New Midlife Mommy

I Can't Believe He Asked

I've mentioned before that I spend Saturday afternoons with my father trying to clear out the house.  Yesterday was no exception.  And, sadly, we talked about the fact that my mother had died exactly five months ago.  It seems like a long time, and yet it seems like no time at all.

Since my mother's passing, I have often been angry with my father, and I've mentioned one of our disputes here.  Sometimes, I really wonder if my mother even knew him -- despite the fact that they lived together for fifty years.

For example, my grandparents owned a very small cottage several hours away from my parent's house.  My grandparents retired there.  It was very important, very precious to my mother.  It is very special to my brother and I.  I do remember, though, that my mother had a concern that my father might remarry, and that my brother and I would find ourselves inheriting along with any offspring his new wife had.  However, she wanted him to be able to spend as much time up there as he wanted, thinking that he was as much in love with it as she was.  To accomplish this, her will gives him a life estate only, and as far as I know, my father's name has never been on the deed.  This means that the house is my father's to do with as he pleases for as long as he lives, and then the ownership transfers to my brother and I.  My mother talked extensively with me about this, so I knew what her will said before I read it.

Little did my mother know how he really felt.  She hadn't even been buried yet, and he said that he planned to sell the house.  I told him that would be hard to do, because as far as I knew (and still do), he only holds a life a estate.  You can try to sell your property if you want under those circumstances, but no one is going to buy it.  As soon as my father dies, no matter what he's done with the property, my brother and I will own the house.  To his credit, he didn't want to sell for the money, which he said he would give to my brother and I.  And, I do understand that he doesn't want the burden of taxes, etc., which amount to a few thousand dollars a year.  I did tell him that I would be more than happy to pay half, provided he also asked my brother for half.  As far as I know, he's not done so.  He can afford the expense, because he does have some savings, but I do understand that he doesn't want to.  But still -- his first response was to want to sell it.  Clearly, my mother didn't see that one coming.

He's made comments about how now that she's gone, he can be organized.  And, now that she's gone, he's never late for anything.  He's quick to add that he would prefer her here, but he's doing fine.  Just fine and dandy.  Please understand, I don't want him to suffer.  But I am not interested in hearing, over and over, how much better things are now that she's gone.  I'm not sure that he realizes that's how he comes across, but he does.

Sometimes, I wonder how he really felt about her.  He's mentioned a few times that oftentimes, the remaining spouse will die within a year.  I couldn't hold my tongue, but I was gentle when I said that I thought that normally happened when people were very, very close and couldn't imagine themselves going on without the other.  I told him that he probably didn't fit into that category, did he?  He didn't dispute that point.

Moving on.  Yesterday, my father mentioned that he'd lost touch with one of his friends, and he really wished that he could connect with him again.  I think that it was a high school friend, and this man is my brother's godfather.  I asked him for all the information that he had, and I said that I would scout around on the Internet for him.  I asked him if there were any other people he wanted me to look for, while I was at it.  And he said yes, and gave me a woman's name.

I had never heard of this woman before.  I asked him why he wanted to find her, and he said that they were "friends."  I couldn't resist -- I asked him if they'd ever dated, and he said "yeah, a few times."  And apparently she also dated all his friends as well (that part was interesting, eh?).  Not believing what I thought I was hearing, I asked rather bluntly if he was trying to find this woman so that he could start dating her.  And he said "yeah, I'd date her."

So, let's summarize, shall we?  My mother has been dead for five months, and my father wants me to find him a date.  Apparently, it's time to move on.  I don't think that I am going to help him with this one, but rather than silently seething, I will probably tell him how I feel.  I did ask him if I could find old friends for him, so I opened the door, but honestly, this just seems like a line that shouldn't be crossed.  He knows how close I was to my mom, and it's just not right to even ask this kind of a "favor."

Am I wrong?  What would you do?

I Second That Emotion

Someone clicked over here from "Missed Conceptions," a blog that hasn't been updated in over a year.  I clicked back on the post that sent the reader here, and once again, it resonated with me.  Just as it did the first time I read it.  You see, Karen also conceived her child with donor eggs, and she also had to come to terms with the loss of a genetic link.

Here is what she said, in part:

Of course I have pangs and fears related to the way he was conceived. I wish I could take credit for his beautiful blue eyes. I hope he never feels as though a part of him is missing. But if I was offered the chance for a reproductive do-over, to have one of my miscarriages erased and my "own" child born without ever having gotten to the stage of even thinking about donor eggs, I'd hug my funny, feisty boy to my chest with a heartfelt "No thanks."

Amen to that.  Amen.

