Dish Towels

The phone rings. It's mom.

"I just realized I never thanked you for all of the nice things you brought up here with you," she says, referring to a smorgasbord of household goodies, from a gratin dish to drink coasters to kitchen towels, all placed on a bamboo tray, that I had brought to them in January.  "That was certainly nice of you...you didn't have to do that," she added.

"You're welcome," I laughed. "I felt like I'd missed dad's birthday back in November and Christmas, so it was kind of an all-in-one offering when I came up in January. that's when I brought you your slippers, and the bamboo socks that you haven't been able to wear because your feet were so swollen. And the green blanket."

As she went on about how lovely the dish towels were, I was preserving the recording in my mind. How utterly like her this conversation was. She is most comfortable starting a conversation if she has a reason to begin talking, but once she gets started -- and if dad's not around -- she becomes chatty. It's easy to tell if dad's not home. That's the only time she and I have long phone conversations. There may have been an initial reason for calling, but then we weave through whatever topic jumps in front of us.

"I opened the dishwasher today, and there were glasses and dishes in there from, oh, I don't know, I guess it was before I checked out," she drawls. "There were things in there that I'd been looking for, but I never thought to look in the dishwasher. Your dad always washes everything by hand, so I guess I figured there wouldn't be anything in there. I don't know when we would have used the dishwasher..." her voice trails off. "But...I guess we did," she laughed.

A New Cycle

Finally strong enough again to give chemo another shot, Mom started back on Xeloda this week. This time, she's one a one week on, one week off cycle.

Back into their normal routine, dad is still cautious and a little left of optimistic, but his stress level is way back into the managable zone. He's getting out to do all of the "things" he does and when I asked him for some help digging up some old documents, he jumped at the chance, and couldn't wait to hang up the phone so he could get started. A month ago, a request like that would have been about the same as asking him to drive an auger through his skull.
Life stuff has kept me from getting up to see them the past couple of weeks. I feel like I'm slipping back into complacency and a little guilty that as soon as mom's health turned back around, I got on with whatever it was I have going on.

I'm hopeful that this time she'll feel good enough to make a short trip to San Antonio, or maybe to the coast. The last time we went to Port Aransas with them, Owen was about 6 months old. He's 5 now...

Chemo Democracy

At her last oncologist appointment, Dr. George reiterated his "no new tumor growth" news to mom and dad. Markers still down and feeling better every day, mom seems to be past the worst.

Having my dad there with mom at doctor's appointments is a good idea. If you know my mom, you know her charming ability to sort of float over the details. Ask her for a recap later, and well, she can't quite think of the word, and the conversation goes down this "so-and-so and whatchamacallit" trail. It has nothing to do with age. Trust me. I grew up having to fill in the blanks.

The other side of having dad at the doctor's appointments is that everything comes through his filter. They're quite the pair. She can't think of the word and he's quick to jump in with it, and then he continues with his analysis of...whatever.

So, back to the oncologist. No new tumor growth. Blood markers down. Great. But, the doctor explains, that it's time again to consider treatment choices. This is where mom finds the nearest puffy cloud and fuzzy ear warmers and dad takes over.

Over the phone, they - I mean dad with mom also on the line - lays out the options to me: Return to infusion chemo, possibly trying one or two new cocktails, giving Xeloda another spin or no treatment at all.

I chime in, saying that in my opinion, the "no treatment" option is out the window.  "Mom's feeling so much better now, and there are no new tumors. This isn't the time to say you're done with treatments."

Dad replies matter of factly. "We have some time between now and the next appointment for all of us to talk about the choices and make the decision together."

Really? What? Did I just hear dad open the floor for democratic exchange? How utterly unlike him, I thought to myself. In a good way. It's just that my immediate family isn't known for democratic process or candid exchanges.  

I sense already that mom has defaulted to "whatever your dad thinks is best." I think if I were there I'd have greater influence, but I can't be there all the time. It bugs me that she backs off from some of the most personal decisions she'll ever have to make, and lets someone else come in and tell her what she's going to do. Even if that person is her husband.

He's still thinking that she'll spend the rest of her life weaving in and out of illness and there's nothing that will change that. I don't agree. I'm worried that it's coloring her attitude and her decisions about whether to go back on chemo. Both of them frustrate me. Dad with his dark cloud and mom blithely going along with whatever dad says. I don't know why I let it bother me. This has been their relationship dynamic since Day One.

Talking to mom on the phone, she's in a light mood, and asking a lot of questions about what's going on in my life, and how Isak and Owen are doing. It's been awhile since we've had a chance to talk about life stuff, so it's really nice. I fill her in on all the good, bad and ugly from the past couple of months. In my life, there's always plenty. She's empathetic.

"Are you happy?" she asks me.

Surprised at the question - remember, my family has issues with candor - I paused. "Yes, mom. I am. It's been a crazy year and the boys and I have been through a lot, but everything happens for a reason. I'm still figuring out what I should be learning from all of this, but I'm happy."

"Good," she says firmly. "That's all that matters."

Good Hair Day

The boys and I arrived Saturday afternoon. Mom was lying on the couch, covered with a sage green blanket.

"Hi," she said, as she smiled and shifted a bit, moving the blanket aside.

"Mom, hi! Wow, you look very nice today," noticing that she was dressed in jeans, shirt and peach cardigan. "You're wearing lipstick...and makeup!"

"Well," she drawled. "I have all of this makeup...I just feel like I should wear it."

"Yes, you should." I replied.

She rose up from the couch for a hug.

Mom wanted me to go back into her closet. "I have some things back there that I'd like your advice on," she said.

Back in the closet, she took a seat. "I want you to go through those dresses over there and help me decide which ones I need to get rid of."

