Tag Archives: pancreatic cancer

Hindsight 2020

Unicorn bath bomb swirls colors into steaming water. I watch, mesmerized, massaging coconut oil into my hair, a makeshift mask. I bless each dark strand that comes out in my hands. Its replacement will most likely be the color of wisdom.

Hindsight 2020 playlist fills the room with music. All the songs I didn’t know I needed this year, compiled into one list, inspired by Bethany Cabell’s annual Thanksgiving Playlist on Red Tent Living. I always choose random, not chronological, order when I listen.

Chili simmers in a crock pot on the kitchen counter. Just thinking of it’s recipe source, crock pot owner, and preparer brings tears. Such kindness surrounds me. Deep care.

I climb into hot, scented, sparkly unicorn water, letting tears fall. When a heart breaks brings sobs from a heart that has been broken for longer than I care to admit.

I have never been alone in this. Never not loved. Each song reminds me. Each link-sender seeing me in a vulnerable posture of heartache.

And yet an small place inside, a small person, just wants to be held. To not hold everything. To not be responsible for all of the intensity and pain in everyone else.

I see her. Feel her. Invite her to rest in the embrace of water and sparkles and love. I breathe in sweetness and spices and exhale grief. I hold her and let her be held.

Weeks to (New) Months

October 1 finds me reflective and with a deeper understanding of what the phrase weeks to months actually means. When Mom began chemo the first week of September, it was to give more months, not years, according to the oncologist.

Chemo was brutal. One round caused such misery that to continue for a few more months of torture to extend days was not sustainable. Mom chose hospice care instead, allowing her to live more fully and with more presence in this season.

Mom looks beautiful in her brightly colored turbans!

Eight weeks and three days since the initial heartbreaking scan, life settles into a routine of change. Each week grows day by day, then adds up with the next to create another month. And that is what we are given, a string of days, weeks, months.

We won September, full of family visits, kids settling in to school, and shifts in business and work loads. We practice turning towards each other. There was a photo shoot to capture us with Mom.

Mom and I share a moment during the photo shoot before our own mini-session. She is always radiant in red.

October brings new rhythms and boundaried settledness. Time and energy are precious resources. The walks across town, to and from my parents’ house, a sort of sacred rhythm, ground me in presence as I transition from mother to daughter and back again.

Sighting a heart shape on the brick walkway or a changing leaf from a nearby tree bring comfort and calm to the sometimes-chaos of my heart.

A heart-shaped blob on the sidewalk reminds me that love is all around me. I only have to keep my eyes open for it.
Change is the constant.

I drink coffee outside with Mom this morning, our usual Thursday routine. We enjoy the crisp air and birdsongs and sighting of a butterfly on the fence. Mostly we enjoy the rhythm and ritual and the gift of a new month.

Look closely to see birds on top of the fence and a butterfly resting, as well.
Mom wearing the prayer shawl made for her by a dear friend, Rosie.

These are the moments that matter in the weeks to months that remain. Thank you to all who continue to offer such gentle care, kindness, and understanding as we navigate the present while looking ahead to the uncertain future.

Flowers and Food

Can you stop by on your way home from Bridgewater? I have something for you. If I don’t answer the door just come around back and find me.

The text went something like that.

I wanted to say no. No, I actually can’t.

It’s the truth.

That is where I was. Where I am right now. Angry at the world. At everything. Still having to function while anticipating grief. And just angry.

My mom is very sick. She is dying. I was not even aware of this on July 26, just two months ago. Now I don’t know if I will get two more months with her.

My rational side got the better of me, because this friend’s house was literally on the way home. Also, I know myself well enough to call my own bluff. Also, she loves me. She is so kind. I needed to receive the invitation of care.

So I stopped on the way home and found her in the extensive backyard flowerbed. She is the kind of gardener who can make an everyday bouquet from twenty varieties of things she has growing, naming each one.

She was still cutting and arranging as I wandered out back and then followed her into the house for the adding of water to the jar and sending of me on my way.

I am bringing you dinner next week. Is Wednesday or Thursday better?

Thursday was a no-brainer, since my husband was leaving for his annual guys’ weekend that day.

Thursday. Thank you.

We chatted briefly in the kitchen, a safe distance from each other, before I left to pick up a child from a friend’s house, in same the neighborhood, on the way home.

Tears filled my eyes.

I don’t know what I need on a good day, and lately the days are not so good. When the text came with several menu choices, I knew instantly the one. She agreed it was one of her best.

She cut me flowers and brought me food.

And that is what I needed.

And I am so grateful.

Thank you, AM, and all of you who have known just what I needed and left in on the porch or dropped it in the mail or sent it by text. You are the hands and feet of real Jesus and love. Thank you for your care during this unbearable hard.

Waning

Look at the moon!

Husband beckons me to look out the car window on our late-night drive home from a weekend wedding. I scroll my phone looking for music to play, or maybe escape, and glance skyward.

Is that really the moon?

An orange orb dances behind a mountain ridge, peeking out occasionally. I catch a glimpse before it disappears again. I have been known to mistake a Burger King sign for this wonder of nature and am unsure whether to get excited about the glow.

