Sometimes “Sad” Doesn’t Cover It
Last week I mentioned that I was about as stressed out as I could bear. Little did I know that the stress had only just begun.
I mentioned earlier this year that my mother was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer. She’d had surgery to remove the lemon-sized tumor and has been going through chemotherapy for the past 12 weeks. Tomorrow is her final chemo round — we hope — and she seems to be doing quite well.
My father-in-law, meanwhile, has been battling kidney cancer for years. On 9/11 he was in surgery having a kidney removed. Until earlier this year he’d been in remission, but then the doctors found some “spots” had returned. He, too, began chemo treatments. Unlike my mother’s, which were administered via a pump worn in a fanny pack for 3 days at a time and tied into a port embedded in her chest, my father-in-law’s have been via pill form.
Last month when we visited he was in an enormous amount of pain. Most of the discomfort was situated in his upper abdomen and, according to the doctors, had to do with chemo side effects. They gave him lidocaine for the pain and did a CT scan using a lower level dye that was supposed to be gentle on his one remaining kidney. Seven weeks ago they said he was “all clear” aside from the “spots” we knew about. Spots they said they’d monitor, but didn’t see as threatening.
In mid-July he began having problems breathing. He couldn’t eat an entire meal without feeling nauseous. He was exhausted. His skin hard turned yellow, an apparent side-effect of one of the chemo drugs. He’d lost a dramatic amount of weight in the 2 short months since we last saw him.
Last week my father-in-law, one of the most kind-hearted and yet quiet men I’ve ever met in my life, went in for an endoscopy. They found a 3-inch tumor in his esophagus. Yes, he used to smoke but he quit over 40 years ago. He hasn’t drunk a drop of liquor in well over 50 years. He had none of the standard lifestyle triggers for esophageal cancer.
On Thursday, that’s what they diagnosed him with. A PET scan was scheduled and he was admitted to the hospital. On Friday a “family meeting” was held. My husband couldn’t be there but, since the man listened to me for once, I’d booked a flight for him to get to Minnesota to be with his family over the weekend.
At the family meeting they announced that my father-in-law’s cancer has spread… everywhere. Lungs, spine, liver, esophagus, his kidneys, his bones… everywhere. There’s nothing that an operation or further chemo could do for him. They gave him 6 months — six — or less. Most likely less.
He’s at my sister-in-law’s house right now and resting comfortably. He’s taking pain meds regularly, and thanks to them he has very alert and lucid hours in between the short spans of time when he’s asleep and pain free. My husband’s still there with him, as is the rest of their family. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, has an excruciating bladder infection that’s rendered her all but immobile. (Yes, those kinds of things do happen.)
I’ll say this to you, my blogosphere friends, even if I can’t admit it to our parents, to my husband for whom I must be strong, or even my own children (the oldest of which won’t return my calls for reasons I don’t yet fathon): I’m afraid.
I’m so afraid and so very damn sad that words cannot begin to describe it. Every time the phone rings I cringe: will it be more bad news? Is there something else to bear with a smile that I hardly have the energy to grimace, much less grin. I’m dealing with a budget stretched tighter than butter on a dieter’s slice of toast. Every day I walk a wire between my last shred of courage and the pit of “understanding” that I, as a wife and Mother, am supposed to feel naturally.
Except that I don’t. I’m at my own personal bottom. The lowest of my lows. The point where I know I don’t have energy left within me; I’m just scraping the rinds of whatever used to be there. Because I am not all that. I’m just human, and I’ve never been that deep to begin with.
The Big-Eyed Boy, meanwhile, had been wanting to go to public school this fall. We’re both at the point where homeschooling is too draining, where he wants to be with friends his age and where I know he’s emotionally ready to branch out from Mom. We’d signed him up to attend school at Ft. Leavenworth then learned on Friday that the classes are already filled by kids who live on post.
I’ve got a 9 a.m. meeting with the principle at a nearby school district to see if my son can get into their 4-star school under open enrollment. (Our local school has scored below state average on reading and math for 4 years running and I will not subject my child to that poor excuse for an education.)
