Ok, I've been procrastinating. Big time...
I've had this Thank You note staring at me for the past 6 weeks. It's the note that I'm going to attach to the basket of Chocolate Chip Cookies to take to Dr. Davis and the Chemo Lab nurses. After I pull myself together, that is, and actually pen the words of thanks to these amazing, gifted mercy-angels.
Except I keep clenching. Words won't come. How do I thank the hands that held mom close, smiled encouragement while they poked and prodded, made her laugh at their stories, and cared enough to bring warm blankets, cups of ice and snacks as she suffered through the agony of chemo each week?
Not every one will understand why this Thank You mission is so important. But it is. When mom fell sick with the pneumonia right after Thanksgiving, my dad took her to their local hospital. Not to the large hospital that her oncologist worked out of. Both mom and dad assumed that she would get some iv antibiotics, some fluids and be home in a day or two. Without much thought, they called their family doctor and headed to the local hospital.
But this trip didn't go as planned.
That simple case of pneumonia spiraled into the beginning of the end. With a dizzying turn of events, the pneumonia cascaded into all out body system failure, and in shock we faced an undeniable truth. Mom would never make it out of this hospital.
Nor would she get the chance to have any closure with the oncologist who had become a close friend, a confidant, and her most ardent advocate. It was one of the regrets that she shared with me when she realized that she wouldn't make it home.
The conversation took place in bits and pieces as her strength ebbed those last days. Many times she would barely open her eyes, but would whisper a string of thoughts, trailing off as the morphine gave blessed relief.
She realized her time was short. She was tired, so very tired. And in pain, when the morphine dwindled. But even knowing it would be easier to let go of the fight, to lay down her gloves, she still whispered and shared...
* She wanted us to know she would miss us, desperately...
* She hated that this was happening right at the Christmas season, wanting so badly to be here for the family celebration...
* She wanted to thank Dr. Davis and those sweet nurses for giving her an extra 6 months of grace...
* She was sorry she would never get to hold Aubree Claire...
* She wanted to know that Dad would be okay...that someone would look out for him...would make sure he ate well...would get him to the doctor when he got sick...
And she told each us at different times during that week how much she loved us...
As she whispered and reflected and shared bits of herself, we all, as one, assured her, through our tears that it was okay, that we understood, that we would take care of all these things, that we would be okay...
and that we loved her always and forever, from here to eternity.
It's understandable that the part about thanking Dr. Davis and his staff got buried in the emotional avalanche of her death and funeral arrangements. But it has surfaced often in my thoughts lately and has stubbornly refused to leave.
So, today, I put feet to my promise. Baking the Chocolate Chip Cookies was the easy part. Writing the thank you note, the hard part. I ate over a dozen cookies, nice and warm from the oven, before I was sufficiently empowered to share my heart.
Then, I got in the car and started driving before I could chicken out. Kept the radio on the whole drive, trying not to think about the last time I walked through those chemo doors. With mom. Right before Thanksgiving.
Yep, it was harder than I ever imagined it would be. I was smart and brought in kleenex. Only not that smart, because I only brought one. What was I thinking? The minute I saw Bridget, Dr. Davis' nurse, I feel apart. Bless her heart, she hugged me forever and just let me sob. I'm reminded of Cora and the little Aborigine baby in Quiqley Down Under. Well, that's probably a post for another time... Anyway it wasn't pretty, but after awhile I got it together and was able to share mom's words of thanks. She told me that Dr. Davis was tied up with a patient. But that was actually okay with me. I'm fairly certain I wasn't in the best shape to visit with him. She said she would share the note and my words of thanks with him. Then Bridget and I talked at length about mom and her cancer and her final days. She shared that Dr. Davis had suspected mom's cancer was getting more aggressive as her tumor marker had risen dramatically the last few weeks before Thanksgiving. He had ordered a CT scan for December 12th, and was planning to suggest changing chemos from Gemzar to Fulfirinox. Of course, all of this is moot, since mom passed away December 4th. But it gave me some perspective. I know from the research that Fulfiri or Fulfirinox has some brutal side effects. I'm wondering if mom was spared the intensity of this fight for a reason...
After I left Bridget, I went down to the chemo lab and got loved on some more by those wonderful nurses. All offered their sympathy and support, seamlessly weaving in words of affirmation and hope for the legacy she left. Their ministry over the cancer-weary is not to the patient alone, they soothed my sore heart in ways I can't express.
I had no idea what to expect this morning as I agonized over fulfilling this wish from mom's last days. Facing these "demons" and going to the places mom's memory is the sharpest is as difficult as I imagined, but what I didn't know was the strength I would receive from honoring her request. I don't really like to use the word "closure," it's bandied about so much that I feel it loses a bit of it's original meaning, but that would be the best way to describe this journey today.
Closure. For me. For mom.
And in the process, the tears washed away a little more of the grief and softened my heart to receive their words of hope and encouragement.
I left the medical office feeling lighter than I have in a long time. I believe mom is smiling and nodding in approval. Mission Accomplished.
And maybe, just maybe having a good healing cry was exactly what the doctor ordered.
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