My mom couldn’t feel the side of her face for a couple minutes and went to the ER in April 2007 on the evening before her 55th birthday. Several days later, she was diagnosed with glioblastoma, a (terminal) form of brain cancer. My first thoughts were of Marnie Rose, a young pediatrician who I knew from Hillel in Houston who had died at 27 (she was on a reality series on ABC named Houston Medical while she was battling the disease) and Kim Perrot, the point guard for the Houston Comets who had died of brain cancer.
She had brain surgery almost immediately and began radiotherapy, and then a one year course of chemotherapy. During her 9th course, a second tumor was found.
All in all, she has had 2 brain surgeries, radiation therapy (several types), and 3 different types of chemo (including biological and chemical combinations), but they tumors kept coming back. In all “fairness,” the neuro-oncologist said that the surgeon can remove the ones he sees, but there’s no way to prevent new ones from coming. Not to mention the fact that, in this day and age, there’s no reason to hide anything, what with the Internet being at our fingertips.
It actually took me more than a year after her initial diagnosis to go online and check mortality rates. This was when the third tumor came, the one that paralyzed her right side. If you’re really lucky, you have 3 years. That’s if you are under 50, which she wasn’t, and there are no neurological side effects, which she already had. Basically it said the average is 7.5 months.
In December my mom’s condition took a sudden turn for the worse and she lost her ability to talk and move (though she got some movement back). We were told by the doctors that it was a matter of days to weeks. It has been just over 2 months now, and she’s been in a full care facility because we can’t take care of her ourselves anymore. She is mostly fed through an IV. She doesn’t recognize us and doesn’t understand anything that is said to her, which is probably a blessing at this point. She’s on morphine, so she’s out of it most of the time anyway.
Now we’re just waiting for her to die.
It can happen one of two ways:
1) The tumors and edemas will grow until one of them make a hole so big that another one will drop into her brainstem and kill her instantaneously (this is the one we’re “hoping” for)
2) She will have many seizures, each of which will weaken her heart until it gives out. Seeing as she’s so young (56), she has an incredibly strong heart, so this means a lot of suffering (which she is going through).
Meanwhile we are trying to pretend life is normal and go on with our daily routines, whatever those are.
Update: My mother has passed away.
February 26, 2009 at 12:58 pm
[...] alternative is more suffering. As you can read in my background post, there’s nothing left of my mom, but her body. There’s no way to save her, [...]
February 27, 2009 at 10:33 pm
Talia,
Aliza just sent us your blog. We are numb and devasted. Your Mom is an incredible, strong and brave person. I hope she knows how much we love her.
Please convey our thoughts and prayers to all of your dear family.
Faye Wender
February 27, 2009 at 10:44 pm
Thanks, Faye. I will pass it on to my dad and grandparents and sisters tomorrow. She was sick when y’all visited last time, but she was still OK back then. I’m sure she knew how much you loved her.
February 28, 2009 at 7:05 am
[...] Daughter of Cancer from Israel describes the suffering her 56-year-old mother is going through battling brain cancer. Cancel this reply [...]
February 28, 2009 at 7:08 am
[...] Daughter of Cancer from Israel describes the suffering her 56-year-old mother is going through battling brain cancer. Cancel this reply [...]
February 28, 2009 at 7:46 pm
[...] See the original post here: The background before I begin « Daughter of Cancer [...]
March 2, 2009 at 1:12 pm
I’ve only known you virtually for a little while but you seem like such a wonderful person, I am so sorry to hear this is happening to you.
March 2, 2009 at 2:18 pm
Thanks.
March 28, 2009 at 11:27 pm
Sorry for your loss. At some point I’m sure it becomes a blessing. We too are fighting the same cancer in out household. Our son (27) had a growing turmor and has only been given a short time.
March 28, 2009 at 11:30 pm
I’m so incredibly sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. In some place, you know your parents won’t always be there, but it’s got to be horrible with a child. My grandparents have been going through a really rough time, too, though they are better now than before. The wait was a lot worse, other than the secret hopes that things will turn out OK after all. I wish you all the best.
April 21, 2009 at 6:08 pm
[...] been two years since my mother couldn’t feel a part of her face for a few minutes and went to the [...]
July 4, 2010 at 6:07 pm
Dear Talia,
I just got to your blog via Liza Rosenberg’s facebook post, and here’s what I can contribute. I too am a [retired] high tech professional and daughter of a cancer victim. It took many years during and after my mother’s illness to feel almost whole – I still miss her 30 years later – and I was aided by having young children dependent on me then. The bottom line is feelings don’t require action, but they do require patience and respect. We’re not talking about wallowing. If it helps to talk to someone you trust, then talk. If it helps to write, then write. If it helps to cry, then cry. I get a sense, from reading a few of your most recent posts, that you kind of expect yourself to “get over” your feelings. That would be another tragedy. The scars have to form in their own time.