Tag Archives: pancreatic cancer

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.