And Life Goes On

We buried my mother on September 22nd, several hours away from the place she called home.  Someone in her family -- grandfather or great grandfather? -- had purchased a number of burial plots in a small cemetary.  There were three remaining.  My parents were to have two of them, and there was an extra.  My mother always said if my brother or I died before getting married, we could have it.  I guess it will remain open, since we both have our own families now. 

While in the hospital, my mother came to believe that she had only two to three months to live.  She inferred this from one of her doctors, who told her that things would get worse over the next two to three months.  She couldn't imagine how things could possibly get worse, since she was having such a rough time of it.  She told me that she didn't want to die around Christmas time, because it would be so cold then.  My mother had an aunt who died on Christmas day (that was her aunt's wish), and my mom said that was so hard on the family.  I know that my mother also recalled what it was like to lose both of her parents in January, in the middle of winter's icy grip.

On the day we buried her, only family members were present.  My father, my brother and his family, and our little family.  We'd brought DD this time, even though we'd sheltered her from exposure to the funeral home and the open casket.  We told DD that we were going to say good-bye to grandma.  It was such a beautiful day, so peaceful and warm.  We each placed a rose on the casket and said our final good-byes.  My mother could not have picked a more perfect day to be placed at rest, next to her own mother.  Later, on the way home, DD said:  "Mommy.  I didn't want to give my rose to grandma.  I wanted to keep it."  Now that would have made my mom smile.

I've finally finished the thank you notes.  There were quite a number of them, because my mother knew how to make friends and keep them, and many people came to pay their last respects or sent flowers or cards.  Oddly(?), my father received sympathy cards from her hairdresser, physical therapist, and pharmacist.  Two ladies from her hair salon came to visit us at the funeral home, full of very nice things to say about my mom.  (By the way, thank you to all of you who left such warm and loving comments; they were all appreciated.)

I've been agonizing over the cause of death on the birth certificate.  The doctor said that it was non-alcoholic cirrhosis/liver failure, caused by non-alcoholic steatohepatitis, and complicated by acute renal failure, congestive heart failure, and sepsis.  I've been researching this, and I think that she died of sepsis.  I don't know why it is so important to me that the record be straight, but it is.  Her liver enzymes were consistently normal while she was in the hospital.  We did not expect her to die, but yet she did.  I don't believe that any of the doctors and nurses did anything wrong -- I'm just trying to understand why she died when she did.  My mother always believed that when it is your time to go, that's all there is to it.  I do accept that God called her home at this time, and even though I still don't quite understand it, I am glad that she didn't have to go through all the suffering that is end stage liver disease.

On another note, my brother and I aren't speaking to each other now.  Well, he's not speaking to me, unless I speak to him first.  You see, my SIL did a lot of inappropriate things while my mother was alive.  On three occasions, she tried to coerce my mother into being cremated.  I only heard the last conversation.  What was the point?  Why, to leave "the family" with more money.  Why did she care?  I'm not quite sure.  It isn't her money; it's my parent's money.  And she really made my mother upset.  During the conversation that I heard, my mother said that she absolutely did not want to be cremated.  SIL wouldn't let up.  I ended the conversation by saying that it was her money, I was to be appointed her personal representative, and we were going to honor her wishes -- no cremation.  End of story.  At that time, I didn't realize that this was the third time that dear SIL had brought this up, or I would have torn her a new orifice.

And another thing.  My parents had an ongoing argument during their 50 years of marriage.  My mother was a horrible housekeeper, as in you-can't-even-get-in-some-of-the-rooms-because-of-the-accumulated-junk bad kind of housekeeper.  That was my father's complaint.  My mother always accused my father of not picking up after himself.  It was their argument, their marriage, their business.  My brother and SIL chose to insert themselves into the middle of this argument, taking my father's side, and they apparently decided that SIL was going to clean my parent's house -- whether my mother liked it or not.  She repeatedly tried to get my mother to agree to let her into the house to go through everything.  At one point, she told my mother that she was going to come over and "go through all the drawers and all the closets," because things needed to be straightened up.  My mother was not the type of person to tell her to go to h*ll, as she would have been justified in doing.  Instead, she just said she really didn't want her help.  It was so bad that when my parents went on what would be their very last vacation together in March of this year, my mother was afraid that dear SIL would come into her house when she wasn't there to go through her things.  She didn't do that, but my mother still worried about it.

These types of things just p*ssed me off.  My SIL always waited until I had left whatever the family gathering was before having these little discussions.  I also heard her ask once who was going to "get" something after my parents were gone, as though she had some claim on family things, I guess.  That also p*ssed me off.  But I never said a word to her, because my mother asked me not to.  But it was no secret to my mother how I felt about her and the things she'd said.

