Another long day at the hospital.  Another day with no answers.  At least no official answers.  My sister and I keep making small talk in the hospital room as Mom huddles down in her bed.   Only her tiny head is visible under all those blankets.   After sitting up in a chair to drink her liquid lunch, Mom was shivering and cold, and asked to go back to bed.    I’m not surprised she is cold as she doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her body anymore, and even though it is 85 degrees outside today, even  my sister and I are bundled up in sweaters ourselves as the hospital room is indeed cold.

We are talking about everything except the elephant.  Because even though the doctors have basically told us she has cancer, the pathology report isn’t back yet; it is not uploaded onto Mom’s records.  When Mom is distracted by a tech or a nurse, we have whispered how we’d like to talk about important things with her.  My mother loves to talk.  She always has something to say, but seldom do those words reveal her deepest feelings.  Or let’s be honest, any feelings at all.  That is not her way.

So we wait.

Mom’s health was fragile even before this cancer bombshell.   But, of course, now I know the cancer was the source of the ill health all along.   The weight of that is heavy.  All this time, we should have been treating the cancer.  Why did they not see it?  She has had every test possible, yet it stayed hidden and disguised as something else.

Mom is a woman of faith.  I sincerely believe she isn’t afraid to die.  But she loves life.  She loves her children and grandchildren.  She loves her friends.  She is moaning about being in bed instead of on the golf course.  At 84 years old, Mom feels young, and she doesn’t want to die.  She wants to live.

With the dementia, she hasn’t comprehended her current health issues.   She doesn’t seem to be aware that the game has changed dramatically this week.  The doctors have not been shy about saying the “C” word, but Mom doesn’t grasp it.   Is it the dementia?  Is it denial?  We don’t know, but my sister and I cannot bring ourselves to talk about it with her — yet.

So we wait.

And even though we do not say it out loud…

We are hoping for a miracle.

I arrived home from the hospital today to find flowers from my husband, and numerous birthday wishes on my facebook page.  I needed to hear those sweet words from dear friends.  Not because it is my birthday, but because it has just been a hard day, and those words were like salve on an open wound.  God has blessed me with many dear friends, and I am so grateful for all of them tonight.

Mom was transferred to the “bigger, better, city” hospital on Monday afternoon.  She has undergone more testing and a laparoscopic surgery.  The doctor removed her ovaries and fallopian tubes and a sample of the peritoneal lining.  Although they have found no cancer yet, the doctors are so sure of that diagnosis, they continue to search for the source. 

Mom looked weary and tired today; so very tired.  And discouraged.  She is sick and tired of being sick and tired.   She hears the doctors’ reports and repeats some of it back to them, but she isn’t grasping the probable diagnosis.    Once the doctor leaves the hospital room, Mom reverts back to talk about a bowel blockage and surgery.  Surgery isn’t even on the table anymore.  Her bowels are working and they have started her back on a liquid diet.    Mom never mentions the word cancer to any of us.  At first I thought maybe she just didn’t want to talk about it, but I’m not sure any more.    I pretty sure she does not have the capability, any more, to grasp much of what the doctor says.  It is confusing!  I have to ask many questions myself to clarify his medical lingo.  And even though Mom definitely knows what a cancer diagnosis means, it just doesn’t seem to “stick”.

And for now, that is a blessing.

I think tomorrow is going to be a really hard day.  My sister wanted me to stay home tomorrow and not make the hour-long trip to the hospital.  The city hospital is in her hometown, and now she is the “boots on the ground” — the one stopping by the hospital and checking in with Mom on a daily/hourly basis.    But I think I have to go.  It will be 48 hours since the surgery:  I’m fairly certain we will get the results back tomorrow.   I am prepared for bad news.  Words that the doctors have thrown around this week are spinning in my head.  Malignancy. Studded. Metastasized. Chemo. These are not words that are said lightly.  Doctors don’t use those words in passing.

I think it is going to be a really hard day.

This kind of cancer — peritoneal — is usually found in the later stages.  This cancer could account for all of Mom’s symptoms over the last several months.  The symptoms we have attributed to AFib and Congestive Heart Failure.  The weight loss, no appetite, abdominal pain, indigestion… the list goes on.  The pieces are fitting together like a puzzle.   This kind of cancer will not require surgery.  It will require Chemotherapy.  Mom already looks like someone who has had chemotherapy.  I don’t know how her frail weak body can take the poison.

I said in an earlier post that I wouldn’t borrow worry.  I know that is exactly what I have done here.  We have no clear-cut diagnosis.  Mom has defied the odds many times over the years, and escaped cancer diagnosis.   But I am worried.  And I will go to the hospital tomorrow.   There is nothing here more important.  Nothing.  That is where I need to be.