As I held up each one, she pretty much told me what she wanted to do with each of them.

We created a section for dresses that would be donated.

She pointed to a pile of folded clothes on the floor. "The aide folds these pajamas, but I guess she doesn't know where they go, so she just leaves the pile right here," she said.

"Do you want to go through these?" I asked.

"No, no I don't. I feel like I wore those things the whole time I was sick...and I'm just tired of them." She paused. "How long was I sick?"

"About a month, mom," I answered.

"A month?" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it. I don't remember anything at all."

"I know. That's OK. There's not much to remember."

"I guess I was in bed sleeping the whole time," she said.

"Yep, pretty much," I replied. "I've been coming up every weekend for the past month or so. Do you remember me coming up?"

"No, I sure don't, but thank you. I'm glad you were here anyway."

"Now, back to the pajamas," I said. What do you want to do with them?"

She tilted her head up, like she was rejecting the pile of clothes. "Get rid of them. They have bad memories."

"So, the pajamas have memories. Are you thinking the pajamas absorbed all the memories of the past month for you?" I joked.

"Yes, I think they must have," she laughed.

"I'll run to the outlet mall and pick up some new pjs for you," I said.

"Good. Your dad wouldn't understand."

"He wouldn't understand that the pajamas absorbed your bad memories, or that you want to get rid of them?" I asked.

"Both."

Dad came home from the store with some donuts for breakfast the next morning. Mom's eyes followed the donuts as he put them the counter.

She pointed at the bag. "I want one of those," she said.

"Mom, those are for breakfast tomorrow."

"I don't care. I want one."

"Let's wait," I suggested.

"OK, but I've got my eye on those donuts," she replied.

At dinner, as dad lit the grill for steaks, mom opened a bag of Fritos and a can of bean dip. Though Florence and I were snacking on them too, I'd have to say mom ate quite a bit of them on her own. As in the basket of chips and new can of bean dip were all gone well before the steaks were on the table.

She ate an 8-oz. steak, baked potato and french bread and had a margarita and ice cream for dessert. No surprise the next morning when her blood sugar was at 251.

At breakfast, she ate more scrambled eggs than I did, ate a cherry turnover, and, as the meal was winding down, pointed to a lone turnover left on the serving plate.

"Is anyone going to eat this?" she asked.

"You are," I said.

"Good. It's just sitting there looking at me, and I couldn't stand it any more," she said, as she bit the corner.

I reminded her that there was still a donut left on the table. "You wanted one of those so badly yesterday I thought I was going to have to lock them up in a vault," I said.

"Well, I've changed my mind. I want this now."

I'm glad we don't have to measure and monitor every bite she's taking now. She laughs in disbelief when we tell her that we had to struggle to get her to take a single bite, and remind her to swallow after she'd been chewing for 20 minutes. Now she's thinking about food all of the time. I remind dad to be mindful of her intake, as her blood sugar is edging up again.

I think that right now, he's thinking that he wants her to eat whatever she wants to eat, blood sugar be damned. I get it. Her body is craving the food because it's trying to rebuild strength. I tell him her appetite should even out in a week or so.

I had mentioned to ear earlier on Sunday that I wanted to take a few pictures with her and the kids. I ran to the store and when I returned, she had put her wig on. I smiled and leaned forward to smooth out one of several stray spikes of hair .

"Mom, where have you been keeping that wig? The hair looks pretty crazy, like you've been sleeping in it."

"Oh, I know. This isn't my good wig," she said. "I need to get this one styled, I guess."

I told her I thought she looked very nice without the wig, and that she shouldn't worry about her hair for the pictures I mentioned earlier.

She insisted on keeping her hair on for pictures. The wig doesn't look at all natural. It's not the hair - though the wig has so much more hair than she does naturally that it just looks weird -- it's more like a fit thing, like the cap sits too high on her skull or something. "She looks like Benny Hill," I thought to myself, as I got everyone together for the picture.

As I stood there with the camera, mom was very in the moment. Taking a picture is such a small thing - not a big deal at all, really, but she realizes that she feels good enough to participate in the activity, so she puts on the hair and smiles a happy smile. A big change from just a couple of weeks ago.

No New Growth

Mom had scans, her first since August. It surprised me that it had been that long. Her oncologist called the next morning - he had already seen the scans, and called to say there was "no new cancer growth."

I was thrilled, but I also had a lot of questions. As in, no new cancer growth since August? As in, what is the recommended course going forward?

I also wondered about my dad. Just a couple of weeks ago, he was certain that her cancer was growing and that this is why she was so ill, and that it would be a fatal episode for her. I kept challenging him, saying there were no scans, no diagnostics to show one way or the other. He had been so firm, so stubborn. What was he thinking now that we had something to work from?

As we talked, he told me about mom's progress. She's eating a little more every day, moving around a little more every day. "She's getting stronger," he said.

"So..what are you thinking you'll do about Hospice?" I asked tentatively.

"I think we've reached the time where Hospice is no longer necessary," he said."She's able to do everything for herself again, so there's really no need to continue."

"I think you're right," I said. "Be sure and mention it to the doctors, and get their concurrence."

"The oncologist has already said it's time to discontinue," he said.

"OK. Well, you know how to handle it. You know what you need to do," I said.

My dad is worried that I've thought he wasn't doing a good enough job as mom's caretaker. Quite the opposite. He's not hard wired to be that attentive, nurturing caregiver type. It doesn't come naturally to him. But he did what needed to be done, and it's not easy to be on call 24x7, to constantly be on alert for midnight wake ups and to constantly worry about her. It's easy to second guess ones self. We all do the best we can.