What next.

A year ago I posted that I didn't want to complain.  So what can I say?  This August has been rather difficult.  Still opinion.  Shoot, I can't do it.

I got good news on the cancer front:  my tumor markers dipped to an all-time low of 47.5.  I think that will remain the low, because my stress level keeps increasing, and I know how bad it is for me.  I'm having nerve pain, stomach aches, nose bleeds, and back pain. 

Humans must be tested, and this month I am continually tested.  I feel like I'm failing.  I am failing.  Falling, failing.  There's a reason the two words sound and look so similar.  I have never suffered from depression, and now I'm filled with self pity and hopelessness.  I think how selfish that is of me, and that adds another dimension of horror.  When I think things can't get worse, they get worse.  I'm worried sick about Jonah, just because he's the only one so far who remains unscathed. 

For most people, the answer is to make lifestyle changes.  That is not an option for me at this point.  I'm limited in what I can do to have any positive effect on this situation, and truthfully I'm too paralyzed half the time to even consider making an effort.  What is easy for me is to make a decision to give up.  All I have to do is give up my treatment, stop paying the stupid copays, and sometime soon after I'll just wither away, stop taking up space and worrying others.  It's really the next logical step, considering it seems the world is trying its best to kick me out of it.

I do think of what I still have:  people.  Barb is checking on me constantly.  Charlie and Libby have talked me into visiting them in Florida next week.  Other friends and family members are contacting me more than usual.  My boys.  I have my boys.  I never understood before how people could willingly leave behind those they love, those who need them.  Now I understand.  It's not a matter of their need, because it's possible to become convinced that everyone on earth will be better off without the horrible negativity I bring into a room.

Well, I'm not going anywhere.  I'm not even scheduled to have another chemo treatment until September 10.  By then maybe some miracles will occur.  Who knows. 

Moms

The first time I ever heard the word metastisis was regarding my beloved Aunt Bernie, and she died within two years, in April 1981.  I visited her in the hospital at the end of her life (she was 45, like I am now).  That was frightening, but not as frightening as sitting behind her youngest son, my cousin Ted, at the funeral.  Ted is my age, and we were both 14 that day.  I stared at the back of his head the whole service, wondering what was he going to do without a mom.  I was a teenage girl, fiercely independent, but on that day I knew I needed my mom.  I knew even more he needed his.  Aunt Bernie was cool, and smart, and brave (not cancer brave -- raising 3 boys brave).  He wasn't just losing his mom, either, as far as I was concerned.  He was losing one of the best words in the English language from his vocabulary.  I mouthed the word "mom" repeatedly in the car between the service and the shiva.

Last week at summer school, the class conversation in English turned to me, for some reason.  Jason fielded questions on how it feels to have a sick mom, all the while looking nervously at Alex (name changed), whose mom died a few years ago.  Alex didn't get involved in that conversation.  I suppose he doesn't get involved in many, because he's failing summer school.

I've been thinking a lot about moms in the past few days.  One of my kids says I'm not much of a mom, that I ought to consider acting like one.  So I tried that, and now that child is grounded.  My other two children think I'm the greatest mom in the universe, which I'm positive I'm not.  I fall somewhere in the middle of my kids' opinions.  I wish my naysayer would be more open to being parented, but I also wish the other two would be less idealistic.

I hope my own mom forgets to check this blog today, because I don't want to hear her commentary on this.  But ... the other day I had a horrible nightmare in which she died.  I honestly don't know what the heck I'd do without her.  The woman can be batty, but there she is on my caller id.  I don't know which Esther I'll find when I answer the phone, but any of them is still my mom.  Do we all sometimes find our moms exasperating if we're lucky enough to still have them?  Can an adult child decide to cast aside a mom for good?  Can a person really reach the point that the mom is so toxic, the relationship is over?  I couldn't imagine it.

My mom is having surgery tomorrow.  I'm not talking about the subject, simply because I'm sick of hearing about it.  She went with me to Penn yesterday, and by the end of our stay Dr. Fox and Loreli knew about it, plus two nurses and another patient.  I am pretty sure she'll be fine once she recovers, and I look forward to that.  What will she talk about then?  Never mind, I already know.  Sigh.

I'm not past the point of planning for my own demise, even though I'm no longer anticipating it.  All of my thoughts turn to my kids, when I think of it.  It sucks that I'll have to go, but it'll suck much more for Allison, Jason, and Jonah.  Jonah says, "Hey Mom?" before every sentence he speaks to me.  Even if we're in the middle of a conversation, every sentence will start that way.  Yesterday I helped the guidance counselor set up Jason's 504 plan.  I put in provisions that deal directly with me.  For example, if he experiences an anxiety attack, the nurse needs to reach me before trying anything else to deal with it.  Allison and I are planning her college education together.  We're going on the tours, discussing the programs, making discoveries together.  We're together in this whole process, and next year when she leaves, she won't have planned it all alone.  I'm not saying Ken couldn't be the one to help any of the kids, but it would be difficult.  He's got his own job as a parent, and I'm worried he'll be lost enough without me that he'll aimlessly wander through parenting fields for awhile.

Anyway, having said all that, I got my CT scan results yesterday.  The cancer in my liver continues to shrink, but it's not gone.  Dr. Fox measures just a few of the many tumors, because most are fuzzy.  One of the tumors he measures has shrunk from 1.5 cm in April to 0.92 cm now.  Another shrunk less dramatically, from 1.6 cm to 1.25 cm.  He says it's good news, but to me, no cancer in my liver would be far better news.  Next Monday I'll get my tumor marker results.  While waiting for Dr. Fox I got into a conversation with another patient.  A patient who has been living with bone mets for 10 years, who was first diagnosed with breast cancer almost 20 years ago.  Very cool woman, with two grownup children.  I'm so glad she's still here!  I know her kids are, too.  She says her daughter mothers her too much ...