Thinkin of the day, when you went away

What a life to take, what a bond to break

I’ll be missing you

 

Aww puff daddy, pdiddy, diddy, sean combs. You’re so young!

 

So I digress. Already. But this blog is about the physical AND figurative weights of life. And death is a damn f-ing heavy weight. Fear of it coming. Fear of it happening unexpectedly to self or loved ones. And the heaviest of all- actually watching someone you love die.

My mother-in-law was not my best friend. We honestly hardly knew each other. I spent more time with her as she died from cancer than I did all the 5 years before that. She lived in Toronto- so lay off with the judgement.

But holy fuck her death. Her path to death. It really just leaves me wanting to write ‘fuck’ over and over. But I’ll try to be more constructive than that.

This woman. Her family called her ‘Baby’. She was the youngest girl of NINE children and she always got her way. Or at least, you were way better off if you just let her have her way. She was firey. Spirited. And you knew you were in for it when the lower jaw came jutting out. My son makes the same face when he’s trying to figure out the bullshit around him.

The first time I met her was at a family wedding. I had been dating Daniel for about a year at this point. We had moved in together, but his family didn’t know. Which was super bizarre to me. My parents know EVERYTHING. But I was determined not to let my big mouth get me in trouble. Yet somehow at a dinner, when it’s just me and her at the table, I start talking about gardening. Now, she thinks I live in an apartment, so she understandably starts asking where on earth I am growing a garden. I quickly say some shit about Daniel letting me use his backyard since I have no space of my own. She gives me this “ohhhhh” with a slow bobbing of her head. Then she smiles. Looks me up and down. And I know I am completely busted.

But that is one of my favorite memories. That she clearly judged me and weighed me. That her little boy was worth that to her. I’m not sure he sees that- that all her criticism and worry was love. That she just wanted what was best for him. And she was going to take every opportunity to figure out if I was the best.

Over the years I felt like I became the listener. She would talk on and on about her weight and health. She even felt open enough to talk to me about my husband’s ex-wife, and how sad she was when they divorced. Well, I’m telling myself it was openness and trust, even if it might have just been tacky and rude.

And then the cancer came.

Surgeries and chemo were had. The fiance (at the time) cried. I couldn’t believe we were facing something so serious just a couple of years into our relationship.

But she made it through. And to our wedding. Gorgeous as ever despite her post-chemo hair. Cuz did I mention? This woman was gorgeous.

 

So marriage. Pregnancy. Baby. She was now Nana, which was great since I never knew what to call her before that. Three years and some months pass from the end of her chemo and then… It’s back.

The discomfort in her abdomen she’d been feeling for months is another tumor. Making itself at home on her bladder.

We don’t cry. We are confident that since she beat it once, she’ll beat it again. Now, shh, don’t quote me any statistics on the chances of surviving recurring cancer. I’m sure our optimism was stupid. But that’s what she needed- optimism. She couldn’t stand for people to cry around her. Ever.

Again, chemo happened. Once or twice. We were all prepared to go see her for the next round of chemo because she just seemed so down. Apparently poisoning your body to kill cancer cells doesn’t feel too good.

But the next round never came. The tumor actually grew over the course of her chemo. It grew. Science is actively trying to kill it and it grew. All her hair is gone, she’s sick all the time. But the damn thing grew. Like “fuck you chemo. You can’t stop me. I’ve got mutant cells to grow. Get out of my way.”

So surgery gets put on the table. And oh. my. god. I’m going to have to bitch about Canadian health care here for a minute. Yay it’s “free”. Yay everyone has access. But how the FUCK did it take from late October to early December to figure out this surgery shit? We sat here for a month and a fucking-half on pins and needles, poised at any moment to buy a plane ticket to Toronto to be there for this surgery. Ya know. In case she didn’t make it.

But the surgery never came.

Early December we find out the doctors have decided that it isn’t safe to operate. That the tumor is too big and has invaded too much to be successfully removed.

And here’s how THAT phone call went:

Nana is crying, but doing that whole “I’m not crying” thing. She tells us the news. My husband has this visceral, body-wrenching spasm that I realize is him allowing himself to cry for like, a millisecond. Nana now cries, but she’s apologizing because we’d already bought plane tickets to come for the now nonexistent surgery. The woman has been handed her death sentence but she’s crying over plane tickets. Now, we all know that’s not REALLY why she’s crying. But that’s the excuse she picks.

I don’t even know how to encapsulate the next 6 months that lead to her death. These are crazy, uncertain times. My family basically stops living or making plans. We are never sure if we can leave town or make plans to see friends because most weekends are waiting to see if she’s going to keep living another week. Every other week feels like it’s going to be the end. And then it’s not. Which, yay. I guess. Because her quality of life is just getting worse and worse and she’s really starting to suffer.

But we, my immediate family, are suffering too. I am having panic attacks at least once a week on the way to work. I switch to a half-time position so I can at least provide my family with a good dinner and a somewhat clean house. But I end up cowering on the couch a lot watching Netflix. I start taking Prozac. And then Klonopin for the anxiety. And I just miss my husband. No blame here- he’s clearly devastated and working his way through a whole shit-ton of emotions built up from his childhood. But I miss him. I’m usually the depressive one. And now I’m being asked to lead the way, keep the family on track. And that is fucking exhausting.

And through all that, we are on the cancer roller coaster. What do I mean by that? Let me illustrate.

We get home from our Christmas in Canada on the 29th. The day we leave, Nana seems very tired and confused. And super unsteady on her feet. Soon after, she is taken to the hospital. Her calcium levels are high and making her brain not work right.

