Death: of a blog, of a parent

It's been a very long time since I contributed to this blog. As most blogs go, they usually start out strong and then dwindle over time. I stopped writing once my life got insanely busy with all my travels as a Beer Girl. Then I stopped being a traveling Beer Girl and life just wasn't as interesting anymore when I was just reporting to an office everyday.

But life got interesting again recently, and not in a good way. I figure this is all too much to write in one go, so I hope to make a sort of series out of it. Where it started, how it felt along the way, and where I am now. I hope that it will include a real glimpse of what it's like to watch one of your parents pass away. Most of my friends my age haven't experienced it yet (thank God), but some have. Some much too early in life, and some twice over. This is for those friends, too. Perhaps a catharsis? A comparison to see what someone else did and felt and experienced? Take from it what you will, and I promise to give you a heart-breakingly honest account of my journey. It's not all heart-breaking, either. There are moments of incredible joy, profound love, and sincere laughter. I'll share all of it with you.

Part I - The Illness

My mom passed away at 4:14am on Tuesday, January 27, 2015.

I've gone back-and-forth throughout the past few months between wanting to scream to the world about what I'm going through, and also wanting to hold onto it all in an intensely private way.

No one and nothing could have prepared me for the loss of my mom. In fact, I still can't believe she's gone. I do believe it because I was there and watched her last breath pass between her lips, and yet, I just cannot believe it.

My mom was diagnosed with ovarian-ish cancer in the fall of 2012. I say "ish" because by the time they discovered it, it had metastasized to most parts of her abdomen. There's this thing called the peritoneum in your body--think of it like a thin, filmy sac that holds all your organs neatly in place. The cancer was peppered throughout that thing, as if you'd throw a handful of sand at it. Tiny specs, some microscopic. She had one larger tumor on her diaphragm-ish. They think the cancer started in her Fallopian tubes and spread from there, but it really doesn't matter where it all started. The point was, it was everywhere.

For those who don't know, when you get diagnosed with cancer, there's no long, gracious waiting period of talking and thinking and mulling things over. My mom started chemotherapy the same week she was diagnosed. Within days. Welcome to an entirely new existence.

I didn't know this until she went through it, but chemo treatments involve going to a doctor's office, getting hooked up to an IV, and draining a bag of chemicals and fluids into your body over the course of several hours. My mom was usually there for 6-8 hours, sitting back in a puffy leather recliner chair, surrounded by other women enduring similar treatments. She was in the Tuesday group. Sometimes Wednesday. She and those other women formed close bonds--they were witness to each other's darkest moments. They saw each other's family come and go. Cried. Laughed. Lived and died together.

The questions with cancer, I assume, must always be the same:
What kind is it?
Where did it spread to?
What will get rid of it?
How long do I have to live?

And the worst part about cancer is that No One can give you the answers to these questions. You enter into a world of being at the complete mercy of a disease you can't even see. Most the time, the best the doctors can do is say "it could be" or "there are cases where" or "everyone responds differently"...which is all to say..."I really just don't know."

The actual "fighting of the cancer" part lasted about 2.5 years, all told. It was as horrible as you think it was in your imagination, and yet in other ways, it wasn't so bad. Mom went through bouts of not eating, and losing her hair, and feeling really sick and staying in bed for days (weeks) at a time, but then she would have glorious moments of feeling almost completely normal. Her worst side effect was the neuropathy in her hands and feet. You know that prickly feeling you experience when your foot falls asleep? Ya, that feeling. That's what she felt all the time, and it never went away once it started. She continued working full time throughout her illness. She'd miss the occasional day for chemo, or if she felt totally knocked out. But she was, more or less, holding down a full time job.

My mom never explored "alternative" treatments. She went with the traditional "Western Medicine" approach the whole way. I, meanwhile, immediately ordered a book about alternative paths. Stuff that told me that cancer thrives on sugar so you have to eliminate it from your diet. And not to eat too many "cooked things" or "hot things," or be sure to take a shit load of vitamin ABC, followed by this crazy expensive fish oil extract homogenized......ya, I couldn't even keep track of everything I was reading. But it sounded like SOMETHING to me, instead of just "wait and see."

