cancer is satan and other stories we tell ourselves to get by

It has been five days since I saw Ma last.  We expect a physical decline, but really, she still looks pretty good.  It is her medication changes and her vital signs that tell her story, her slide into sleep that isn't chemical sedation but rather an increase in CO2 and the metabolic changes as her body dies.  Although medically competent to care for Ma, I feel judgement (where there likely is none) from family and her church members-- why should the heathen new daughter-in-law be caring for this woman?  Sometimes I feel Ma's impatience, too-- that maybe the other daughter in law does a better job, or anticipates her needs more, or whatever.  And then I feel really, horribly selfish, because of course Ma's frustration has very little to do with me.  She is working very very hard doing exactly what she needs to be doing, and it is not easy.  Death is a process, and my job is to be supportive of her and make her comfortable and give her whatever she wants and needs.

Today what Ma wants is cold.  An ice cold wet washcloth for her forehead, ice chips and cold ginger ale to sip at bedside, a foot and calf massage with peppermint essential oil and a fan blowing on her feet after.  Every window in this house is open.  I'm shivering on the couch and she is complaining that she is hot.  And then, inexplicably, she wants to sit up.  I get her situated on the edge of the bed and await further instruction.

"Those plants out there need water," she says.  And sure enough, they do.  We are so focused on caring for her that things that aren't going to matter in a week when she is dead (like gift plants that will be thrown out) aren't high on the list of priorities.  But what Ma wants, Ma gets.  I remember her crowing exactly that two weeks ago, this woman who worked her whole life making sure everyone else got what they needed.   She isn't saying that now; frankly, she is saying very little.  The tumors are pressed up against the fundus of her stomach, which doesn't like things pressed up against it.  Hence, the persistent nausea.  They combine with the ascites in her belly and push up against Ma's diaphragm.  She is out of breath now brushing her teeth or talking too much.

The hospice nurse says that ideally, what will happen is that Ma's oxygen will continue to fall and her CO2 will continue to rise, putting her in a semi-euphoric state from which she will enter a coma and slip peacefully away.

* * *

It has only been a day.  So much of what I wanted to remember to write down about her I have already forgotten--things that, when they happened yesterday, I already knew would never be happening again.  Yesterday morning on a walk around the house, I found the most amazing moth.  My husband brought it inside to show her, and I laughed at first, thinking, "how funny.  He still brings bugs inside to show his mama."  And how quickly that laughter turned so very bittersweet as I realized that, like so many other things, it would be the last time.

Two visitors yesterday, the pastor who comes by every day and then a couple of ladies from church.  I wonder where the rest of them are; I know that in the church I grew up in, the members would have organized weeks ago, and there would be food loaded on tables and counters, the house would be spotless, the yard would have been weeded.  This is a church Ma has devoted her life to, and it angers me that so few of its members are showing much supposed Christ-like love.  Except prayer.  They sure do pray a lot.  They even mention on her facebook page, the one she has been too weak to check for almost 14 days, how much they are praying for her.  A couple have even mentioned that they are praying for her to be cancer free.  She rolls her eyes when I tell her about it and says, "they really don't get it, do they?"  The pastor sits bedside; I give them what little privacy there is by sitting in the living room.  I hear him say, "so your whole family has gone to Washington for the weekend!"  And after a pause, her pointed reply, "not all of them.  Some are still here with me."  The pastor and the church ladies thank me profusely for being here, as have other church members who have stopped by.  As if this is a chore.  As if I could be anywhere else.

Last night, after her youngest son had gone to bed, I asked her, as I do frequently, if there was anything she needed.  As she generally does, she shook her head and said, "no."  But then she got this stern look on her face, and she said, "I need to die.  Can you do that?"  I went to her and held her soft, smooth hands, and she said, "can't I just have a whole bunch of morphine?  Wouldn't that do it?  I've thought about this."  And I bit my lip to keep from crying as she looked at me and realization dawned on her that her god wouldn't approve.  "That would be suicide, wouldn't it.  And that would be wrong.  I just can't do this anymore.  I am done.  I am done talking, I am worn out, I am so ready.  But I don't know what else I need to do for Jesus to come get me."  I had no answer for that that she would want to hear.  So we talked about it, and I agreed that we could give her the maximum dose of morphine possible to keep her sedated without killing her.  She said no more phone calls, no more visitors except family and pastor.

She is done.  She is ready.  And I cannot think of any compassionate god that would prolong the life of someone so miserable and so desperate to go back home to Him.