Losing Mom

I'm losing my mom: to cancer.

It's been several months since I was told by my mother's doctor in the cold corridor of the hospital that she was dying of terminal lung cancer. I live far from my parents in St. Louis, Missouri. They live in Casa Grande, Arizona. It's a small but growing town between Phoenix and Tucson.

I planned a trip to visit Mom for Mother's Day this past May (2010). A week earlier my dad called with heartbreaking news. A few weeks beforehand Mom had gone in for some blood tests. "One of them indicated cancer," my dad said. I could tell from his voice that he had been crying: a rare trait for most men. But, not for my dad. He's one of the most sensitive and gentle men I have ever known. I could never begin to say enough kind things about him, nor have I ever met a person who didn't like (or love) him. Dad went on to tell me that a biopsy hadn't been taken yet, so he still held out hope. My heart hurt for the pain he was going through.

After I hung up from from my father's phone call, I fell into my sofa and cried my eyes out. My mother was only 74 years old. This was 'young' by today's standards. I was not ready for this. My relationship with my mother was often complicated. Sometimes good or even great, but often difficult. Mom had an extremely troubled childhood, the effects of which she carried with her throughout her entire life. As I grew older I began to understand why she did certain things, or behaved in ways that didn't make any sense at the time. I loved my mother. I had forgiven her for everything in the past because I grew to understand that she did the best job that she could. And, I believed she had forgiven me for not understanding until my later years. Now that I might lose her, I felt tremendous sadness for all of the wasted time between us. I tried to focus on waiting for the biopsy results. I hoped and prayed that Mother's blood test was wrong; a mistake of some sort.

A week or so later, when I boarded the plane for my Mother's Day visit, my heart was full of dread. The flight that day seemed much longer than the usual three and a half hours. I was nervous and couldn't get comfortable. Always an avid reader, the words of my book blurred on the pages. I couldn't read. I could only think of my parents. Would my mother be okay? Did she indeed have cancer? If so, what would happen next? How was my father handling all of this? They had been together nearly 56 years. She was all he knew. I was as much worried about him as I was for her.

A kind and caring woman sitting next to me on the plane sensed that I was troubled. When I reluctantly explained to her that my mother might have cancer, she took my hand warmly in hers. She asked if she could pray with me and went on to recite some of the most beautiful and calming words. I wish I could remember her name because I'd like to thank her once again. I will always remember the kindness and compassion she bestowed on me: the stranger sitting beside her.

My sister Brenda was flying in to meet me from her home in Austin, Texas. We met at baggage claim where we hugged, silently. In the car on our way to Casa Grande my cell phone rang. It was Dad telling me that Mom was in the hospital. That very morning, while we were in route to see her, her left lung had collapsed, filling with fluid. The biopsy was taken earlier but the results were not in yet. My sister and I prayed for a positive outcome, for both of them.

Arriving about an hour later at the hospital we met Mom's doctor in the hallway as he came out of her room. I recognized him so I stopped him and introduced my sister. Our eyes looked up at him imploringly. He gently took our hands in his. "The biopsy is positive," he said. "Your mother has terminal lung cancer."

We knew this was a possibility but we didn't expect to hear these words so soon. "What does this mean?" my sister asked, through choked words. Suddenly, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I could hear the conversation but it sounded vacant, as if it was from far, far away. "What stage is it, and how long do you think she has,?" I finally asked him. The doctor gazed at the two of us with that sympathizing look no one ever really wants to see. "It's Stage 4." he replied. "Optimistically, she has about four to six months. I'm sorry," he added.