My mom

Posted on Friday, November 10th, 2006 at 3:14 pm

What follows is a rather long account of my mom’s battle with breast cancer which ended with her death on September 8th 2006. Why did I write this? Because I never want to forget.

Her name is Valerie Thomas.

My mom passed away September 8th 2006 from a variety of things. Lung cancer, liver cancer, bone cancer and the the big cause of it all – breast cancer. What she finally died of I don’t know, she was never in any pain, if she was, she hid it well. Death came knocking quickly after the diagnosis, 6, 7 short weeks? I don’t remember. Personally I think that one chemo caused her body to shut down, it was to strong, knocked her for a loop – Tis a bastard that Chemo.

The timeline - hmm, 5 years ago, August 2001 (what a friggin year that was huh?), she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. One breast removed completely, a couple of lymph nodes and 6 chemos later she was on the road to recovery.

5 years passed – almost to the day – we were lulled into a false sense of security, the cancer was forgotten by us, by her…I don’t know, she never mentioned it, I don’t know if she thought about it, I don’t know if she feared it would return – for us at least it was like it never happened. She went for her yearly mammograms, a few check ups, a poke here, a poke there; Great Mrs. Thomas, everything is fine, see you in a year

April 2006 – Both parents flew to New York to spend Easter with us. Not that Easter was a special occasion, but being a teacher it’s a 2 weeks holiday for me, two weeks of no school and the perfect time for visitors. The perfect time to go shopping, sight seeing and vegging.

The weather was gorgeous, it was beautiful spring – spring had sprung so to speak, a wonderful visit. When they arrived the trees were bare, 10 days into their stay the new buds on the trees were a pale green and cut into the sparseness of my garden like a rainbow rising – you couldn’t ignore the beauty. There was colour all around.

Both my parents spent a lot of time in my back yard, watching squirrels, commenting on how quiet it was. They relaxed in the yard and talked for hours.

We visited the city, lunched at the seaport, shopped in NJ and walked the boardwalk at South Beach – it was a good time all round. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to give us a hint of what was to come. I think that’s what pisses me off the most that lack of warning – shit happens.

She caught a cold in June, a cold that wouldn’t go away. persistent cough, general feeling of crappiness and 3 visits to the doctor’s office – Dr. Davis, I think you’re an ass – and she got worse. Even when she was wheezing, the doctor didn’t send her for any test, with her history you’d have thought, but I can’t start the blaming game again can I, this is about my mom.

By July it had gotten so bad, she was having to stop several times to catch her breath when she went shopping, and eventually my brother insisted she went to the doctors again. She was admitted immediately to the hospital. What a friggin joke that was, they thought the shortness of breath was due to a blood clot on the lung and had her on blood thinners for a week before performing the correct tests (that’s the British health system for ya) and finally diagnosing the lung cancer – and no, she never smoked.

After that, everything was pushed up a notch. CT’s MRI’s, there was always a specialist popping in (probably due to my huge official complaint, but that’s another thing I won’t dwell on or go into…) The cancer had spread. What cancer! was my first question since she’d had her 5 year check up early on in May and she got the “congratulations Mrs. Thomas, you’re cancer free” did someone sneak in one night when she was sleeping and sprinkle cancer dust over her, how can you be told you’re cancer free then two months later be told you have terminal cancer in your lungs, liver, breast, bone and more than likely it’ll spread to your brain?

She went home, the local hospice were called in, the house was filled with medications and oxygen tanks – she was told she needed to be on oxygen 15 hours a day. I talked to her everyday, other than the fact she was just downright pissed off at not being able to do anything, she was in good spirits. The phone calls never lasted more than 10 minutes, 10 minutes of talking produced coughing fits, she was pissed off at that to.
My mom’s a trooper, she dealt with her new invalidity as best she could and refused to lay back and veg. Every time she she got a spurt of energy, she was up making the beds, dusting – then she’d be gasping for breath and spend the next few hours immobilized in bed – damn she hated that.

