better as the good folks at Apple Genius Bar informed me. There, too, the death knell sounded. My phone had evidently been killed by spilled water. This meant that many of my photos, including some amusing ones of Charlie asleep with my Mom in the same position, were probably gone too. I would have to get a replacement phone from my insurance. But of course, it would be no true replacement either without those precious photos.
It was hard to believe that Mom had cancer, more specifically, cholangicarcinoma—bile duct cancer—especially when the biopsy confirmed it. Even during the course of the ten days she had spent at the hospital, she seemed so alert and almost energetic were it not for the fact that she was in bed. As a matter of fact, she frequently wanted to sit up. And right after she was informed that she wouldn’t have much longer, she showed few signs of tiredness as she tearfully told me about the visits from two doctors that morning. One of them, a woman, was so mean. Mom suddenly burst out in tears, complaining, “She told me in the flattest voice, ‘You only have 3 to 6 months.’ The other doctor, a man, was more hopeful. He said I had 6 to 12 months.” I broke down as Mom sobbed, “But I don't want to die yet. I want to be with you and Dad. Why can’t I live too?” We hugged each other for the longest time, only stopping when a doctor entered the room to explain further measures for Mom. She appeared healthy enough for chemo, which could be started the following week. As if attempting to soften the blow of the bad news we were discussing, he added that Mom might have a year or longer, depending on how she reacted.
The only bright spot that afternoon was learning that Mom was being discharged from the hospital and returning home. I felt a thrill of delight, despite the desperate circumstances: maybe, just maybe we could defy the odds? And as I researched her cancer, I wanted to believe there was hope in spite of the downright abysmal prospects. If an 86-year-old woman who I read about was able to extend her life by three years despite the initial prognosis of one year, couldn’t Mom?
Oh, God, or which ever higher power is out there, I prayed, please give Mom another few years, please. She wants it and so do I. Mom has had a challenging life from the very beginning. So have I. She’s all I have—especially with my life as miserable and so full of questions as it is. The university constantly trying to undermine me regardless of my efforts. A textbook that seemed to be more difficult to write with each passing moment. Another writing project to complete at the same time. No friends nearby. And now the prospect of taking care of a father I had come to resent more and more over the years. And of course, money: how much would Mom’s illness cost? Could I get a second job? In short, there was only a bleak, precarious future to say the least. Please, God, don’t take her away from me.
But God or whoever else was in charge wasn’t listening. Or at least, He didn’t pick up the call—just like I hadn’t picked up the call the night the cats tried to wake me up.