My brother and I were angry with my parents at first. Where was the FIGHT?! Where was the burning passion to do anything, at all costs, to stay ALIVE? What do you mean you'd rather have quality of life over quantity of life?! Oh, those conversations. To actually hear your mother struggle with that decision--how in the world do any of us know how to choose how to die? Because that's really what you're doing. You're not choosing how to live.

I felt we had too many DECADES left together for her to choose the shorter option, even if it sounded like it would feel better along the way. My mind filled with all those things you'd imagine I thought: I haven't even gotten married yet, Mom! You haven't met my unborn children, who will surely love you to pieces...and I promise I'm going to do some incredible things in life that I want you to SEE, that I think you'll be proud of. But you have to BE here. You have to fight to stay WITH us.

And yet, that was my perspective as a 20-something-year-old.. Turns out, life gives you a different perspective when you're 60-something and you get this sort of diagnosis.

Of course, everyone's path is different. Some folks fight tooth and nail with every trick in the Western Medicine and Whatever Medicine book. Again...no one knows the answer to your questions. Even those who have survived cancer can't quiiite tell you what exactly it was that beat it. Could have been the chemo. Could have been the radiation. Or maybe it was the diet & exercise. Or how about your spirit and determination? Perhaps it was your doctor. Likely, it was a combination of all of these things. Or even just sheer luck. But nobody knows.

I don't mean to sound judgmental of my mom. I was, for a time, But I'm over that now. Everyone has to make their own decision around their body and their body's illnesses. Her choice makes so much more sense to me now, looking back.

Before my mom lost her hair, she had it cut to match the wig she'd picked out. She refused to be bald--she didn't want to look sick, and she still had a sense of vanity. I guess I wouldn't call it vanity as much as dignity. Anyway, she took a photo in my parents' front yard by some purple flowers. Her smile is radiant, and pure, and perfect. It expresses everything about her we all loved--it is dancing with life and energy. She is beautiful.

A few months into her treatments, I remember getting a thick envelope in the mail one day from my mom--this was not unusual. I opened the letter to find that photo, with a note taped to the back. I pulled out that envelope just now to find the note, and realized that it's post-marked on her birthday--October 29th, 2012. My mom spent her 63rd birthday mailing out these notes to everyone she loved most in life.

Here's what the note said:

"I love this picture of myself!

I'm sending it to you as part of my grieving process. It is important for all of us to recognize that, in spite of our determination and positive attitudes, we have all suffered a loss with my recent cancer diagnosis. For me, it is a great and permanent loss.

When I look at this picture, I see the person I used to be, the person I was for over six decades, the person you have always known.

But things are different now and will never be the same again. I didn't even acknowledge this until I realized that I cried every time I looked at this photo. I cried for so much that is lost:

• My taking for granted good health and bodily strength
• Plans for the future that didn't include regular monitoring by my doctor
• Choosing how my hair (ha!) looks everyday
• Choosing whether or not to go into work or to a social event
• Spontaneously doing something fun with Don/Dad
• Living without fear

Difficult changes in life bring unexpected joy, knowledge, and appreciation. I remember someone telling me when I was in my 20s, 'We don't grow unless we experience pain.' I disagreed with her then, but forty years later, the words make more sense to me. (There is, however, the eternally positive part of me who still believes that we can grow through experience and joy, as well.) But through all this current loss and pain, I hope we can all grow and find unexpected rewards.

• We may value our time together in ways we never have before
• We may cherish small things that we barely noticed in the past
• We may reach out to others in new ways, in spite of our full and busy lives
• We may savor and even cultivate those quiet, contemplative moments when we are alone with our selves

It's time to move on to new photos, new memories and new plans for the future. They may not be what we've always conjured, but I want to embrace them. I still love all that this picture represents, but know that a new one will take its place. Thank you for walking with me on this journey."