Three Weeks

"I won't beat around the bush. It's the colon cancer that's causing these stomach pains and contributing to what's happening with you right now."

That's Sarah, the Home Health Nurse who has come by to check on my mom this afternoon, and "what's happening" is that my mom has not been eating or drinking more than a nibble and a sip here and there for the past three weeks. She's dehydrated and malnourished, bruised and terribly small. In fact, her smallness seems strange to me. My mom has always been that sort of average height/weight and right now, she's a shriveled version of herself.

She started taking Xeloda, a potent chemo drug in pill form, last December. When the oncologist recommended the switch from infusion chemotherapy, mom was excited about the convenience of taking a pill, instead of being attached to the pack that was plugged into her port for each treatment. She was happy; she felt energetic and she was looking forward to spending New Year's in Denver with my sister and her family. She never mentioned that Xeloda is prescribed when infusion chemo isn't doing the job. I wonder if she understood that when the doctor made the change.

After only a couple of week-long treatment rounds, Xeloda made good on every published side effect: By mid-January, she was plagued by mouth sores, fatigue, weakness, stomach irritation, diarrhea, bruising. The dehydration and malnutrition is doing its job on her brain. She's confused, random, she sees people and things that aren't there. She wants to sleep all the time.

The nurse tells mom she needs to drink a lot more water. Mom says to her, "I can't. They told me not to do that." The nurse says, "Who told you not to drink water?" Mom replies, voice slightly slurred from her massive drymouth, yet resolute, completely convinced that she is making sense. "They told me it is very dangerous to mix anything with my medications. That's why I can't drink water."

Later, I sit on the edge of her bed.

"Mom...it's me. I'm just checking on you."

"I can't....I..." She runs her tongue around her parched lips, more orange than pink. She turns her tongue in toward her cheek.

"What is it, mom?"

"It's my left cheek."

"What about your left cheek, mom?"

"I'm taking a class. What time does it start?"

"Don't worry about that right now, mom."

"Who is here in the bed with me?"

"Mom, nobody else is here. It's you, me and the cat."