Oh, August

As this month came with all of its anniversaries, I thought, oh, August, what will you have for me this year?

In the summer of 2019, my mother and I were fighting for our lives. In this picture below, she’s in hospice, her battle almost over. The date of this photograph is August 10th.

I was with her every day, and some were harder than others. On the day she passed, I remember standing outside her room and staring back at the window, knowing her body was still in there, yet she wasn’t. I pretended I was waiting on her to walk out of that place, tell me it had been a terrible mistake.

I went home, and took pictures of the moon that night.

Today, August 18th, marks the one year anniversary of her passing. August 26th, she would have been 84. ❤ 

One of my favorite pictures of her. Taken in August (of course) 2015.

Other “anniversaries” this month . . . in August of 2012 we lost our beloved little Yorkies, “the girls,” Bella and Kiwi. Bella, on August 2nd, and then Kiwi, on August 23rd.

It was August, 2nd 2017 I received my official cancer diagnosis, and began a rigorous treatment plan of chemotherapy and radiation that lasted into late October.

Oh yes. We’re very happy! Final chemo, October, 2017

They’re still there, helping people fight. The final radiation treatment, 30 in all.

Best card ever from my warrior sister, Keilah Goff.

                                                                          **************************************

Yesterday, August 17th, I was back at Duke Raleigh Hospital for my three month check-in. These have been ongoing since my diagnosis because the monster, a.k.a. as cancer, keeps wanting to rear its ugly little head up in new places, like my lung in 2018, and then my liver in 2019. When I started back on chemotherapy last summer for the liver metastasis, my final treatment was on August 23rd, the day after we had the service for Mom.

Since then, I’ve had three clear scans, November 2019, (PET) February 2020, (PET) and May of 2020, (CT). Clear scans in this case doesn’t mean there are no lesions, or nodules. Btw, everyone has these, unbeknownst to most of you unless tests are done and they’re  found, but it’s also important to note, most are benign.

I haven’t posted about the previous scans because cancer is tricky, and the results of tests are often a lot like riding the Tilt-a-Whirl, slinging you one way, good news! then the other, bad news! The results of a scan and what is said by the radiologists sometimes leave a bit up to interpretation depending on word choices. Things like “less conspicuous” and “less discernible,” or “not well seen,” can make you sit back and question, are they there or not? What does that even mean?

Basically, I decided to wait until I was one year post chemo treatment to do any sort of update because the longer things go with no change, the better. Yesterday’s scan shows “stability,” meaning the liver lesions seen have been there, and are unchanged. In the words of the radiologist to Dr. Smith, my oncologist, “their stability is definitely reassuring.” Are they cancer? We don’t know. The key word is “stability” because to the best of what I can gather no change means they could simply be benign.

Imagine. Some good news in August. Here I am looking a little tired, (typical writer appearance) but hey! Look! My hair came back. (!!!)

The capacity of the human will, the strength of a human body is never fully realized, until it is tested. 

I Wish

“They” say time heals all wounds. One can readily admit to the physical side of this. What takes longer is the emotional toll of watching one of the most important people in your life die from an aggressive cancer while locked in a similar battle of your own.

Then, they are gone, and there is the relief in knowing there is no more suffering, while harboring the conflicting emotion of wanting them here. Time goes on. Those mixed up emotions are accumulated, and held tight, sometimes locked down, imprisoned. Coveted. Pulled out. Put away again. It is cyclic. No one knows when the pattern will break, become less regimented, less invasive. Everyone is different.

I haven’t written out here since August. Thinking back to that month and what was going on, I can only shake my head. The head shaking – it’s partly wonderment at how we got through it, and partly denial, the “I still can’t believe any of this happened,” way of thinking.

I’ve spent a lot of time these past months dwelling on 2019. From my mother’s, “I’m having trouble swallowing, it feels like a lump in my throat,” to everything that happened after. I have one word for it. Surreal.

It seemed before I knew it, I was having my final moment’s with her, she was taking that one final breath, I was speaking final words to her. They were, of course, “I love you. I love you so much.”

So many endings this year. After she passed, I spent weeks at her house, packing up her belongings. It was hard, yet cathartic, in a strange way. I was with her, felt closer to her among her things. Before I would move an item, I’d have the thought, she put this here, she folded this towel, she put this dish away, she used this soap, she, she, she . . .

I told a friend, “I feel like I’m packing up her life.”

We sold the house. No longer can I go and play Scrabble with her, drink coffee. Talk. Laugh. (and yes, work my fanny off ’cause mom always had a list. Any of you reading this who knew her, knew she liked things a “certain” way.)

I wish she was here to give me a list. I wish she was here so I could call her. I wish she was here so I could hear her laugh – in real time – because yes, I can still hear her in my mind. I wish.

She was sick in this picture – but still wanted to . . . well. You know. Beat the pants off me.

The pastor at Hospice House asked me when we first arrived if I had any regrets. At that time, I said “No.” Now that I’ve done all this thinking, I will change that to “yes.” I regret she had cancer. I regret she couldn’t fight it. I regret the treatments didn’t work. I regret knowing how badly she wanted to live, yet how badly she wanted to die. I regret she suffered in her final weeks. I regret denying her the ability to talk to me honestly about her fears, her awareness of what was happening to her. THIS ONE most of all.

I thought I was protecting her by not discussing the whys and whats of this decision she’d made. I thought by not talking about that gigantic, overwhelming, trumpeting ELEPHANT in the room, she would continue to hope, to believe. I wanted her to think she was going to be okay, and she would drift off into her permanent sleep believing that.

I know now this is not how she thought. My mother was secretive about certain things. Maybe (most likely) she thought she was protecting me. So we did this dance of denial with one another. I’m not dying. You’re not dying.

What I don’t regret, could never regret. Being with her, every single step of the way.

 

How I remember her. Vibrant. Well. Happy.

I know the tone of the post may seem heavy, laden with sadness, awash with forlorn sentiments, but it’s really about reflection. The year is almost over. And while all may not be bright, we are filled with hope 2020 will be kinder, gentler, in every way possible.

This was one of her favorite songs. Like Elvis’s mother, Mom loved roses, and grew them in her yard. Sleep peacefully among your angels, Mom.

Love,

Me

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yglzDizF2aU