seven months

seven months

March - June 2001.

It’s official.  Mom has colon cancer.  Stage Four.  Here’s an interesting note.  Unless you have had a family history of colon cancer, you don’t qualify for a colonoscopy - hmmm.  Dad’s side has a history, so he’s been getting the routine check ups. But not Mom - no history on her side.

The colon’s a tricky area of the body. Tumours can grow and the rest of the organs will shift accordingly to make room.  It’s not growing against anything that causes pressure so you can feel it, making it harder to detect.

For the next four months, Mom’s doing chemo at the The Agency in Victoria.  Lots of ferry rides.  One brother and I are still in Vancouver.  We spend either four days in Vancouver working and three days on the island at home or vice versa.  My youngest brother is still in highschool - he’s only fifteen.

There are a few opportunities for me to join Mom at chemo.  The chemo chairs, the brown plush recliners that you would also find in a nail salon, the health and fitness magazines, the cart of sweets - a place full of sickness and toxicity (chemo) trying to come across as wellness. We don’t belong here.  One visit, I pull the doctors aside to ask.  Should I move home?  Will you tell me when I need to move home, if we get to “that” point? Is there a timeframe?  Looking back, they never really gave me a straight answer.  Looking back, I realize we were playing Russian roulette but didn’t know it.  They don’t know. And neither do we. We’ve never experienced anything like this.  

Mom keeps insisting that we continue on with our lives in Vancouver while she does her treatments.  She doesn’t want us to change our path because of her. It’s just for the next few months.  We are going to beat this thing!  This speaks volumes to the woman she is,  always others before herself.  She has the biggest heart that pours out love for everyone, and if you are blessed to be in her world, you feel it.   You feel special. She is practical and yet has immense gratitude for life.  One of her many sayings is, “Aren’t we lucky!”  We’d be washing dishes after dinner, and she’d say “Aren’t we lucky!”.  I’d respond, somewhat sarcastically, “Mom, we’re washing dishes,” to which she’d reply with a smile, “Yes, but WE are washing dishes TOGETHER.”  That’s her perspective on life.  It may not be easy or smooth all the time, but there is never any shortage of gratitude, love or laughter.

Four months, back and forth, between Vancouver and the island we go.  I struggle with a deep desire to be home, to be with her, next to her, and yet I am absolutely terrified of the unknown. Mom’s a pillar of strength and filled with hope.  “We’re going to beat this.” She is going to beat this.  We have hope.  The glass is full, of hope and love.

The day arrives when she can’t do chemo anymore because she has become jaundiced. They have also found the cancer has spread to her liver and bones. We have hope.  A miracle perhaps?  At this point, I believe in miracles with my whole being. I am still in Vancouver and my gut is saying, “It’s time to go home” I call my girlfriend who is a nurse and she confirms it for me.  “Yes, go home … go home now.”

We still have hope. We make a trip, all of us, to a naturopath, Dr. J, in Vancouver. We sit in the waiting room and wait for hours.  This man is popular.  So many people with hope.  During our wait, I read through Mom’s file from The Agency.  Again it hits me.  Right in the solar plexus.  All these notes, tests, results, numbers, percentages, ranges. The Agency doesn’t know.  I have trusted them to guide me and give me a heads up, but they don’t know the odds, or the outcome.  Or they don’t have the heart to tell me the truth.  Either way, this visit to Dr.J is a big one. He looks over Mom’s file. He says he has never met anyone with such a high tumour count.  He’s surprised she looks as well as she does and that she’s still up and about.  He’s the first person I hear say, “You are going to die.” He says it, plain as day, to all of us, those words and reality we haven’t dared to utter.  ”If you had come ten years ago, I could have helped you.  But you are going to save the lives of your children.”  Because we the children will now have the awareness and knowledge to hopefully prevent this for ourselves. Mom cries.  We all cry. We leave with a small brown lunch bag of supplements that costs hundreds and hundreds of dollars, hoping it will help.

- Krista

 

 

photo: Krista McKeachie