Taking Care of Mom.

My Momma

Since I was a little girl, everyone told me I was just like my mom. I admit, I did not disagree. We looked very much alike. In my early 20’s, I even found a picture once of me in my grandma’s kitchen when I was a teenager while I was going through old photos with my mom. I was wearing a flower patterned dress that I didn’t recognize but that was me. I was baffled how I could not have remembered owning that dress. Confused, I showed my mom the picture from where I sat cross legged on the floor. She took one quick look, rolled her eyes and said “move your thumb”. I flipped the photo back towards me, moved my thumb and saw in tiny black print “1966”.  “Omg, that’s you!” I laughed to mom. She was 15 years old in that photo. I wasn’t even a thought in her mind at the time.

Personality wise, we were also similar. Both of us were kind of shy. Both loved writing and both were very creative. As I grew up, I did shake off the shyness thing. I attribute that to my work as a nursing assistant and then as a realtor. You can’t be shy in either of those professions. My mom on the other hand never seemed to. She could put her foot down when she needed to and she was the disciplinarian, but she did suffer from anxiety and depression, often keeping to herself. Around her close friends she could be the life of the party and was always fun to be around. In public, she would just do her business and go home. I never knew her to go on trips with with girlfriends or have a career outside of taking care of my sister and I. She did work at a Woolco I believe for a bit when we were younger and she was also a nursing assistant until she was injured. That’s what led me to that line of work. 

We were each other’s best friends. Sure, we bumped heads when I was a kid and definitely as a teenager. I was so glad when I entered my 20’s and we were finally getting to know each other on more of a personal level. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t call her or go over to the house to see her for a quick or not quick visit. We shared a lot of the same interests and generally liked being in each other’s company. 

One day I called her just to see how her day was going as I always did. She said she didn’t feel like talking saying she was tired and just wanted to go lay down for a bit. She apologized and said she’d call me later. This time I couldn’t help but say something. “Mom, you’ve been tired a lot lately. Maybe you should see the doctor.” She agreed. Mom was also diabetic so we didn’t want her to not see the doctor just in case something was changing. You have to keep on top of diabetes. I went over to see her later that day and as we stood chatting about the weather or something menial in the kitchen, she started coughing a bit. It was enough she needed a tissue to cough into. When she looked into the tissue, it was all blood. We stood there looking at the red against the white of the tissue like stone figures. No one knew what to say except ‘that’s not good.’

Mom made a doctor’s appointment for a few days out. They did all kinds of tests and x-rays. A few days later my dad had left my husband and I a voicemail and said in an elated voice “It’s not cancer! It’s something called Wegener’s disease, something that is similar to what cancer looks like but it’s 80% treatable. Call us when you get home.” We were all so relieved. 

A few days later, mom and dad asked my husband and I and my sister and her husband to come to the house to talk. They told us the doctor’s had made a mistake and that mom in fact did have cancer. Stage four as it turned out. It had started in her kidneys and metastasized to her lungs, which is why she was coughing up blood. Further doctor visits would reveal that she had about six months to live. This was October 2000. We have always been a very supportive family and we instantly banded together to support and love on mom all we could. We also gave mom and dad space to wrap their heads around this. Mom was 49 years old.

At the time my husband and I were renting a little two bedroom bungalow as we were saving up to buy our first home. One night at dinner I suggested that we move in with mom and dad. Since my dad worked the late afternoon shift and didn’t get home until about 3am every day, he was not home for dinner and she was alone. We were already bringing her dinner every night and staying at her house with her as long as we could before we had to leave to go to bed. Seemed like a win/win to me. I was not surprised at all that he immediately agreed we should approach my parents with the idea. At a family Christmas gathering in December 2000, as I sat on the floor with my mom chatting with all our family around us, I quietly told her what Mark and I had been talking about. She leaned in without anyone hearing us and said it was funny I brought it up because she and dad had been discussing the same thing, about asking us to move in. They weren’t sure how to approach the subject with us or if we would even want to. Now we both knew that we were all for it. Mark and I gave our two month notice to our landlord immediately after Christmas. 

We moved in at the end of February 2001 where I immediately became her main caregiver. I didn’t mind whatsoever. Mark and I took over the basement and made it into a little makeshift apartment and mom and dad had the main level. Everyday was all about mom. I would make sure she had clean clothes, something to eat and some form of entertainment. I was also the go between when friends and family would call. She would usually accommodate all visitors though. She was always thinking about others, never herself. This worked pretty well for about a month. Then her situation deteriorated very quickly.

She was in and out of the hospital for weeks. The visits are a complete blur to me, except the last hospital stay. Her oncologist asked to speak to my dad and I privately while she was sleeping one day. She had us sit in her office and broke the news to us that what we knew would eventually happen was closer than we thought. She bluntly said as empathetic as she could with tears in her eyes that mom had two to four weeks to live. It was the first week of April 2001. We didn’t tell mom right away. A decision I have always regretted but she knew, and she never said anything about us not telling her. She understood how hard it was for us to face that reality. See, always thinking of others. We started bringing in things from home: her favourite pillow, blankets and photos. Even her bedroom lamp. We wanted her to be comfortable. When mom saw us come into the room with her things, she sat up and looked around. She said confidently, “what am I, moving in? I don’t think so. I want to go home and do this on my own terms.” We agreed and made arrangements for her to come home. 

Two days after coming home, she died. It was just after 4am. The sun would be up soon and all of her family and friends were there. Everyone she wanted to be there was at her side. She was 49 years old. To be able to be by her side caring for her was one of the most honourable things I’ve done to this day. We experienced so much together during that time. Too much for a single blog. My mom taught me in her last few days to stick to your guns. If you want to be cared for a certain way, then push as much as you can. It’s your life, and it’s your experience. The hospital didn’t want to send her home. She pushed, which made my dad and I push. That was probably the first time in my life I said no to someone in authority. I remember saying to the oncologist “She wants to go home. Make it happen.” 

If you want to know more about my experience of caring for my mom, just reach out. I’d be happy to tell you more about the specific things we had to go through. Although she wasn’t elderly, I was still an adult child taking care of my ageing parent. It’s an experience I will never regret. One of the last things I remember saying to mom was that it was a privilege to care for her, just like she cared for me when I needed her for my entire twenty four years. Thanks mom.