My dad didn’t cope so well. He treated the situation as a temporary thing, did what he had to do, tired himself out but convinced himself everything wold be fine, a couple of chemos and radiation later, she’d be back dusting and shopping.

It never happened. They were told the cancer was treatable, but terminal. “How long?” my dad asked “Could be 3 months, 6 months, a year, two years” the doctor answered. My dad held onto that two years, never once considering the alternatives.

I had a conversation over the phone with her hospice nurse shorty after, and was told, 9 months, probably much, much less. I was on the phone holding onto my husband for dear life during that conversation. I knew, really, I’d done the research on the internet, I knew 2 years wasn’t even close. Her voice droned on and on, and the tears wouldn’t stop. That was hard.

I told my brother, he wanted to tell my dad, my mom nudged him off – “I’ll tell him in my own way” she said. She never did, I don’t think at this point she knew it was so dire – It would take another two weeks before she realized the severity of her condition.

Should I fly home, should I wait, would I be able to afford to fly back and forth indefinably? Should I take the little one when I went, what about my new job, what about Matthew? New school, new teachers, 8th grade_ – very important year – could we cash in some mutual funds just in case? It was hard.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, go home, worry about the financial part of it later. Every second counts!

“Should I have the chemo?” mom asked. This was right after her 5 radiation treatments to try and shrink the huge tumor on her bronchial tube, the sucker that was the cause or or shortness of breath, and the reason she was needing all that oxygen.

I didn’t know what to say. I knew it was a strong dose, I knew she’d feel crappy, her nurse had hinted to me it would come down to a quality of life issue.

“Have the one” I said, “If it knocks you down, don’t have any more, it’s up to you ma, it’s a decision you have to make”

BAH! what a fucking cop out. I thought she’d had it before and did good, 5 years ago she dealt with it, she was fine – I really thought this time would be ok to. I knew it wasn’t a cure, but if it prolonged her life what the hell – go for it. I really didn’t give the quality of life issue another thought. I figured it’s only one chemo, have bad could it possibly be?

A week before the chemo, she asked me to come home. she apologized for asking- can you believe that, my mom apologized for interrupting my life. I’ll be honest, I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to deal with what I knew my dad had been dealing with. It’s easy to be brave at a distance, to see it first hand was somsthing I didn’t relish.

September 2nd – I went into see her first. I lay on the bed next to her and stroked her arm, she held my hand and smiled. IT was good to be home, she was happy I was home, I think she felt safe and content as I lay beside her.

She was over the moon to see Conor , disappointed Matthew couldn’t make it, very disappointed, but she didn’t let it show. Matthew was her first grandchild, she loved him dearly. She kept glancing at his photo on the wall, and commenting how much he’d changed over the last year. Matthew was a young man now, he no longer had that baby look. I knew she was wishing he was there, but what could I do?

Then there was Conor, she couldn’t take her eyes off the kid, even when he jumped on the bed and threatened to topple everything on it, she was overjoyed to see him. Every time we walked up the stairs he ran in to see her. I see nanna, I hug nanna, I say night night to nanna – all music to her ears. Bringing Conor was worth it I think.

The next few days were tough.

Monday was spend by her side when I got 5 minutes time from conor. We talked, we laughed, she asked questions, she complained about not being able to do the things she wanted. The stair lift that was installed 5 days prior to my visit gave her the ability to join us downstairs for a couple of hours, be part of ‘life’. She drifted in and out of sleep as she sat on the sofa, but there wasn’t any place else she wanted to be. Watching Conor play, watching us carry on with everyday life gave her pleasure.

Tuesday she got this spurt of energy. My dad helped her dress, she rode down that stair-lift with a purpose – she had a mission, she wanted us all to go grocery shopping. Oh my Lord, I so did not want to go grocery shopping, we all complained. She was upset, so we complied, and all piled into the car. Me, mom, dad my brother and Conor.

