4 Paths of Cancer

I felt guilty and wondered if there was something wrong with me for not grieving for my mom when she passed, at least not in the “accepted” way. We’d had a complicated relationship. My mom died of lymphoma at age 79, two months before she turned 80. I was 57, newly divorced and had just re-entered nursing. We lived in different states and I went to visit periodically, especially on Mother’s Day. We talked on the phone but they were usually short conversations without much substance. Some days she wouldn’t answer the phone when I called causing me to wonder if she was okay. I had worried about her for some time because she lived alone and I always had the fear I would get a phone call saying she had been found dead in her apartment. One day she told me she hadn’t been feeling well, had actually been in the hospital for a few days but it was “nothing” and not to worry. A few months later I got a call from a doctor telling me he was her oncologist and had been treating her for lymphoma. I was speechless and wasn’t sure I was hearing him correctly. Since she was a smoker I would have been less surprised if he had said she had lung cancer. But lymphoma? How? Why? He said I should come see her. I told him I would try to be there in a few weeks. He said, “no you have to come now”. My mom had told him she was done with treatment and asked him how long she would live without further treatment. He told her it could be four weeks to six months. She would take four weeks. I went to see her right away not knowing what to expect and still unable to process this news. She told me what had been happening and she was at peace with it. She was choosing to live four weeks and would like to live those weeks with me. When we got to my apartment I arranged for in-home hospice care. She told me she wanted to be cremated. I ordered the urn on E-Bay. It was called Purple Passion which was very appropriate for her since purple was her favorite color and she had led a very passionate life. The first three weeks she actually felt pretty well. She was eating, laughing and even doing some shopping. I thought, hoped, maybe she was recovering—not understanding how silently lymphoma progresses. I think she had allowed herself to relax because she finally felt safe being with me. But the fourth week she started rapidly declining. I laid in bed at night listening for her breathing. Even though I was a nurse, every time I gave her the pain pills given to me by the hospice nurse I was scared I might accidentally overdose her. Being a nurse for a patient is very different from being the daughter of a patient. Finally on the Friday of the fourth week I called the hospice nurse telling her I thought it was time for in-patient hospice so she would be better cared for 24-7. Saturday morning, I got the call that I had better come to the facility because she wasn’t expected to live much longer. I waited. A few hours later the call came that she had passed, exactly four weeks to the day of her decision. My mom didn’t want anyone to be there with her when she died. I don’t know why. While living with me we talked a lot about our past experiences and differences. We laughed about the funny things. Said we were sorry for the unhappy things. She told me how much she loved me and how proud she was of me. I told her I loved her. But we didn’t talk about those last moments, what it would be like for her and for me. She knew I would respect her wishes even though it was painful for me. I took comfort in knowing a caregiver was with her, holding her hand, when she passed. I waited before I went to get her things. Upon arrival I wasn’t prepared for what I saw—the gurney carrying her wrapped body out to the hearse. I wished I had waited a little longer. That was not the last memory I expected or wanted to have of her. I met the hospice charge nurse, picked up a brown paper bag with her few things and told the nurse I had to leave and be somewhere where people were alive and living their lives. At that moment I couldn’t be around death and dying. She looked at me probably thinking I was a very callous and ungrateful daughter but it was because I had cared so much, loved so deeply that I had to find some source of life to hold me up at that moment. I had given her a safe space for her final weeks; she was not in pain or suffering. I just needed to be around living, creative people and see that life goes on and it’s beautiful. She would have wanted that. It’s not that I didn’t care but I was going to grieve in my own way, not a prescribed script about how I should grieve. I went to an outdoor art festival and let the creative, happy energy permeate me and fill my soul. I allowed myself to breathe and let go. The hospice caregiver told me that her last words were “I’m done, I’m ready to go home now”. Those were the words she always said when she was ready to leave the bar after a night of dancing. Those words let me know she left her way, on her terms, and she wasn’t suffering. It was just one more dance. A week later I picked up the urn. It wasn’t very heavy. It was difficult to comprehend that her whole life was in that container. It was her ashes but not her. I held it to my chest but there was no warmth, no hug returned. Could she feel me? Could she hear the words I said to her as I took her home?