On the first viewing night, someone asked about my mother's pearls.  I told this person that they were mine, because I wasn't able to find the ones that my mother had worn with the dress (she was buried in the same dress she'd worn for their 50th anniversary party -- she looked so pretty!).  Truly, I did look for the necklace, but as I said, my mother's house was in such a disarray, I just didn't know where to find it.  I didn't mind -- I was glad to give her a necklace of mine.  SIL took this as an opportunity to pipe up and say -- are you ready? -- "we're going to find all kinds of things when we start going through her stuff."

WTF?  But I didn't say a word.  The next day, while talking with my brother about a number of issues, I (nicely) told him that I didn't want SIL going through our mother's things.  (Quite frankly, I honestly believe that if I didn't say something, SIL would have shown up on my father's doorstep the day after we'd buried my mother to "help" him -- she truly is that dense, and that persistent.)  My brother said "she's not going to do that" and hung up on me.  Hung up on me!  A**hole.  He wouldn't speak to me the next night at the funeral home, on Friday at the service, or at the gravesite on Saturday.  Interestingly, when I sat down with my mother's best friend on Thursday night, the first thing that she told me was "your mother didn't want SIL to go through her things -- don't let her do it."  And my father said that my mother told him the same thing. 

So, I guess my instincts were right.  I've since told her, in response to an e-mail that she sent to me, that I wasn't trying to hurt her feelings, and she shouldn't take it personally, but going through my mother's things is something that my brother, father, and I should do.  I also added that I wouldn't have dreamed of suggesting that I should go through her mother's things after she died.  (What kind of barn does someone have to be raised in to have to be told these things in the first place?)

But, apparently, they've both decided to be p*ssed off about this.  Honestly?  Right now, I don't care if I ever talk with either of them again.  They do have three kids, and my daughter is fond of them, but it wouldn't be the end of the world if they don't want to talk with us anymore.  DD has other cousins on my husband's side, and that family is so much nicer.  And, BTW, if something happened to DH and me, DD sure as h*ll wouldn't be going to live with my SIL.  I'm sure that she and my brother would be quite surprised by that, though they shouldn't be.  I would never let SIL raise my daughter.  Unless of course I would like her to be loudly screamed at whenever she does the slightest thing wrong, or have her drugged if she's a little too active, because it's just too much bother to deal with otherwise.  Um, no thanks to that.  Yeah, I'm bitter.  And I have a lot of suppressed anger that my mother wouldn't allow me to let out.  I do imagine that we will all talk again, but right now, I just don't care to.

I'm still missing my mother so very much.  I see her everywhere, in everything.  Things that should make me smile just make me cry.  I still have trouble telling people that she's gone.  I can't get much further than that before I start crying.  People tell me that it will get better.  I can't possibly imagine that.  Because it will mean that I am going to get used to not having my mom around. 

And how can that possibly be a good thing?

It's Over

My mom died.  That's so very hard to say.  I could never imagine it coming to pass.  But here it is.

They did move her from ICU, because she was doing so much better.  But, on Saturday, I received a call at around 8:00 in the morning.  It was her night nurse.  He told me that my mother was "coding."  I later learned that her respiration slowed down to nothing, and her heart stopped.  My mother always wanted efforts to be made if there was any hope.  So, we did not leave a DNR order for her.

I called my brother and my father.  My brother is about 45 minutes from the hospital.  I live an hour away.  Yet, I got there first.

Her room was empty.  I panicked.  Then I learned that they'd moved her back to ICU.  She was on a ventilator, because they didn't think she could breathe on her own quite yet.  She was a little confused when I saw her, and struggling to get out of the hand restraints that the nurses said were necessary to make sure she didn't pull out the breathing tube or the IVs.

Because it was the weekend, we were all able to stay without having to worry about calling work.  They threw us out before 2:00 to attend to her.  We were allowed to return from 4:00 to 8:00.  And we did.  And we did the same thing on Sunday, though we were limited to two people.  My father wanted to be there the whole time; my brother and I took shifts.

We watched my mom go downhill from Saturday morning until Sunday evening at 8:00 when we had to leave.  In the beginning, she was somewhat responsive.  At the end of the visiting day on Sunday, she seemed to be unresponsive.  The big problem was keeping her blood pressure up over 100.  If they could just do that, then they could start dialysis (her kidneys had stalled again).  I whispered in her ear that she needed to work on that before I left.

Until this point, the doctors had given us some hope, though all had said that she was in trouble.  Even though her liver values were in the normal range, she was having problems with her heart, lung, and kidneys, which they all believed was due to her liver problems.  And, she had developed an infection that was resistant to antibiotics.  They left me with the belief that Monday was the day that we would have to make a decision.

As it turned out, we didn't have to.  At 10:00 on Sunday evening, the nurse called and said that my mother's blood pressure had dropped, and none of the medications they were using to bring it back up were having any effect.  I asked if she was dying, and she said yes, that no one can live very long with a blood pressure as low as my mother had (generally, around 75/30).