It was quite entertaining, I pushed her around Tesco in the wheelchair, stopping briefly to talk to friends she hadn’t seen in a while, she was happy. She threw things in that cart we didn’t need, things we already had in the house and I kept telling her – “mam, we have those” but she insisted. I know now she knew she was close to death, she was stocking up on things we’d soon run out of, things she knew my dad wouldn’t think to buy. I just wish she’d have given me a hint.

We came home from the store and she was exhausted, but plonked herself down on the couch. “Ma, why don’t you go up to bed for a while and rest, I’ll help you back down later if you want?” So off she went. That was the last time she used that stair lift.

She never felt right the whole time I was there. Her night gown was always wet with sweat, but she never felt warm, always clammy.

Tuesday night I had to call the doctor to come out, she was terrible. She was disorientated, she had no strength, she couldn’t make it to the portable toilet we had next to the bed, she was so helpless.
Helping her off the bed – she was dead weight in my arms. It’s funny though, I’m only 100lbs soaking wet, but unlike my dad who seemed to struggle, she didn’t feel heavy to me. She cried in my arms as I held her on the edge of the bed and helped her to the toilet. Christ, I don’t know how I managed to stay calm and not breakdown myself. I smoothed her hair, told her everything would be ok, kissed her cheek and comforted as much as I possibly could. I’m good at that, I have a 3 yr old who’s always scrapping his knees.

I don’t know what conversation my parents were listening to, but they hear words from the doctor that I didn’t , and I was right there in the room.

That night she turned the oxygen machine off. the minute it stopped I got out of bed. “what are you doing” I asked. “Going to try without the oxygen tonight” she said.

WTF, why would you do that, “the doctor said I didn’t need it” says she, “and your dad has difficulty sleeping with the noise”

Again, not sure what friggin conversation she was listening to, but I can vouch for the doctor, he did not say “you don’t need oxygen”. What he did say was he didn’t see anything in her charts saying she needed oxygen, but since she had the unit in the house, it was pretty obvious, and he saw no reason why we couldn’t get the portable oxygen unit. I know I’ve jumped around a little here, but the jist of the conversation was, why couldn’t they get the portable unit.
Whatever, nothing I said convinced them to turn the oxygen back on.. I went to bed. She was without oxygen all night, her blood levels by morning must have been critical… it was the beginning of the end.

Wednesday I was really annoyed. The nurse, Kim, who had been taking care of my mom, calling or phoning everyday had gone on a 3 week vacation. What a friggin time to go on vacation. I was home, but I spent a lot of time going through paper work, checking the meds, making sure she was taking what she was suppose to, consulting the notes Kim had left, and trying to make sense of the stuff my mom had put down.

There had to be a schedule written down. Schedules were good, before I left I’d have to design one for my dad. Monday shopping, Tuesday laundry, Wednesday dusting. He was trying to do shit all in one day. Duh!

I called the hospice, we needed a nurse, any nurse, someone who could explain the rapid decline. Someone who could explain to this woman the importance of keeping the oxygen going.

Can’t remember who showed up, but it’s really annoying when they don’t know the particulars, Kim knew what was going on, but she was away. The visit was uneventful, she asked the same thing as everyone else, “are you taking the liquid morphine?” no my mom would say, I’mnot in pain. the fact it would help her relax and thus help with the shortness of breath was lost on her.

I gave it to her after the nurse left.

She had a crappy day, in and out of sleep, very weak, a few bathroom accidents, a change of clothes, a change of bedding, some visitors and I slowly notice her appetite decline.

That night I heard my dad get up with her twice, I didn’t know how long he would last – he certainly wasn’t getting much sleep.

Thursday after spending time the previous days on the phone with various people and agencies, we finally got a portable oxygen tank delivered. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, little did I know it was an oncoming train… but at the time we were estatic, she could go out in the car and not worry about being without oxygen for to long and hense cutting down on the anxiety. I was rather worried about her trip to get fitted for her wigs, it would be a long day.