I know I sound selfish. I know I sound self-pitying. When have I pretended to be otherwise? This is something I’ve accepted about myself; I’ve made jokes of it. Hell, I’ve made an online persona out of it. Oh, yes, I can think Deep Thoughts, but they’re always from arm’s length.
Fact is, life’s arm wrestled me down to the ground right now. Uncle! Uncle! Uncle! Uncle, I cry. I give! I got it! I’m weak! I don’t even feel ashamed to admit that. I’m torn up inside. I’m so brittle to begin with, so much a person who lives on the surface of things in the belief that nothing else besides being a good and caring person really matters. Not politics, not race, not whatever the cause du jour: none of it.
We live the days we’re scheduled to live and we do our best to do right by those around us, to make others happy, to give them the gift of feeling good in their own skins, to let them know that no matter the great chasm of -isms that divide us we honor the humanity encased within their skins. T
hat’s it. That’s the meaning of life in my book.
But this? Cancer? Letting go to those whom our souls want to most tightly cling to?
That’s taxing the limits of my comprehension. I don’t know how to be supportive, not really. I don’t know how to absent myself from the self that’s experiencing this.
I can write cards, I can send email and flowers, I can insist on my husband flying up to see his father but, really, I understand nothing of how to live through the dark hours of the night when I am forced to confront, alone and unbearably saddened and uncomforted, that I know nothing — nothing — about letting go gracefully through the long goodbye.
I…I…I… just now I even see how many paragraphs in this entry have focused around “I”. Me, myself, Kate — not even the Venomous side of me. I. Is this what it comes down to, letting go of parents? The realization that they, themselves, have seen this coming throughout the very years we’re living now? It is not possible, after all, to have reached middle age — much less one’s 70s as our parents themselves have reached — without at one point, in silent and stolen moments, meeting the face in the mirror and acknowledging what lies ahead.
But I — there’s that word again — I am not ready to accept this, simply because I do not know how to do so.
For days now one thought has been running through my head: God will not give me anything I cannot handle.
I hope He knows I’m reaching my limit.
And there’s that word again, isn’t it? I. Perhaps that’s the lesson here: it’s not about me.
So how come I am so damned sad?
UPDATE: Even as I typed this my father-in-law was checking into the ER. Fluid is accumulating in his upper body and chest cavity. It’s draining out of the stent in his upper arm. I’m so damned angry: how could the doctors not have seen this coming? Is it because he’s on Medicare? Is it because he’s in his mid-70s, a time we used to consider “a good long life”? Why? I don’t know the answers. I only know that I’m afraid to hear the phone ring again.
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Kate, I have no words of advice but I just wanted to say that my heart aches for you and your family and you are in my thoughts.
It’s allowed. No worries about seeming selfish. These are people you and your husband love, and you’re allowed to be sad when bad things happen to them.
I know you’ve heard this, and you’ll continue to hear it, but you and your family are in my thoughts.
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Prayers hon. They’re there for you and yours.
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Don’t worry about getting through with grace. Just get through it. Grace comes with taking each step with faith Someone is by your side. Grief is inherently selfish and no one expects you not to be grieving with all that is going on. Hang in there. You are among friends.
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Well, that’s just it; it IS about you. It’s about all of us, individually and as groups. And all we can do is put one foot in front of the other and hope we don’t fall too much. But when we do… that’s when the group comes in.
{Massive amounts of Hugs for all of you}
Life Cycles…
……
All I can say is how sorry I am. Words always suck at times like this. When it comes to stuff like this and grieving - you just do whatever you and your family needs to do, there is no right or wrong in any of it.
I got blessed with a small miracle tonight that reminded me of our life cycles.
It’s not much, but it’s all I can pray for now.
Venomous Kates last blog post..Sometimes “Sad” Doesn’t Cover It
Kate, I am so very sorry that your family is going through such a rough time right now, cancer doesn’t just effect the person it has struck, it effects everyone who loves them.
It is perfectly understandable for you to be so stressed out, worried, tired, and also wanting to make sure your son gets the best possible public education that he can have.
But I am worried about you.
You need to rest, you need to take care of yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you become run down or sick from not taking care of yourself.