We all returned.  After we got there, I asked how long she had, and the nurse told me it could be a couple of hours, or it could be a couple of days.  I immediately felt bad dragging my father back to the hospital.  We were all exhausted, but at 77, I imagine that it was more draining to him.

So, we sat.  And waited.  And watched the monitors.  The nurse brought in two additional recliner chairs so that we could try to get some sleep as we stayed with her.  I positioned my recliner next to her bed, so that I could lie next to her.  I jammed pillows above and below my hand, so that I could always be holding my mom's hand, even if I fell asleep.  It was the least I could do, and I know she would have done it for me.

I've mentioned that my mother and I have sometimes had a difficult relationship.  I was a brat when I was a teenager, and I rejected my parents as hopelessly irrelevant.  I didn't have much to do with then when I was in my 20's and 30's, mostly because I always seemed to be in night school.  But after I got married, things changed.  I realized just how wonderful my parents were, and we became very close.  That was over eight years ago.  But still, no one could push my buttons faster than my mom.  I would often yell at her.  She rarely yelled back.  I felt so badly about this, and I tried to talk with her about it before she went to ICU.  She dismissed it, saying that I had been a good daughter.  But, on Saturday, after my father went down to the cafeteria, I was able to tell my mother how much I really loved her, and how very, very sorry I was for ever treating her badly.  She wasn't perfect, but she was the very best mom I could have asked for.  I know that she heard me, because at that point she was still able to respond to us.

On that awful night, as I lay next to my mother, a wonderful thing happened.  Sleep escaped me, but I was bathed in the warmth of one wonderful memory after another.  Memories of just my mom and me, of our whole lives together.  Memories of childhood.  Memories of my wedding.  Memories of the last day we spent together, when she held me as I cried because I was worried about her slipping health.  She'd asked me then, "Do you believe in God?"  I told her of course I did.  "Well, then there's nothing to worry about then."  I think that on some level, she was trying to give me one final gift on her last night here on earth.  A gift of love.  To let me see that all was forgiven, that in the end, our true heart is all that matters.

At around 3:30, my mother's heart rate started fluctuating.  At 4:00, her heart just stopped.  It was over quickly.  We were told that she was not in any pain.

The doctors had already told me that my mother was not sick as a result of the cat bite.  Her main doctor told me that he used that as an excuse to get her into the hospital, because she was much sicker than she appeared.  In the end, I believe that she died of sepsis.  All along, the doctors had been talking to us about an infection in her body that she was trying to fend off.  It was just so low on my radar screen that I really didn't hear it.  I was worried about everything else.  But, sepsis probably caused her kidneys to fail and her blood pressure to drop.

Since then, we have just been performing our obligations.  Or, actually, I've been performing most of our obligations.  My father is feeling lost, because my mother always did everything for him.  My brother has expressed no preferences one way or another -- somehow, I find this incredibly annoying.  I have often felt overwhelmed since my mother left us.  I dread the thought of what kind of funeral she would have had if it were up to the two of them, instant indecision makers that they are.  I'm thankful that my mother drilled her history, my history, into my head.  It allowed me to answer the funeral home's questions easily.  We still have some decisions to make, but I guess we will talk about them tonight.  I think we will probably lay her to rest on Saturday, many miles away in a grave that is near her parents.

In a few minutes, I will start to get ready for the funeral home.  It will be the first time that I've seen my mom since early Monday morning.  I am dreading it.  I don't know how any of us will get through the visitation.  I wonder about stupid things, like whether I should even bother with makeup.  Because I've pretty much cried it all off every time I've put it on.

Lord help us all.  But most of all, please take good care of my mother.  We miss her so.  And mom, if you could, please leave me some kind of a sign to let me know that you live on.  Because that is the only thing that is keeping me going.  Hoping against hope that someday, I will see you again, healthy and whole.

My Heart Is On A See Saw

"They're moving me to ICU.  I don't have much longer."

That was the message that I received from my mother yesterday.  She called me at work from the hospital.  See saw down.

As it turned out, things weren't quite so dire, though they were still very bad.  They did move her to intensive care.  Her kidneys were shutting down.  Her heart was failing a bit.  And she could hardly breathe, because her lung was filling with fluid again.  The pulmonologist, who is the point person now, decided to move my mother.  Her general practitioner, a man who is truly sent from heaven, told me that the pulmonologist does his best work in ICU.  They just wanted to be able to watch my mother more closely.  The nurse ratio there is 1:2; in the "step down" ward, it is 1:4.  I was assured that she was not "actively dying."

She looked awful.  She could hardly breathe.  She started to hallucinate.  And I couldn't understand anything that she was trying to say.  The pulmonologist asked me about "end of life measures."  What would she want?  You know, her whole life, she's never been real clear on that.  She wants the doctors to do whatever is necessary, as long as there is hope.  What does no hope mean?  Well, when my grandmother was dying of congestive heart failure, they offered her a pacemaker.  It would have given her 24 more hours of life.  My mother refused it on my grandmother's behalf.  I agree that was the right decision, but it has haunted her ever since.  But the "end of life measures" question was what convinced my mother that the end was near.  I was convinced as well, because the pulmonologist told me my mother was  sicker than she appeared.  I couldn't imagine how that would be possible; she looked so very bad.

My mother argued against dialysis of her kidneys.  The kidney specialist was blunt, as was I.  If she didn't want it, she could expect to live for one more week.  If she tried it, they might be able to jump start her kidneys.  Based on everything she's ever told me, I would have thought that was what she wanted.  But, she was scared.  She didn't want to start dialysis, because she thought she might never stop.  And it would "tie her down," once she got out of the hospital.  She is such an optimist.  The rest of the family was thinking that she would never leave the hospital.  In the end, she agreed to try it.

And, they used the dialysis machine last night and this morning.  And she looked so much better!  So much better, in fact, that they kicked her out of ICU this afternoon.  Praise God.  See saw up.

I haven't been able to stop crying these last few days.  I know that my mother doesn't have much longer to live.  Even if she does get out of the hospital, the chances are she's no longer a transplant candidate, if she ever was (due to age and other medical conditions).  When she was originally diagnosed with liver disease in January 2005, that doctor gave her 2-1/2 to 3 years to live.  I don't know where all the of the time went, but we are into the end of that time frame.  And, earlier this week, my mother understood that she only had 2-3 months more.  I'm not quite sure where that came from, but after yesterday and thinking that the end was near, I thought how much I would have preferred the 2-3 months I had bitterly railed against only days earlier.

Please understand.  I love my mother.  I would trade places with her if I could.  She is a wonderful person.  But, over the years, our relationship has been tumultuous, to say the least.  No one can push my buttons as fast as she can.  We have had some knock down, drag out fights.  My husband often reminds me that I will be sorry someday for fighting with my mother.  I guess someday is here.  I have so many regrets.  I wish I could have bit my tongue more.  I wish that I would have known how much it really meant to her to spend time with me after DD was born -- I was just so overwhelmed.  If I had even an inkling how important it was to her, I would have gladly invited her over.  And those are things I think about.  Not about the times I was able to help her.  I'm in a flagellation mode, I guess.

I hope that she can come home.  I hope that we have another Christmas.  While I'm at it, I hope that she's a candidate for a transplant and is lucky enough to get the opportunity.  I pray that the surgery would be successful.  But if it can't be, then I hope that we can make peace.  I hope that she knows how much she means to me, and how I can't even imagine life without her.  It is so hard to tell her without crying, and she is so tired of everyone around her crying.  She said that it is very depressing, and she just wishes that we would all save our mourning for after she's gone.  I can't say as I blame her.

I'm so fortunate that my employer, the one that I complain about from time to time, has been understanding.  I understand that I can use the FMLA, and that they have generous leave policies, but they have just been really nice about it.  I expected my supervisor to be nice, but someone that I thought was hostile through and through is being supportive as well.  The hospital is fairly close to work, so I have been able to come in earlier and tack that time onto my lunch hour.  It's nice to be able to spend time with my mom like that.  And, if I need to stay longer (like today, when she needed help to eat), they don't care.  In fact, I gave my supervisor a leave slip (we are supposed to document all leave time usage), he simply tore it up.

I really believe that my mother is still alive by the grace of God.  I've asked everyone I know who prays to please pray for her.  Whenever I get too overwhelmed, I tell God that I am choosing to trust Him.  And I am.  I am going to trust Him.  And we will all get through this.

It is just so unbelievably hard.

Drifting Without A Rudder

That's really how I feel.  Drifting, just drifting.  I'm so very, very worried about my mom.

She has an appointment at a university hospital on Wednesday with a very good specialist, but she may not make that appointment.  Why, you might ask?  Because she's in the hospital trying to get over an infection.  From a cat bite.  From my cat.

A long time ago, I rescued a litter of kittens who were abandoned and nursed them back to health.  It was hard to find homes for them.  My parents took one, my brother took one, someone from work took one, and I kept two -- a boy and a girl.  For whatever reason, these cats are one family cats.  They don't like outsiders.  Period.  They all growl and hiss and just generally avoid other people.

My male cat will "turn" if he feels that his sister is being attacked.  And once, he turned on me when he thought my daughter was being attacked -- by me (she'd fallen and was crying; I think he thought I was hurting her).  On these occasions, even though I know why it's happening, it's very upsetting.  And it hurts!  He doesn't have claws, but if his teeth connect with an ankle or a foot, yikes.  I've had him for twelve years.  This has happened about six times.  On each occasion, there was a precipitating event.

My father, who loves cats, just can't seem to accept that my cats don't like him.  He is always trying to approach them.  And they don't like it.  The Monday before last, he was trying to pet the female.  And she started growling.  So, the male cat came out of nowhere and started attacking my mother's foot.  No big deal.  He didn't get past her shoe.  And then he left the room, and I assumed it was all over.  Then, I guess I did something stupid.  I went over to the female cat and stroked her fur, hoping to calm her down.  She growled a little, not really at me, but just because she was still upset.  Then, out of nowhere, the male cat came over and bit my mother in the ankle.  Hard.  I guess she was the first human in his line of sight.

She wouldn't go to a clinic.  She was in a hurry to go away for a couple of days, and we were on our way out to begin our vacation.  Because she has fluid buildup in her legs from her liver disease, she couldn't get the wound to stop draining.  Two days later, she brought it to her doctor's attention at a regular appointment.  He gave her antibiotics.

Apparently, they didn't work.  Her leg turned red from the ankle to the knee, and her doctor instructed her to go to the hospital, where she was admitted.  They've been pumping her full of antibiotics ever since. 

I went to the vet this weekend, because while this is an infrequent problem, and it is always explainable, it is still unacceptable.  Even though this cat is protective of my daughter, I wonder what might happen if he thought she was hurting his sister.  I find it hard to believe that he would ever hurt her, but you don't know.

The vet didn't have much to offer.  We have some pheromones that are supposed to be calming; it works kind of like a Glade plug in.  We could administer psychotropic drugs.  I could make an appointment with a behaviorist, and I will probably do that as soon as possible.  I could have his canine teeth pulled, which are the teeth that do all the damage in a bite.  Or, I could put him to sleep.  Oddly, the vet thought that euthanasia was more humane than removing his canine teeth.  I guess they are hard to remove, but still.  Worse than killing him?  I don't know about that.

My mother is very disappointed that she can't make it to her university appointment.  She is having such a hard time breathing with all the fluid buildup around her lungs (they've had to drain it three times now, about every other week), I think that she was hoping to hear some treatment options.  And my stupid cat screwed that up.  He is a very gentle soul otherwise.  And she doesn't want me to put him down for her sake.

Tonight, they told her that she may be developing kidney problems too.  That is a common problem for people with liver disease.  The kidneys try to take over for the failing liver, and then the kidneys begin to fail as well.  I'm hoping that is not happening.  I'm praying that is not happening.  They did just tell her that two very common liver values were within normal limits (PGOT and PGPT).

I can't even talk about this with anyone without tearing up.  I just don't know how we are going to get through this.  I do know that I am not ready to let my mother go. 

But, you know, I am never going to be ready to do that.  Not today.  Not two months from now.  Not ever.

Hate To Say I Told You So

I mentioned that back in March, a doctor told my mother that she needed to see an "asthma" doctor because she was having trouble breathing (she was actually tossed off a cruise ship and sent to the hospital).  I think I also mentioned that when I when I talked about this with my own doctor, who treats me for asthma, he said that what my mother really needed was a pulmonologist, since it was highly unlikely that she'd developed asthma in her late 70's.

She ignored me.  And she made some rather unflattering comments about my doctor, arguing that he'd never seen her, so how could he make any conclusions.

Well.  My mother was admitted to the hospital yesterday, because she had fluid in the sac surrounding her lungs.  Would you like to know how much they took out?  1150 cc's.  They don't quite know why this happened, and it could be because of her cirrhosis (non-alcoholic, non-hepatitis, just the sucky luck of the draw cirrhosis).  We are currently waiting for the results of the tests on the fluid.  It could be an infection, or it could be a cancer (or a host of other nasty things).

I am really, really angry with her for letting this go, and I let her know.  She couldn't even walk twenty steps without losing her breath at times.  And, while she did get around to scheduling the appointment with a doctor for an asthma evaluation, she scheduled it for September!  Her lung could have collapsed, and probably it would have if she'd waited that long.

I really hope for her sake that it's an infection.  That would be the best possible result.  If it's because of her cirrhosis, then she will need to go once a month, or once every other month, to have the fluid removed.  She asked her doctor if this meant that she was going to die soon, and he said no, but it was something that she would have to put up with.  I asked her if she told the doctor that she plays games with her Lasix (a water pill that's supposed to help prevent these kinds of problems).  Of course, she hadn't mentioned that.  And she has never told anyone that she sat around in a fleece jacket in the 85-degree heat on the 4th of July at my house because she was so cold.

I guess I'm asking the age-old question -- how do you get someone to take care of themselves?  If she dies soon, DD won't even remember her.  And she will never get to meet her last grandchild, should I be fortunate enough to get pregnant again.  Such a waste.

Good-bye, Little One

Today, I had to say good-bye to my sweet little K.  I've mentioned her here before.  She was very, very sick, and even though I did all that I could with medications, fluids, and frequent medical monitoring, there wasn't much more that I could do for her.  The vet thought that she was starting to suffer, and I knew it was time to let go.  But it was hard, so hard.

She was my friend for over 16 years.  I will miss her very, very much. 

Tonight, I take comfort from the story of the Rainbow Bridge.  I'd like to share it with you, if you haven't heard it before.  I would like to believe that it's true:

Just this side of heaven is a place called the Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to the Rainbow Bridge.  There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.  There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.  The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; his eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together....

Author unknown...

Lost In Denial

I've mentioned before that my mother has some serious illnesses.  But, as far back as I can remember, she has been a bit of a hypochondriac.  It's only in her old age that she actually has something legitimate to complain about.  But a lot of it is really her own fault.

Many years ago, my mother's doctor told her that she should start taking Lipitor, a cholesterol lowering drug.  One of her friends had leg cramps after taking it, so she refused.  Repeatedly.  She wouldn't even try it.  I guess she thought that the quadruple bypass that she needed later on was worth the trade off.  As for me?  I would have tried the Lipitor, and if I didn't like it, I would have asked for something else.

Several years ago, my mother's doctor told her that she had osteopenia, which is one small step away from osteoporosis.  He suggested that she take one of the drugs that they use to increase bone density.  He gave her some samples to try to see if she tolerated it well.  She never took it, because she'd just started taking something else, and she wanted to "get that straightened out."  As it turned out, she never took it.  And where is she now?  Well, several of her vertebrae have started to collapse.  She's in agony, and it's not clear if there's anything they can do for her now beyond refilling her pain medication prescriptions.

She also has cirrhosis.  It's not from hepatitis or alcohol abuse; she's just one of the "lucky" few who developed this awful problem for no apparent reason.  There's no cure for it, except for a liver transplant, and she's too old for that.  I offered her part of my liver if we were a match, but she's refused.  She's opted to take medication instead.  That's her prerogative, and I don't begrudge her that decision.

Now, since February, she's had trouble breathing.  She went on a cruise with some friends, and a cruise doctor told her that he thought that she had asthma underlying a respiratory infection.  She's been told to see a doctor for this.  So far, she's refused.  Her reason?  She wants to start physical therapy for her back, and she thinks that the asthma appointment might conflict with the physical therapy appointments that she's yet to schedule.  In the meantime, she really can't breathe.  A friend of hers called me last night, because they'd gone out and my mother had to stop walking at one point because she couldn't catch her breath.  Her friend was really worried and wanted to know if I could convince her to see a doctor for her breathing problem.

Coincidentally, I went to see my own asthma doctor today.  (I don't have any problems breathing, because I actually listen to my doctor when he asks me to do things.)  He told me that at my mother's age, and with her health problems, she likely doesn't have asthma.  Instead, it probably has something to do with her heart or her liver.  He suggested that she skip the asthma doctor and go straight to a pulmonologist for an evaluation.

I also consulted with Dr. Google today, and I found that shortness of breath does correlate with cirrhosis and heart disease, confirming what my own doctor said.  I called my mother twice today.  Mostly, I ended up yelling at her.  She is on a mission to kill herself, I guess.  And she acts as though she can't see what is obvious to everyone else.

I can understand why she might want to start physical therapy; she's in a lot of pain.  But I think that breathing is a helluva lot more important.  I do know what excruciating back pain is like, because I lived with it for a long time before having some surgery.  It can be incapacitating.  But still, breathing is more important.

I told her that it could be her liver disease, because sometimes fluid accumulates in the abdomen and causes problems breathing.  She said her abdomen has gotten larger, but one of her many doctors attributes this to her vertebrae collapsing.  I told her that her breathing problem could also be due to problems with her heart, maybe even congestive heart failure (her mother died of that).  She's decided if that's the case, it's not treatable (not true).  She hasn't gotten around to scheduling an appointment with her cardiologist, because he wants her to have a chemical stress test.  So she's just avoiding it (she's afraid that if they speed up her heart, they won't be able to slow it down, and she's also afraid that she would have more problems breathing than she already does, which wouldn't be the case if she would get some help for the breathing problems).

As I'm typing this, I can see that the biggest problem that my mother has is the large DENIAL tumor that is growing in her head.  As for me, I am starting to really feel like she won't be around much longer -- as in months.  And it really p*sses me off. 

