A side-show to life

When my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer almost one year ago, the news struck my family like a lightning bolt. Shock, disbelief (even though she had been a smoker for over 50 years), premature grief, panic, and a sense of helplessness were some of the feelings we all felt together. The doctors at the time gave her anywhere from 12 to 18 months to live, and that life would be filled with possible surgery, chemotherapy, and maybe radiation, and the side-effects and recovery process of those treatments.
She was only in the hospital for some back pain. The cancer diagnosis was just an added "bonus" to her fractures from osteoporosis and stiffness from arthritis. She had a few other ailments too, but nothing extreme. She was in the hospital for some back pain, and needed treatment for that. We couldn't believe they found lung cancer. Stage four lung cancer.
My dad had just retired a few months before. All he wanted, he would say, is atleast five good healthy years of relaxation with my mom, his soul-mate and wife of over 45 years. This news was most devastating for him. My six siblings and I were facing the loss of the mom who held each birth, each birthday, each Christmas morning with every stocking filled, every Easter basket decorated, every skinned-knee bandaged and heartbreak comforted, etc. She embodied all these things for each of us and all of us. But, for my dad, she embodied life itself and all he wanted from it.
And so treatments began. Treatment for her back pain included heavy doses of morphine-based patches and oral pain-killers. Treatment for the cancer was a high-dose chemotherapy for almost eight hours one afternoon. She had many of the negative side effects, and so the next few chemo. treatments were lower doses and they had fewer side effects. She lost a lot of weight, and lost her hair. She vomited and was in terrible pain. She had sores all over her legs and her upper spine curled forward until she could barely hold her head up. And gradually, almost imperceptibly, she slipped away. Not her body; her mind. First, she seemed confused. She had been an avid reader, could complete any crossword puzzle and debate politics with the best. Now, she couldn't remember names, places, words, and finally any of us. She didn't know who we were anymore. She could vaguely place us sometimes for awhile and then not at all. Paranoia overtook her with an intense panic. She couldn't sleep more than a little while at a time, and would wake terrified and inconsolable. We had to take shifts watching her. Funny how she could barely get around, but given the chance she would make a break for the street to escape whomever, whatever she thought we were. Looking into her eyes all I could see was fear and confusion. I imagined it was like seeing someone in hell. She didn't know us anymore, and we didn't know her. Had we said goodbye? It seemed so sudden, and so grotesquely cruel to all of us.
A friend told me that her mother had suffered dementia from morphine-based pain killers. We started the process of including anti-depressants in what my mom was being given, and lessening the dose of both the patches and the oral pain killers. Would her pain be too extreme? Would we be making her suffer more for no reason? The doctors weren't convinced that she would regain her sanity. But she did. She came back. Gradually, and then suddenly. I was at work one day when one of my sisters called and said," You have to hear Mom!" I was tentative but as soon as I heard her voice I started crying. She knew me again and I knew her. She came back from hell.
That was eight months ago. My mom's cancer has not regressed, but it has only barely grown, and the original four tumors haven't spread at all. Her back pain is being managed with physical therapy, exercise, and minimal oral pain-killers. She is not a candidate for surgery or radiation, and doesn't want traditional chemotherapy because of the side effects. She may decide to take oral chemotherapy at some point. The doctors say she can wait to decide. After a jarring original diagnosis and first few months of treatments, etc., we have been given another chance to appreciate, love and also say goodbye to my mom. She may have 6 months, maybe 12, or maybe more. The doctors can't say. There will be more suffering, unfortunately. Her lungs are losing capacity even now. The happy ending here is that what we thought was the end wasn't. And the terrible situation we were in was fixable, if only temporarily. What we experienced was a side-show of my mom's life.

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