So please Kate, take just a little bit of time every day for yourself to just truly rest, a quick nap, a hot bath, even just laying down quietly for 20 minutes.
Your body needs it.
Kats last blog post..The girl in the window.
So sorry, Kate. I’ll be praying for you and your family.
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I’m so sorry, Kate.
Amandas last blog post..A Bunch of Birthdays
When you’ve got to be strong for everyone else, it is nice to have somewhere that you can admit that you’re afraid and sad. My now-wife provided that for me when my grandfather had his stroke and I had to be strong for my dad and siblings. If talking about “I” on your blog helps, then by all means, do it.
I’m sorry, Kate. You and your family are in my prayers.
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Honey, I’m so sorry for you and your family’s troubles.
I remember back when I was a Hospice nurse, how different each house was that I’d visit. Not the house really, but the people in it. One family would yell at the patient because they wanted the patient to eat when the patient clearly didn’t want to (so in other words, the family wanted to see the patient eat to make themselves feel better). Then another house, I’d see the family around celebrating the life that was soon to be over. Then the next house I’d see a patient in pain because their grown-up kids kept stealing their pain medicine. I’d often see families drawn apart, fighting over belongings within earshot of the dying. Then I’d see families who became closer because of it.
But the one thing I remember most is my patient whose family obviously cared for him, but were gathered around frightened and already mourning. I walked into his room one day and he said, “I love it when you visit. You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m dying.”
I think some consider laughter and humor inappropriate at that time, but I guarantee you that the person who is ill NEVER does. So if you’re wondering what you can do to support your FIL, make him laugh as often as possible. Send him reminders of funny family incidents or inside jokes. Don’t let the family start the funeral while he’s still around to see it. That would be the best gift I could think of.
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Kate,
We had to go through this with my wife’s father. End stage brain cancer that had metastasized throughout his entire body. I am so very thankful for the care that Spirit Mountain Hospice gave my father and law and the family. There are so many kinds of pain and some just cannot be treated with a pill or a needle. I’ll tell you a little story.
Ray passed away quietly and was buried at a Christian service in a wind swept cemetery overlooking the mountains. There was a 21 gun salute because Ray had served for decades with the military before he retired. On the last volley, one of the rifleman’s carbines jammed and he could only hold the pose. He cried. When the service was over, I did the only thing I knew how to do. I stood there by myself and said Kaddish. I then placed a stone on Ray’s marker. The minister had watched me and came over and asked what I was doing. I explained that I was saying the Jewish mourning prayer and leaving a stone. I went on to tell of the tradition of leaving a stone on the marker each time a grave is visited so that family and friends know that there are still folks who remember. Each time we visit, I am amazed to see how many stones are on Ray’s marker and how many stones are on other markers.
Passing has an impact on many lives. Revel in the memories.
The Most Important Thing…
Old blog friend Venomous Kate is weighed down with family catastrophes and needs your prayers as well as the comfort of your friendship. (Via Twitter)…
God love you, Kate.
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You have mail.
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Oh, Kate… that’s a lot to be hit with all at one time. While I’ve not been exactly where you are, I’ve had my own share of tragedy and trauma in life, and my own times of being weighed down with it all.
I had a little mantra that I would repeat when all I wanted to do was introduce my wrists to a razorblade: “God is good. God loves me. XXX is praying for me.” I would insert different names as to who was praying for me, and it helped me remember that even though I felt cut off from the entire world, I wasn’t.
Nor are you. It takes TIME to come to grips with all you’re facing. It takes STRENGTH to face it. Neither of those are always available to us. Make sure that you’re taking care of yourself - eat properly, even if you’re not hungry at mealtimes. Try to get 8 hours of sleep each night. Reach out to friends, including (or especially) cyber-friends, as they often span the globe and you might find someone awake in the middle of your night, because it’s the middle of their day. It all helps.
And remember. God is good. God loves you. People are praying for you.
Lord God, hold Kate in your arms and fill her with your strength and your peace. She’s scared, Daddy, and she needs you now more than she has ever needed you in her life. Help her to see your presence in all aspects of her life, and fill her with your Holy Spirit, that he may fulfill his role of paraclete for her, one who comes alongside and helps bear the unbearable burdens. Remind her of your unending love for her, and for those she loves. In Jesus name, Amen.
