Nov 26: Martha
It's 12:30 am, I should be going to bed. But that ain't going to happen right now. Picked Zerla up at vet hospital, got home, turned right around again. She's in terrible pain, being readmitted for a few days of pain control which is difficult when balancing her constipation issues from narcotics. It tore me up to see her agonized mewing and crying, unable to stand at all, her rear legs looked useless to me and it was terrifying. Having her there will be for the best. (Except for when the credit card statement comes in....)
What is prompting this early am posting however is my cousin-in-law, Martha. When last mentioned a couple months ago she was recovering from the thoracotomy in August which removed the lung cancer from her lower right lung after three months of chemotherapy had shrunk and stabilized the tumor. The surgeon and oncologist were very positive about the outcome, despite finding cancer cells in 1 of 8 lymph nodes and the pleural lining of the chest wall.
In early October she called me, very upset, telling me that she was having the same symptoms as she had before the diagnosis: weakness, extreme fatigue, drenching sweats at night, coughing. Additionally, there was a growth on her head, which she described as being around the hairline and walnut sized, not in the position to be a lymph node. She felt like she was being blown off, her doctors were not addressing her worry that it represented the cancer returning. She called me in part for medical advice, but even more because she knew that I wouldn't dismiss her concerns, wouldn't give her false platitudes that 'everything was going to be OK, everything is going to be fine'. She called me because she couldn't let on to John and the kids her terror, her worry, that was consuming her, because she knew that it was the cancer. Because no one else would give any credence, any acceptance to the possibility, allow her to talk about the worst case scenario. The dark uglies are worse when they just bounce around in your brain and aren't allowed out, for expressing in words you gain at least a modicum of control over them.
That next week the growth was biopsied and she was given a CT scan of the chest. I called John from the airport, while waiting for the flight to England. The biopsy was positive, as was the CT of the chest. The cancer was back, and had metastasized. She had already re-started chemo.
While in England, on my spiritual pilgrimage and celebrating my recovery, I was acutely aware of the specter of her prognosis. I left donations and prayer cards in most of the cathedrals I visited, prayed on the Tor and at Chalice Well. Hey, you never know who's listening. It was impossible to make sense of--I was the sick one who was supposed to be dead and instead was skipping around the English countryside while she, always hale and healthy, was having poison dripped into her and being bombarded with radiation to stop the spread of disease.
In talking with John several times over the last few weeks it was obvious that things were not going well. The chemo was really affecting her. I offered to come up to give whatever support possible, but she didn't want anyone around. There were no longer good days, but good hours and they were never predictable. At one point the scans showed a decrease in the tumor in her spine, the numbness in her foot was better. But the next scans weren't so good.
And she was withdrawing, didn't want people around, didn't want to exert the energy to converse, to interact. I had warned John and her about this--the turning inwards. I reminded her in that last conversation we had. You turn inwards first to fight what is happening inside you, then to hammer out an agreement with it, come to an understanding or compromise. In my experience it is one of the things that has to be done alone, no one can go with you, no one can relieve the pain of the admission to yourself of what is happening: you are dying.
John called this afternoon, left me a message to call, his tone let me know what his words didn't. I called back repeatedly, there was no answer at the house, left messages on his cell phone like a Twitter junky: "I'm on my way home, have the cell on." "I'm home" "I'm still at home, leaving in 2 minutes." "I'm in the car going to the vet's" There was only one explanation for his not calling back--I knew he was at the hospital. He called me at 9 pm, when I was on my way home with Zerla (before turning around and going back to the vet hospital again).
Martha had a really hard time with the chemo end of last week, started vomiting everything. They treated her as an outpatient, gave her bags of fluids. She needed a couple transfusions. She would improve, go home, then get bad again. Then Monday, just two days ago, she got much worse. She's gone dramatically down hill in the last 24-48 hours. She is conscious, but not very cogent. The doctor pulled John aside today and discussed DNR orders. The hospice consults were done today, will be back tomorrow, although they are not in place as of this minute. He says that the doctors are stunned, mystified at how rapidly this has happened, how very quickly this decline has come and how it is advancing.
John has truly risen to the occasion through all of Martha's illness. He is being thoughtful, strong, sensitive, asking the right questions, making excellent decisions--I am so incredibly proud of him. His voice broke when he told me that he was doing OK now, but wanted me to know because if he started to lose it he wants his father and me there to be the clear-headed ones. The kids don't know how bad it is, he will have to tell them tomorrow. How do you tell a 17 & 14 year old about something that you don't understand completely?
So I'm on stand-by, although with Zerla back in the vet hospital it clears any obstacle. My schedule was open in anticipation of taking care of her, so nothing much to cancel. Waiting to hear from John in the morning.
There isn't much any of you can do, except to keep Martha, John, Lyle and Emma in your thoughts and prayers. There isn't any question of the outcome, just the timing. And no matter when that is, it's going to suck.
