“… And I’m getting it back on the road now, but I’m taking the long way around.” (From Taking the Long Way by the Dixie Chicks)
Today marks two years since my world turned upside down.
It’s been two years since my mother couldn’t feel a part of her face for a few minutes and went to the hospital.
It’s been two years since I found out who my friends are. Or, rather, who isn’t.
It’s been two years since my sister called me at 5:30 am when I was in Palo Alto for work to tell me I needed to come back, it’s cancer, and surgery was in a week.
It’s been two years since the term glioblastoma became so familiar.
It’s been two years since I have learned to sound like an episode of ER.
It’s been two years since I started having to hide myself even more than before.
It’s been two years since I became Talia 2.0.
It’s been two years since we celebrated my mother’s 55th birthday at the hospital. What are you supposed to say? Happy birthday?
Speaking of, tomorrow would have been her 57th birthday. Are we supposed to celebrate? Mourn? Ignore? Will April 22 ever look the same again?
Two years ago tonight, I was at dinner with 5 friends (3 of whom I am longer in touch with, and their absence is not felt in the least) when my dad called to say they were in the ER, but that everything was OK. I figured my mom had issues with her hand again – she had just had carpel tunnel surgery, and was having issues, so I figured it was related.
It was related, all right. She just didn’t have Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, but a brain tumor. She had been misdiagnosed (shocker).
I won’t write out the whole process since it is detailed in the background post, and, for now, I won’t be “releasing” any more information. But it got me thinking that the top of my world has come crashing down six times in the past two years.
The first time was with tumor #1, first discovery of the disease, where we were still very optomistic.
The second time was tumor #2, when we thought things were going well, and almost a year to the day after the initial tumor, another one popped up.
The third time was just a few weeks later, with tumor #3 that paralyzed my mother’s right side.
The fourth time was in December when she lost the ability to talk altogether.
The fifth time was at the end of January or the beginning of February (can’t remember) when she could no longer recognize us or understand what was going on around her.
The sixth and final time was March 3, when she died.
(Comic relief: Every time I typed “six” I accidentally typed “sux” – Freudian slip?)
These were also the six times I lost my mother.
The first time was when we found out she had terminal cancer.
The second time was when it came back a year later, so quickly. We knew, at this point, that it was aggressive, and longevity wasn’t so much an option anymore.
The third time was when she was paralyzed. Whatever hope she still possessed with tumor #2 was completely taken away by tumor #3, The Paralyzer. This is when depression really set in. And if you knew my mom, you knew she wasn’t a depressed person at all. So we had taken her lead. At least I did. This was also the beginning of the loss of her personal dignity, since she needed us to assist her in basic functions that most of us perform on our own. I don’t think I ever told anyone this, but I think it was harder on me than it was on her.
The fourth time was when she could no longer talk and could barely move. At this point, the doctors told us there was nothing more they could do and they were taking her off chemo. They said it was a matter of days to weeks. While devastating, this was actually a relief of sorts. I had spent so long dreading hearing those words, that when they finally came, the relief of not having to wait for them anymore spread over me, but not for very long. These were really hard days. I spent them at her apartment (I had just been laid off, so the timing was great), and seeing her not remember our names – and be completely aware of it – was probably one of the hardest things I have ever had to deal with.
The fifth time was when my mom didn’t know who I was anymore.
The sixth time was when my mom was no more.
I no longer feel the stress and anxiety that I felt before she died. I was feeling so heavy for so long, and I didn’t even know it until she had died and suddenly the weight had been lifted. Now that weight has been replaced with sadness.
Sadness is easier to deal with, I think, because you just cry and move on. I haven’t had a big cry since she died – I haven’t felt the need to. That’s not to say I haven’t cried, because I have.
A wise person was able to put my feelings into words a few days ago: I want the sadness to be over, but, on the other hand, I feel it’s too soon for it to go away.
I feel the same about these six anniversaries. Will I be “celebrating” them for long? Will I forget them? Or will they just stay with me forever?
Happy would-be 57th birthday, Mom.
I miss writing mom with a capital M.
P.S. If you haven’t yet answered my short poll, please let me know how you found out about Daughter of Cancer and how you keep updated. Thanks!
April 21, 2009 at 6:26 pm
ok…wow. I want you to know that I think the most amazing posts are the ones that leave me without words…and this is one of them. I don’t have words to tell you what I feel reading this. Both my in-laws were diagnosed with glioblastoma. First my father-in-law, just weeks after we had moved to Israel…not knowing he was sick. Three months later, my mother-in-law. Drugs that today prolong life a little…weren’t back then. They both died within 15 months of the time we found out. We were sheltered in some ways because we were here in Israel, while my husband’s family suffered there. My husband went back three times; we went back once with the children. We suffered here alone; they suffered there. We missed so many stages; felt other things here. Celebrate your mother’s life…and yes, her birthday because that’s what she would want you to do. If she loved chocolate…eat a piece for her on her b-day. If she loved to watch the sunset, do that for her. I already know enough about you to know that she’d be proud of you.
