Mom went to great lengths to make sure all of us were loved. That was the important thing. No matter what we were doing, what heartache we caused her, she always let us know we were loved. I think I can count on one hand the times I've heard her say the words "I love you" to me, in all my fifty years of life. That doesn't mean the love isn't there. It's just the words that aren't there. I didn't figure this out till late in life, unfortunately and rebelled against a mother who I thought didn't love me. I selfishly didn't look closely enough to see her pain, her insecurity and fear with intimacy. She wasn't treated well when she was a child and I think it all stems from that. Now that I understand that, I have forgiven her and allowed her to be the way she is - a loving, caring, over protective mother who doesn't have the ability to say those three words, in the same way she is not willing or able to hug or be hugged. Every once in a while I sneak in a quick "around the shoulders" hug and I can feel her body tense up underneath my arms so I let go fast and give her the space she needs. It always makes me smile these days because I understand. In the past I was always hurt and angry when Mom avoided intimacy like that.
Mom has Parkinson's Disease, congestive heart failure, colitis, diverticulitis, and now (we found out last month) she has the Inflammatory type of breast cancer... The kind that doesn't show up on a mammogram because it is in particle cells, not tumors. At the stage we caught the cancer it is inoperable, spreading across half her chest and the correlating pectoral area. The oncologist said it's in her breast lymph and when I asked him (I already knew the answer but still was hoping for a different answer) if the breast lymph are in the same system with her lymphatic system. Of course he said "Yes" and that's when my heart sank.
At Mom's age, 83, and with her other diagnosis's, it would be too risky to operate because she would have trouble healing with such a large area needing surgery. Chemo and radiation are out of the question for the same reason. She wouldn't survive any of that. The oncologist gave her a miracle medication called Arimidex. He said it MIGHT shrink the cancer by fify percent, if it even works for her. My heart sank lower when I heard all this and I hate to admit it but most of my Hope vanished by then. He said if the medication does work, it could be two years. IF. I started hating that word and wished it out of the English language. IF was so ... IFY! What if? I was (am) afraid to loose my mother, she's always been the stability in my life even after Dad died. Without her my life would be empty, there'd be a void that could never be filled and I've already got one of those from my Dad's death. I didn't think I could handle another void like that. It has never been filled by anything even 39 years after his death. How was I supposed to handle my mother's death?
Those questions will be answered some day. I've heard over and over again that God doesn't give us anything we can't handle. I beg to differ but I won't argue with you on that. Just know that my Dad's death was too much for me to handle.
I called Arimidex a miracle drug because it is. At least for my mother, it is. Only three weeks after she started taking it, the cancer appears to have shrunk by about fifty percent and is still shrinking. It's amazing to see the change in her. Hope was restored in both of us, in my siblings and Mom's friends. There would be no writing this lady off, she responded to the medication extremely well and suffers none of the common painful side effects it tends to cause. Miracle? Definitely.
No comments:
Post a Comment