I’m not sure what her reaction will be — the dementia comes and goes.  I’m having trouble knowing exactly what she is comprehending.  But if the doctor comes in with a concrete diagnosis and treatment plan, I want to be there to help her “think” it through.   I know my sister will be there, and my brother too, yet I feel compelled to be there as well.  She needs us now.  Tomorrow may be the hardest day of her life.  Mine too.

I only spent a few hours at the hospital with Mom yesterday.  She is stable and receiving great care.  She has had a lot of visitors as well.  I decided to take a few days and get caught up here at home.  I feel a little guilty about taking any pleasure in her hospitalization, but knowing others are tending to her gives me the opportunity to do some cleaning, yard work and grocery shopping.

I got a few things done outside yesterday, and this morning I had tackled my bedroom and was just heading to the bathroom to give it a thorough cleaning when I decided to call the hospital and check in with Mom.  She sounded a little agitated or discouraged or…  I can’t quite put my finger on it.   She says her tummy is still bloated and tender.  I tell her I’m going to call the nurses station to get the update from the doctor.  My assumption is that once they allowed Mom to have “food” (liquid diet only), her bowels acted up again.

After being admitted to the hospital on Thursday, the doctors decided to run more tests and do everything possible to avoid surgery.    At first, they said her bowel had a blockage, but have since back off that diagnosis.  There is unexplained fluid in her tummy.  Even though its a holiday weekend, Mom is getting xrays, ultrasounds, and physical exams.

When I call the nurses station and talk with Mom’s nurse, I am prepared for her to tell me that they took Mom’s diet away and she is back on ice chips only.  I am prepared for them to talk about a bowel blockage.   I am not prepared for the word I hear: cancer.  What?  Some of the testing that has been done has shown a high probability of cancer.  Another doctor is being called in this afternoon to do a physical exam.  The nurse assures me that the doctor explained thoroughly to Mom that they were testing her for cancer.

I drop my dust cloth and do not even bother to put my sweeper or cleaning supplies away before I change my clothes and head to the hospital after all.  It’s one thing for Mom to watch TV and rest while waiting for test results, but it’s quite another thing to be alone in the hospital as you ponder a cancer diagnosis.

When I get to her room, she appears relaxed.  She doesn’t seem upset at all.  I guess that is the blessing of dementia.  Your short term memory isn’t worth a hoot.  So even though the doctor and nurse explained that the fluid could be caused by cancer, Mom doesn’t seem to remember that conversation.    I decide not to “go there”.  Why borrow worry?  There will be plenty of time to talk and worry and plan if or when that diagnosis becomes a reality.

We make small talk for awhile and then her liquid lunch arrives.  Mom seems very unimpressed with the choices on her tray.  I agree.

I haven’t even let myself think about the cancer today.  I can’t think about it yet.  If I wait a day or two, maybe I won’t have to think about it ever.  The test results are not back yet.  I am going to wait to worry.

Was it just Wednesday that I was thinking,  ‘we are managing the AFib and Congestive Heart Failure pretty well.  We are dealing with the dementia and trying to get educated about that disease.  Mom can’t live alone, but she could live in an assisted living apartment, and still have a lot of independence’.  I thought most of the really hard questions were out of the way.  Then Bam!   Cancer.  Wow.  I wasn’t expecting that.

Does that mean chemo?  Radiation?  Or not.  She is almost 84 years old and has been a very sick woman for several months.  She has begun to gain some strength back, but is still 45 pounds lighter than she was six months ago.  She is weak.  She is frail.

What does a cancer diagnosis mean for her?

Now that I have sat down from a busy day, and begun to relax, I realize “not thinking about it” may be impossible.  Yes, it will probably fill my mind for the next several days as we wait for the holiday to be done, and the full hospital staff to return to their duties.

This is a long and winding road:  This taking care of an elderly mother.  Just when you think you “got it” and things settle into a routine, a new challenge slaps us in the face.  Isn’t AFib, CHF, and dementia enough?  Don’t we have enough to worry think about?  Cancer.  No.  I envisioned a heart attack.  I almost expected a fall and broken hip.  I even thought the dementia could actually be Alzheimers.  But not cancer.  It wasn’t on my radar.

As I finish up this post, I hope to end my train of thought about the cancer.  Yes, she may have cancer.  But maybe she does not.  She has defied the odds many times before.

I will not borrow trouble for today.

I resolve not to worry.

And I pray that Mom does not have cancer.