She was proud as punch I’d gotten it for her, something the doctors and the hospice failed to do after numerous phone calls to the same people I’d spoken to. She was always proud of me was my mam, even when she couldn’t put it into words, she beamed when I did something ‘cool’. She was proud of my brother to, although if you listen to him talk you’d swear she abandoned him as a baby.

See, she gave me more attention when we were young since I was a total pain in the ass, and I needed it. She figured I would be the one she’d spend her life worrying about; she focused on trying to keep me on track. My brother on the other hand seemed to have everything under control when he was a kid. I survived my precarious childhood and didn’t need the attention as I got older. In the past few years the tables were turned, she spent her days showering her attention and focusing her days on my brother. He didn’t seem to cope with adult life very well, couldn’t catch a break.

Anyway, where was I… Thursday. I don’t remember the day to well, she wasn’t herself more tired than usual if that’s possible and come the afternoon, she had no appetite, it was enough for my dad to get her to drink liquids. My dad and brother had bought a juicer when she was first diagnosed, and they pumped fresh juice down her and themselves for two weeks straight. Who knew carrots and apples made a delicious drink?

Around 7pm that evening, my real mom made an appearance. Her cheeks had colour, there was sparkle in her eyes, she was smiling. After putting Conor to bed I plonked myself down on the bed next to her with my laptop, we surfed the internet looking for turbans and scarves. She wanted something for when her hair fell out. Wigs made her head sweat, and she didn’t like the lot she’d gotten 5 years ago. They just didn’t help her look like her.

She tutted at the prices, and joked how my dad would have a flying fit if he so how expensive the ones she liked were. I remember telling her not to worry, she could have what she wanted. I don’t remember offering to pay, but I think she knew I would.

About every 10 minutes I kept having to get up and put Conor back to bed, he was in and out of the room like a flippin yo yo. She smiled, and thought it cute, I was getting pissed cause he was cutting into my ‘mom’ time.

My dad came up briefly to see if she was ok, told her he was going down stairs to watch a tv program – something he’s beating himself up about now. He seems to think if he had been there, she would have been ok

She got a phone call from my aunt Hillary…the conversation seemed to go on forever so I got up and went in to bother my brother. 15 minutes later I came out, the phone was on the bed and she was fast asleep. I left her, she looked peaceful… that was the beginning on the end.

IT must have been an hour later when my dad came up and asked if he should wake her since she hadn’t taken her morphine, I said no, let her sleep – what a fucking idiot, maybe if he’d tried to wake her like he wanted to she would have woken up got the morphine and this story would have a different outcome.

Paul went to bed, dad went to bed and so did I. An hour later my dad came in and told me she was breathing really heavily, what did I think? I didn’t try to wake her, I quickly took her temperature even though she didn’t feel hot…just clammy. It was high, so I called the nurse. Told her about the heavy breathing, told her about the high temperature – she came right up.

She tried to wake my mom, I tried to wake my mom, dad, Paul…we all tried. My dad an brother went down stairs, the nurse had that look. When she turned to me she had a tear in her eye and she shook her head. “This is it Lynne, she’s in a coma, I need to get the doctor on call here”, she said.

What in God’s name was I going to tell my dad?

By now she had what I later came to learn was the ‘death rattle’, and as long as I live I never want to hear that again.

I chickened out on telling my dad the dreaded news, I told my brother instead. He told my dad – the next time went upstairs he was laying beside my mom, crying, whispering in her ear – “It’s ok my flower, the doctor’s coming, it’ll be ok, come on my love, wake up. Come on flower, you can’t leave yet, the boys need you…”

I swear to God I didn’t know what love was until that moment.

To be continued… since it’s really difficult to write.

For those wishing to donate in memory of my mom, my dad would be proud to receive the cards: