Wrong Answer
Wednesday, October 13, 2010 at 11:08AM I haven't written a post for about 3 weeks.
Not physically anyway. In my head, I've written dozens. Afraid to be either too optimistic or pessimistic, I've left them there instead of tapping them out here.
Today is different though. Today I know.
Yesterday started the way any other Tuesday does after a holiday weekend; sleepily with a wish to languish in bed a little longer and cuddle with my family. And even with the guarantee of a short week, the morning still felt like a Monday. Added to that work week melancholy though, was the dread. Today mom was going to have to call the oncologist / surgeon and press for answers. The PET was done on the 6th. We knew her doctor would know everything by now.
My mom didn't have to call.
The receptionist called me.
"Karen, the PET results are back. Dr. H wants to see your mom today if possible. You should come with her."
At that moment, I knew. I just knew we got the call yesterday instead of Friday because Dr. H didn't want to ruin our Thanksgiving by calling with this request before the weekend. I left work shaking, hoping I'd have strength to hear bad news, but hoping for a miracle... I wanted to be wrong.
The drive to the city is 90 minutes. It felt like hours.
I cried first. The really ridiculously good looking student doctor that Dr. H brought in with her, yet failed to introduce handed me a box of rough hospital kleenex after Dr. H looked squarely at my mom and said "I don't have good news..." I welled up immediately and before I even realized I was crying, the intern got up to get the kleenex. I kind of wondered if that's what he had planned to do when he came in for what must have been a lesson in "How To Tell Someone They Are Going To Die". He came in so awkwardly. He said hello. He put both hands in his pockets. He took them out and kind of fumbled around looking for an auspicious place to be for the next few moments. But the instant a tear pushed past my lashes, he was on kleenex duty.
Dr. H was magnificent. She was gentle, yet direct and honestly, it looked like she was ready to cry too. It was so very sad. She explained the the PET scan showed cancer through the lymph nodes all the way up to her shoulder and believes she saw a small spot on my mom's lung.
"I'm sorry. I can't fix you." There's nothing more awful than hearing that from a surgeon. Dr. H has said that my mom now won't have any surgery at all. It will cause "life shortening complications." The melanoma is now stage iv metastatic. There is no way to stop it, there is nothing that will cure her. Cancer is going to win. We just don't know when.
Statistically, melanoma at this stage offers about 9-12 months. With treatment, she could do better, but there are no guarantees. The focus is being put solely on QUALITY of life. The plan involves a new doctor, radiation to slow the cancer down and immuno-therapy. All in an effort to make my mother more comfortable.
We're all a mess at home. It's a shock. My mom and I did a LOT of crying and hugging and just being together yesterday. I can't stop crying. My mother and I are so close and I still need her. I'm not ready for her to go. She's still here, but I miss her already. Terribly. My heart and soul are devastated. I need to find strength for her though.
So today I know. I have the answers. They aren't the one's I want, but I am going to make the most of them. It will be hard, but I HAVE to switch focus and make every single day count for my mother. Every day we have now is a gift and we are going to cherish every moment.
Reader Comments (13)
I was hoping / wishing / praying so hard that it wasn't going to go this way Karen. If I could change it all, I would but all I can offer is long-distance love and support to you.
"Every day we have now is a gift and we are going to cherish every moment." <-- yes yes and YES.
xoxo
My heart is breaking for you and your family. You are being so amazingly strong Karen, I am proud of you.
I am so so so sorry. I wish there was something we could do to make this better for your family. So much hugs and love coming at you. xoxo
I'm so, so, sorry. I wish I had words to make it all better.
How beautiful you recognize the gift of your mother's last days.
I am so so sorry. I wish I could say something that would make you feel better but I know there is no such thing. I'm sending you lots of prayers and hugs.
I am so sorry. I have no magical words, but I hope you find an amazing oncologist who can give her relief and quality of life. Thinking of you and her. xo
I'm so very, very sorry, Karen. I don't know what to say. I know it's not much, but you're all in my thoughts and prayers. Sending so much love.
xoxo
i'm so sorry. lighting a candle for the both of you tonight.
Damn it Karen. I am so very. very sorry. I have been thinking of you a lot and sending you good thoughts. I wish I could offer more than virtual hugs. Of course if there is ever ANYTHING don't hesitate to ask.
I am junk punching cancer over and over again for you. I know it's not the same, but we just found out Mike's gpa is stage 4 pancreatic cancer. He was already stage four when we found out, so I totally understand that gobsmacked feeling. Watching my MIL go through this is heartbreaking. Just as my heart is breaking for you.
Tons of love and hugs mama. XOXOXO
Wrapping my arms around you and holding on tight. My heart goes out to you, your mom and entire family. Take this time to live life to it's fullest and create beautiful memories.
I'm so sorry and I wish I could give you a giant hug from a stranger/Twitter-friend... I know the shock well.
Your emphasis on living well is so right. My husband had a stage IV diagnosis and the two years we spent trying to beat it -- the denial part of it nearly killed me. Sadly, I know a lot more now about resources for helping folks face terminal illness and loss and hope I can share them to make your road easier than mine was. Sadly, there's no way to make it not hurt. Every experience is different, yes, but it can help sooooo much to know you're not alone and to learn about other families' experiences.
Bless you for looking at this straight and together, and please know I'll be here with resources and ideas whenever you're ready.
{{{{Giant internet hug}}}}
Supa
I never know quite the right thing to say in such hard times. Just know that I'm here, reading your blog and on twitter, and listening to whatever you want to share, good or bad. I'm sorry.
I love all of you and appreciate your support more than I could ever express. You make me feel cared for. Don't worry about finding the right words. Saying anything at all makes me feel surrounded and supported. Thank you.
Karen