Though I have been thinking about what to put on her tombstone.  How about:  "I thought I knew more than my doctors."

Good-bye, Dear Friend

Eleven years ago, the guy I was dating came over with a pizza and in that moment, my life changed for the better.  My little town (a different town than the one I live in now) was having a festival.  There were lots of people milling around the streets, and lots of activities.  I had been caring for a litter of kittens that had essentially been abandoned by one of my neighbors at the end of the street, along with three other kitties, so I really had a house full of felines.  I didn't think that there was room for anyone else.

A little girl and her mother happened on my house just as my boyfriend came over.  They were carrying a cat whose eyes were sealed shut.  Having seen her be narrowly missed by a passing car, the little girl made her mother promise to find the kitty's home.  When my boyfriend called me outside, I instantly recognized the cat as one who'd been living at the house where the abandoned kittens came from.

We let our pizza get cold and took the kitty to a vet.  She had an internal parasite, horrible fleas, and a bacterial and viral infection in her eyes.  I picked up the medicine, and I was going to take it (and the cat) back to the owners with some instructions regarding how they could help her get better.  The next door neighbor saw me with the cat, asked what happened, and told me that if I cared about the cat, I wouldn't return it, because the owners didn't care -- which is why she'd almost gotten killed that evening.  They apparently hadn't noticed that the cat's eyes had sealed shut and she was wandering around in between cars in the street.  I knew that what they were telling me was probably true -- the kittens that I'd taken in had some health problems, and they were literally starving to death.

And so I kept her, finding room at the inn for just one more.  And I nursed her.  And I easily spent $1,000 on medical supplies.  And surgery to remove one of her eyes, because it had become so damaged from the viral infection that it ruptured.  And she became one of my family.  And she wrapped herself around my heart.  For a long time, it was just me and the kitties.  (Until I met a wonderful man who fell in love with me and my kitties.)

A couple of weeks ago, I learned that my little kitty had a thyroid problem.  I started giving her medicine, but she lost weight at an enormous rate this last week.  To make a long story short, a second opinion and an ultrasound revealed liver, gall bladder, and pancreas problems, some of which may have been caused by a cancer.  And she wouldn't have survived the necessary treatment.  So, I made the painful decision to say good-bye today.  It wasn't easy.  And I won't ever be quite the same.

Sweet dreams, princess.  I will miss you.  And I will see you on the other side -- just as I promised.  God speed as you cross the Rainbow Bridge.  I will love you always.

I Guess My Mother Doesn't Approve

Well, harumph.  I guess my mother doesn't approve of some of the things that I'm doing.  She's a little passive-aggressive about it, but I finally asked her for specifics yesterday.

She doesn't approve of my breastfeeding my 18 month old daughter.  She thinks a child should be "broken" by the time they are 12 months old.  When I asked what she meant by "broken," she said she meant from bottles.  Well, DD doesn't use bottles anymore, though she stopped using them later than 12 months (and so did I, when you pin my mother down).  Besides, I asked, what does a bottle have to do with breastfeeding?  No clear answer there.  But my mother asked if I planned on doing "it" when DD was 2 years old!?!?!?  (Horrors.)  I said if she wanted to still breastfeed at 2 years old, we would do it.  Again, the silent disapproval on the telephone.  I still don't understand why anyone gives a rat's patoot about our breastfeeding.  You'd think with all the pressure TO BREASTFEED! when babies are new, people would lighten up a bit.  But, not.

She does not approve of our cosleeping.  Even though the doctor was the one who first suggested it when DD was a small baby so that I could get some sleep.  That's still the reason I do it.  DD will often wake up in the middle of the night, and it takes a grand total of about three seconds for me to comfort her and get us both back to sleep.  Not so if she were in the crib down the hall!  And, she pretty much sleeps through the night without nursing if she doesn't wake up from having a bad dream (or for whatever other reason she has for sometimes waking up around 2 in the morning).  She usually wakes up between 4 and 5 a.m. to nurse, and I make sure that she definitely nurses between 5:45 and 6 a.m. (we even set the alarm for it), because she doesn't have breakfast until she gets to daycare. But, even during her 4 and 5 a.m. nursing sessions, we are both pretty much back to sleep in a few minutes.

Well, I guess we have come full circle.  I'm sure my grandmother also expressed a lot of disapproval to my mother.  But, the difference between us is that I won't change, unless I think it's best for DD.  I think my mom would tend to cave in to what others thought.  But maybe not.  And I guess I can't really blame my mother.  I feel the silent (and sometimes not so silent) disapproval from many people.  Even those who really don't care much say that we are acting like "tree huggers."  Imagine, conservative me, being accused of being a tree hugger!  Tee hee.

From our breastfeedin', cosleepin' corner of the world, I remain . . .