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Kate,
Your family is in my prayers. My FIL was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, so I know some of what you are going through.
Rich
My thoughts are with you and yours at this time.
Roses last blog post..Like a bird on a wire
If anyone knows what you’re going through it’s me, and I’m telling you you CAN do this.
You just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
You celebrate the lives of the people you love while they’re here on this planet, not mourn them before they’re gone.
You cry on the shoulders of your friends when the shoulders of your husband are too burdened. That’s what we’re there for, silly.
You do what you can, and stop beating yourself up when you think it’s not enough. It IS enough, at least for now.
Doctors aren’t all seeing and all knowing. They’re just as human as you and I, and sometimes nature doesn’t cooperate with medicine.
The hardest thing in the world to internalize is that sometimes there just are no answers. At least not the ones we want to hear.
Call me if you ever need someone to talk to. I’ve sent you an email with my number.
I’m still praying for you and your family. Big hugs, my friend.
Mrs. Metal Dad and I have buried parents, a daughter, and more friends than I care to recall. I can empathize with you in these life circumstances. Am keeping a good thought and prayers for you and yours.
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Be strong for you and your family. And if you can’t be strong, just float. Even in 30ft waves. Batten down the hatches, feel the blows and tumbles of the hurricane. It’s all part of the Fellowship. We’re all fellows in the same ship. Hold on.
Prayers for you and yours, Kate.
Kate, I’m so sorry.
Oh, Kate! I am so sorry for you, your boy, and your family. I wish you all the best.
I’ve been through some of this and can only talk about things that supported me in those times.
Sometimes focusing on just one thing at a time can help. Export all the things from your brain to a list. The list will remember them all. Then just do one thing. They will all be on the list when you get around to picking out another thing to do.
Also, be sure to hug someone every day. Tell them why you care about them. They and you will be surprised.
My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family at this time.
As everyone else, I’m so sorry it’s all hitting at once. One day at a time… even one moment at a time is all we can do. I think Joan said it best “if you can’t be strong just float”.
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Kate:
The only words I could use to explain to people my experience when my mom died were “bone crushing”. But I can’t imagine the weight you are carrying with all you have described here. Quadruple tough.
Seek solace and support for yourself with friends and loved ones who aren’t directly involved. They will help re-charge your batteries and help strengthen you. Take time now to begin grieving for the dying and for yourself, that is, your losses.
The hardest part for you may be finding it in yourself to give them permission to go. You may actually have to tell the that it’s OK. I had to. It was actually easy, given mom’s condition. It was also freeing, not only for her, but for me as well.
You will be all right. You are all right. Even in the black, bone-crushing numbness, put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Love your family, love yourself. You can do this, and you will.
My love and prayers are with you…
I just came in here but I too have to join with all of Kate’s friends in wishing you well dear Kate and praying for you and your family.
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Your post shows your strength, you wonderful honesty and deep love for your mother, your FIL, your husband and the rest of your family. Show your love for yourself by taking care of you.
I’m so very sorry you have such a heavy load to carry. I’m glad you’re taking time off.
I hope you’ll call in hospice. They’ve made all the difference for me with my parents. Hospice has shown me how to see things differently, and to understand what it is that my parents need at this stage.
You and your family are in my prayers. You matter, all of you matter.
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Kate, I am sorry that you are going through such a difficult time. My prayers are with you and your family.
Thanks, everyone. If you’ve commented on this entry then please know I’m writing back to you individually. Y’all took time out of your lives when mine was rough, and I want to make sure to thank each and every one of you. It’ll take time, but I *will* work through all of your wonderful emails, letters and phone messages.
My Venomites rawk. Thank you for blessing my life with yours.
I’m so sorry to hear that all of this is going on and the emotional pain that you and your family is going through breaks my heart. You are all in my thoughts and prayers.
Thank you so much, Bridget. The good news is that my father-in-law’s hemoglobin counts are up, which signals that his body is fighting the cancer. We’re not deluding ourselves into believing that he’ll recover from it, but at this point every additional day is a precious gift from God and for each moment of each day we are truly grateful.
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