My mom’s cancer surgery was booked for the end of September. Until then, it was about trying to perform daily life as normal as possible.
During that time, more family members were finding out and over and over again, we had to explain what was happening. My mom would break the news, the person would cry, and I would explain the procedure in the most positive way possible.
It was so strange that my mom was the one comforting and reassuring people about her own diagnosis. It should be the other way around shouldn’t it?
The day of surgery arrived and at 6am the family was at the hospital. My mother was prepared for surgery.
Before being brought in, we were allowed to see her and give her courage. She laid there on the stretcher with various wires attached to various places. Under the flourescent lighting, she looked very small.
The fear that this might be the last time I talked to my mother, was in the back of my brain. I tried to push it back and ignore it – but it was there, hiding in the shadows.
In case your unclear still as to why I named this section of my blog, “Waiting on a Life Sentence”, I’d like to explain (because, really, I just figured this out myself):
This was my mother’s life on the line – her pain and her health – but the fear of losing her; the idea that your whole world will never be the same; the threat of your heart being wrenched out of your chest – that belongs to the loved ones. We were the ones that would be left behind to live our lives without her.
I hope that makes sense. Its a hard thing to describe to someone if they’ve never lost a loved one. It sounds selfish when you try to explain it, but never the less – there it is.
After several hours of surgery, my poor mother was in recovery. Her medications were strong but the pain was worse.
They moved her to a room where she could be watched by a nurse and we tried to make her feel as comfortable as possible. She was trying to cough up a build up of mucus from her chest but the pain was too much. She didn’t have the strength.
The doctor came in that night to tell us the surgery was a success, but he was worried that if my mother didn’t cough up what was in her chest than she might catch pneumonia.
By the next night, her body was weak and she was so tired she didn’t have the energy to sit up. We tried to get her to cough but she couldn’t bring it, and we were getting super worried. Within 24 hours, the doctor came in with the news that she wasn’t getting better and would have to be put on life support.
I don’t know how to explain the feeling you have when you know that someone you care about is slipping away. The doctors had to put her into a coma, and none of them could tell us if she would come out.