April 21, 2009 at 6:32 pm
I know what you mean when you say you’ve lost her several times over these two years, it’s what I felt when we lost (and re-lost) my grandma… Both times were heart breaking, and yeah, both still bring me to tears 😦
I liked the sadness saying. It’s so true sometimes.
Here’s a virtual ::hug:: for now, till I see you in real life. Love you.
August 26, 2009 at 5:24 pm
[…] I’m not quite sure how articulate that last thought – I can look at a picture of my mother and just stare at it, and in my head I tell myself, “That’s my mom, that’s how I need to remember her, she was honestly like that for the first 30 years that I knew her,” but then myself will tell my head, “I’m sorry, head, that woman is a stranger. This is what she looks like” – and then a mental picture of my mom after her paralysis began pops into my head. It doesn’t even have to be from the hospital, just from the time that she lost her independence, AKA the third time I lost my mom. […]
September 17, 2009 at 11:01 am
I also lost my mom to a glioblastoma. It was 5 and a half months from diagnosis to saying my last goodbye. It was so quick I still have to pinch myself – it doesn’t seem real most days. I also lost my job right after her diagnosis so I spent pretty much every day she had left with her. It was the most difficult time of my life losing her little by little every day. Trying to cling to what memory I had of her before the cancer. Trying to store up every little exchange and moment because I knew I didn’t have her for long. I then found out I was pregnant with my first child – 2 months before my mom passed away. I’m due in a few weeks and all I can think about is how my kid will never know the coolest granma ever. I hate that I can’t share this with my mom. And what is supposed to be the most amazing time of my life – is the saddest and most heartbreaking.
September 17, 2009 at 11:33 am
I’m so sorry for your loss, Monique. It’s wonderful that you’re about to have a baby, and though I can’t yet say I know how you feel (though one day I will), I’m fairly certain I am pretty close. 5.5 months is a very short time from diagnosis to loss, but I have to say that I don’t feel that having almost 2 years was better – you’re not ready for it ever, and the sadness and suffering was just longer.
Good luck with the new baby! 🙂
October 20, 2009 at 12:03 pm
Thank you for your kind words. And thank you for this post – it really got right to the heart of what I’m feeling.
October 19, 2009 at 11:17 pm
I knew I shouldn’t read this blog ’cause I’d cry (& I have), but I’m glad I did for this post. This took something I felt but had never put into words; now I have the words for each of those losses and how, no matter their number, each time the floor falls out from beneath you because this is someone who is/was such a monumental part of your life.
It makes sense to see each of these things as a loss. It’s been almost four years since my mother’s diagnosis, three years and five months since she finished her first round of chemo, and two years and ten months since she died of lung cancer that metastasized to her brain and bones. I can’t believe I’ll be spending my third Christmas without her. She would have been fifty this January past. The losses aren’t just in the past, but in the present and future, too.
October 20, 2009 at 12:02 pm
I am so sorry for your loss. This will be my baby girl’s first Christmas. And my first Christmas without my mom. I should be excited for my baby but all I can think about is that Christmas up and died on the 17th of May this year. This is going to be a very hard time for me. And I can relate to what you mean when you say the losses are in the present and future as well. That is so true. Every occasion or event – my first thought is always that my mom won’t be there. She would have been 57 this coming Saturday, 24 Oct. Heaven knows how I’m getting through that day.
October 21, 2009 at 2:05 pm
I keep thinking the same all the time – that my mom won’t be there.
October 21, 2009 at 2:05 pm
Sorry I made you cry, but I’m happy you able to find the words. I count, too, but not quite the same way, yet, since it’s still very fresh. But I started dating The Boy exactly a month after my mom died, so the two are very much related to me, at least in counting the time.
August 10, 2010 at 1:31 pm
[…] also felt my mom was taken from me long before she died. I still feel that now. The day my mom couldn’t remember our names was even more devastating […]
August 23, 2011 at 6:48 pm
wise sayings…
“It’s been two long years now since the top of the world came crashing down…” « Daughter of Cancer…
October 28, 2011 at 3:48 pm
We do everything we can to put a smile on a childs face….
[…]“It’s been two long years now since the top of the world came crashing down…” « Daughter of Cancer[…]…