Now I know milk does a body good, but did you know too much calcium puts you in a coma? Probably hard to do by drinking milk, but when your cancer is leeching it from your bones, your calcium levels can get out of hand. At least this is my non-doctor understanding of the situation.

So it is December 31st. New Year’s Eve and my best friend’s birthday. We are hosting a small party for her. And then Daniel’s brother calls to inform him that Nana is doing terribly in the hospital and that he should come to say goodbye. This is TWO days after we just left Canada. Mind fuck. And a bit of a wallet fuck too.

So New Year’s/birthday party consists of my husband packing, buying plane tickets. And all of my friends quietly whispering about what the fuck is going on. Happy Birthday!

But Nana doesn’t die here.

She gets better and goes home. Amazing. So we go see her in February in case this is one of her last good times. Which, in hindsight, it kind of was. Then Daniel goes again in March when she’s back in the hospital and not looking well. Then we all go in April when she’s talking about stopping the fight. We go to say our goodbyes.

I remember we all sat in the living room with the doctor and Daniel’s brother on the phone, and we talked about quality of life and if she should keep fighting. Her meds were keeping her alive- but alive meant barely eating and sleeping most of the day. Alive meant dealing with catheters draining both her kidneys into bags she had to drag around the house. Alive meant a lot of frustration for everyone involved.

The doctor seemed to think we wanted to kill her off. Which is not the spirit behind what we were feeling. We wanted her to stop suffering. But in the end we all agreed she should move back into the hospital where she would at least be safer and have more support to care for her.

It was during this time, this sad, sad time, that she and I really bonded. She didn’t think she could talk to Daniel about death, about questioning what the purpose was of continuing to live. But she could talk to me. Because I could hear it without crying. Well, I cried later in private. But she didn’t know it. We could talk about quality of life and she could tell me how angry she got sometimes that this was happening. She could cry about not seeing her grandchildren grow up.

And I felt useful. The thing with unbeatable cancer, with just waiting for death to come, is how out of control you feel. Nothing you can do will help or change things. You just have to BE. And how many of us are good at that? So it was nice, in these few moments, to feel like I was helping.

So to the hospital she went. And the day came for us to fly back home. I felt like we wouldn’t see her again- we were all preparing for the end. She asked about the dress she wanted to wear for her funeral- apparently she wore it to my husband’s first wedding. (Do you see a pattern here?) But this time she asked if I was ok with it. She wanted my ok. Who got to judge who now? But of course I wasn’t judging. I was flattered she thought of me and my feelings during this dreadful time. I mean, when else is it ok to be super selfish if not when you are dying?

We said goodbye. But like, in an everyday, see you later, kind of goodbye. But all knowing it was more than that.

But it’s not goodbye. She keeps fighting. We Facetime. Which is weird to see someone and talk to them after you’ve said THE GOODBYE. As the weeks go on, she’s clearly getting very weak and starts having hallucinations.

And then at some point at the end of May, things stop working. Her drugs can’t fight the rising calcium levels any more. So they stop the drugs. And she falls asleep.

And doesn’t ever really wake up.

Our life becomes this wretched guessing game of “how long can Nana live without water?” When should Daniel go back to be there for the end? We have to maximize his time at work, but not have him miss her death. These conversations are morbid and tacky. But they are reality.

After several days, the doctor finally says she only has a couple of days left. Husband buys yet another ticket to Canada, leaving behind instructions for his funeral attire. Which we have been getting ready for months. I pretend to work, feed the kid, and hyperventilate often about when I should head to Canada. When she dies? Several days after since funeral arrangements take a while?

The two days the doctor predicted stretch into 4. I have no idea how the body does this. You always hear how imperative water is, but this woman is lasting day after day with no water. No IV. Just lying in her bed unconscious.

Eight Days.

That’s how long she lay there. That’s how long her family kept vigil. That’s how long I waited at home wondering if I should go to Canada or not. And finally I couldn’t take it any more and just bought tickets and went up there.

 

She died while we were in flight.

 

Lucky timing on my part I guess. Got to be there with the hubby that night, yet didn’t have to watch her go. ‘cuz I’ve seen that, and it wasn’t nice.

I think at first we all felt relief. Relief she wasn’t suffering, relief we didn’t have to WAIT any more. Which I know sounds awful, but you try expecting someone to die at any time for six months. That shit is wearing.

And then we all had tears. And breakdowns. And my almost-3-year-old is just really trying so hard to process all this. “Where’s Nana? Why’d she die? Oh….” with his head hanging and a sense of sadness I’m sure he can’t even make sense of.

He came to the funeral, but sat in the back with my parents. They are amazing by the way- coming all that way to pay respect and help watch the kid. When they brought him, he wanted to see Nana. Ya know, all laid out in the casket. It made everyone cry. Like everyone. The poor little kid looking at his dead grandmother. He of course cries- but mainly because everyone is looking at him, not because he understands what is going on.

But we make it through. And we make it home. And we cry more and have more breakdowns. And we try to keep moving.

This weekend is her first birthday since her death. So we are all thinking of her. Mourning her.

My son is even in on the action, asking about Nana at least twice a day. He wants me to recite the story of why and how she died. My mistake I guess for trying to be open and honest with him about death.

But he’s gotten stuck at the point of the story after the funeral. He remembers them pushing her casket out. And putting it in a car. “And then what mommy?” He wants to know where her body went next.

And I can’t say it. I can’t say that they threw Nana in a fire and burned her up until she was just ashes. Or however the fuck cremation works.

So I’ve finally come up with that Otto (grandpa) took her body back to the Philippines so she could be buried with her mommy and daddy. But then that is just a ton of questions about “who are Nana’s mommy and daddy?” And of course Daniel is traveling and I don’t know the answer to this.

I mean, I barely knew the woman.