Then it appears in full glory. Hanging from the sky as if about to be dropped to earth, larger than life, Mars twinkling by its side, the deep-orange, waning gibbous moon.

waning: the act of decreasing gradually in size, strength, power, etc. . .

I oohhhhh and ahhhhh appropriately, for I love the moon in whatever phase it shows up, but this one is stunning. It is comforting and kind and sad. That seems to be the way I hold life these days, comfort and kindness in the sadness.

Date saved since January, this eagerly anticipated wedding comes with unlikely surprises. We witness outdoors with masks and eat charcuterie from individual plastic cups and drink lemonade as we wait for dinner. It feels a lifetime ago that I sat poolside drinking a margarita on a work trip with my husband that same month.

Steve and I sit around a table with the Big Boss (not to be confused with the immediate boss whose wedding it was) and co-workers and their wives. We talk and wait for our table to be called. I do well managing the small talk.

Until I don’t.

I lose my steady, and my brain goes offline just long enough to float away.

What?

It is Steve’s Big Boss who looks at me quizzically.

Shoot. I just did the thing I don’t mean to do but sometimes happens. My kids say What? Why are you looking at me like that? or Mom, you’re dissociating. depending on who notices when this happens at home.

It’s my How can I be here doing this when my mom is home dying and family is in town visitng? face, and it has just come out at the wrong time, and I panic and have to be real.

I’m sorry.

I explain, and everyone is gracious and kind, and I am just sad. How can I rejoice and grieve simultaneously? This is my lesson in this season. The both, and.

Usually I keep the right feeling in the right place, but tonight sadness dumps out and lands in the middle of joy and the eyes that bear witness to the beginning of new life together hold me as ! grieve the end of another.

And the moon shines down on us all.

Waning.

Mom’s Fall Planter

I decide to welcome fall early this year. It’s still August when I commit.

I know that’s not the official start, but something about knowing, really knowing, that you have months, not years, left with someone, makes every moment count.

We know that, right? That all of the moments count? Turn towards those you love while you can. It’s a great theory, but the practice of it, in blog-friendly language, is oh my.

Really tough.

Because life. And death. And all of that in-between. And not all of us get to know ahead of time.

And what are months, anyway? Twelve of them make up a year. That leads to twenty-four, which is two years, and so on. Not without hope, and yet, there is also reality.

So last Friday, as Mom and Dad visited the oncologist, my sister and I ran afternoon errands together. Something about a perceived sense of normalcy and control made this an adventure filled with hilarity and comic relief.

We are good at comic relief. Also irreverent hilarity.

After all of the musts, I chose a want and decided to get fall plants for mom’s outdoor planter.

Each Mother’s Day I plant one of the large planters in front of my parents’ house for Mom, and on Father’s Day I plant the other for Dad. This year was different on Mother’s Day, due, in part to the pandemic and its limitations.

Instead of selecting individual plants, I chose a hanging basket from the local food coop, planning to empty it into the planter, ready made style. When Mom saw what I was doing, she preferred to keep it as a hanging basket, so up on the porch it went.

Her planter remained sparsely populated with perennial growth from previous years, a rosemary bush, lambs ears, purple salvia, and a lone geranium, added by me to fill an obvious gap. These continued growing all summer but never fully got it together.

I tried looking back in my phone to see if I had a picture of that planter, and just the act of scrolling backwards to May brought a heaviness to my chest and tears to my eyes. We can’t go back to before.

I decided to seize my (and mom’s) favorite season and plant for fall to welcome her home from her long day of medical appointments.

And that’s what I did.

Happy Fall, Y’all! Let’s make this one count!

One Month Ago

One month ago I celebrated a child turning 14. As twisty rainbow candles were blown out on the ice cream cake made by a sister, a text came from my mom.

The doctor just called with the scan results. Can you come over? It’s not good.

One month ago.

Abnormal scan. Sisters gathered from across the country. Family visiting. 51st anniversary celebration. Unsuccessful first biopsy. Covid test. Sisters and parents quarantined together. Scheduled trip to KY leaving sisters behind. Successful biopsy and nerve block. Likely diagnosis. Cell biopsy. Official diagnosis. Watching and waiting.

One month ago.

Compulsive Google searches. Bracing. Glancing. Poring. How much more time? What’s next? Maybe a miracle!

The past month has been surreal, but what does that even mean in 2020? To me it means the worst nightmare on top of all the others ~ the news not expected. My mom has cancer. Pancreatic. Metastatic. Please do not send me miracle cures, reasons for why she is sick, or other advice unless we are solid. If you aren’t sure what that means, just don’t.

Three of my grandparents still live, two of them together independently. My mom made the drive to visit her parents back in June and stayed for a month supporting and caring for them. She saw all of her siblings. They took a picture. All of them. Together.

They didn’t know that time was her gift to them. We didn’t know by summer’s end she would be the one with a hard diagnosis.

Christy Bauman, author of Theology of the Womb, writes that when death comes out of order, it’s traumatic. This is trauma that I feel in my chest. Trauma of likely dis-ordered death. And yet still, there is life. We live each day in gratitude.

I had no imagination for mom not being with me well into her 90’s like both of her parents have been with her, yet, reality says it’s not likely.

One month ago my life changed in a way I never anticipated or expected.

Everything Changed.

One month ago.