Thanks for letting me vent, Laurie
What is prompting this early am posting however is my cousin-in-law, Martha. When last mentioned a couple months ago she was recovering from the thoracotomy in August which removed the lung cancer from her lower right lung after three months of chemotherapy had shrunk and stabilized the tumor. The surgeon and oncologist were very positive about the outcome, despite finding cancer cells in 1 of 8 lymph nodes and the pleural lining of the chest wall.
In early October she called me, very upset, telling me that she was having the same symptoms as she had before the diagnosis: weakness, extreme fatigue, drenching sweats at night, coughing. Additionally, there was a growth on her head, which she described as being around the hairline and walnut sized, not in the position to be a lymph node. She felt like she was being blown off, her doctors were not addressing her worry that it represented the cancer returning. She called me in part for medical advice, but even more because she knew that I wouldn't dismiss her concerns, wouldn't give her false platitudes that 'everything was going to be OK, everything is going to be fine'. She called me because she couldn't let on to John and the kids her terror, her worry, that was consuming her, because she knew that it was the cancer. Because no one else would give any credence, any acceptance to the possibility, allow her to talk about the worst case scenario. The dark uglies are worse when they just bounce around in your brain and aren't allowed out, for expressing in words you gain at least a modicum of control over them.
That next week the growth was biopsied and she was given a CT scan of the chest. I called John from the airport, while waiting for the flight to England. The biopsy was positive, as was the CT of the chest. The cancer was back, and had metastasized. She had already re-started chemo.
While in England, on my spiritual pilgrimage and celebrating my recovery, I was acutely aware of the specter of her prognosis. I left donations and prayer cards in most of the cathedrals I visited, prayed on the Tor and at Chalice Well. Hey, you never know who's listening. It was impossible to make sense of--I was the sick one who was supposed to be dead and instead was skipping around the English countryside while she, always hale and healthy, was having poison dripped into her and being bombarded with radiation to stop the spread of disease.
In talking with John several times over the last few weeks it was obvious that things were not going well. The chemo was really affecting her. I offered to come up to give whatever support possible, but she didn't want anyone around. There were no longer good days, but good hours and they were never predictable. At one point the scans showed a decrease in the tumor in her spine, the numbness in her foot was better. But the next scans weren't so good.
And she was withdrawing, didn't want people around, didn't want to exert the energy to converse, to interact. I had warned John and her about this--the turning inwards. I reminded her in that last conversation we had. You turn inwards first to fight what is happening inside you, then to hammer out an agreement with it, come to an understanding or compromise. In my experience it is one of the things that has to be done alone, no one can go with you, no one can relieve the pain of the admission to yourself of what is happening: you are dying.
John called this afternoon, left me a message to call, his tone let me know what his words didn't. I called back repeatedly, there was no answer at the house, left messages on his cell phone like a Twitter junky: "I'm on my way home, have the cell on." "I'm home" "I'm still at home, leaving in 2 minutes." "I'm in the car going to the vet's" There was only one explanation for his not calling back--I knew he was at the hospital. He called me at 9 pm, when I was on my way home with Zerla (before turning around and going back to the vet hospital again).
Martha had a really hard time with the chemo end of last week, started vomiting everything. They treated her as an outpatient, gave her bags of fluids. She needed a couple transfusions. She would improve, go home, then get bad again. Then Monday, just two days ago, she got much worse. She's gone dramatically down hill in the last 24-48 hours. She is conscious, but not very cogent. The doctor pulled John aside today and discussed DNR orders. The hospice consults were done today, will be back tomorrow, although they are not in place as of this minute. He says that the doctors are stunned, mystified at how rapidly this has happened, how very quickly this decline has come and how it is advancing.
John has truly risen to the occasion through all of Martha's illness. He is being thoughtful, strong, sensitive, asking the right questions, making excellent decisions--I am so incredibly proud of him. His voice broke when he told me that he was doing OK now, but wanted me to know because if he started to lose it he wants his father and me there to be the clear-headed ones. The kids don't know how bad it is, he will have to tell them tomorrow. How do you tell a 17 & 14 year old about something that you don't understand completely?
So I'm on stand-by, although with Zerla back in the vet hospital it clears any obstacle. My schedule was open in anticipation of taking care of her, so nothing much to cancel. Waiting to hear from John in the morning.
There isn't much any of you can do, except to keep Martha, John, Lyle and Emma in your thoughts and prayers. There isn't any question of the outcome, just the timing. And no matter when that is, it's going to suck.
Thanks for letting me vent, Laurie
posted by Laurie @ 12:33 AM
1 Comments:
At 11:05 PM,
Anonymous said…
Hi Laurie. Just checking in on your blog about Martha. This must be very draining for you, too, traveling back and forth to NY; but it is nice that you can do it to support your cousin.
Please do not take this the wrong way but what I don't understand is why everybody "battles" cancer. All the obituaries say "He died after a long battle with cancer." Does anyone not battle cancer but accept the inevitable? Is our society set up only to do battle with a mysterious disease for which there is yet no cure?
I think you touched upon an important note in the previous blog, that everyone has to confront it in their own way and accept their eventual death, and for most of us that is very hard, we can only think of ourselves as living human beings because that is all we have ever known.
I am sure Marth appreciates your support as does her family. Bless you.
Ruth
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