Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Thursday, November 12, 2015
November 12, 2007
I woke up from the obnoxious ring tone of my husband’s cell phone at 4 am early Monday morning, November 12th. I pushed Adam and he grudgingly got out of bed and stumbled to his phone. He was muttering. The phone call only took about a minute. My brain was on this disillusioned high of melatonin in my body. Half awake…half asleep. Adam closed his phone and took in a huge breath.
“Your mom is not doing well and there is an ambulance at the house that will take her to the hospital.”
Without knowing how I got there, I was standing next to my bed looking at the blurred image of my husband.Finding my glasses was not top priority at the time.
“What do you mean, not doing well?”
At this point, I heard the ambulance siren getting farther away. It’s times like these that you regret you and your husband living only 2 minutes from your parents.
“Oh my God! That’s the ambulance taking Mommy away! I can’t do this! That’s my mommy! Where's Rebecca and Michael?”
“At home.”
“Well, we gotta go there!”
We arrived at my parent’s house, reluctantly greeted by my younger brother and sister. It was at this moment I realized Adam and I are in our pajamas still. My hair is in the sloppiest of pony tails. I wiped a crust from my eye and I asked them what happened. Rebecca starts explaining.
“Dad went to check on Mom a little bit ago. She was really gargling in her sleep. Daddy called the ambulance and told Mom she was going to the hospital.”
“What did Mom say?”
“She said, ‘Okay, Sweetie, where are my glasses?’”
I decided that the hospital is where we should all be.We piled into my Hyundai and drove the ten agonizing minutes to the hospital.
Hours go by. As the morning horizon is covered in sunlight, my head begins to feel dizzy. The doctor finally allowed us to see our mother. As we opened the cold curtain I tell myself that Michael and Rebecca needed me to be strong and I walked in.
I couldn’t believe it. There she was, connected to tubes and monitors, and still it didn’t feel like her. At that point, I couldn’t feel my legs and I collapsed into a chair.
They explained that she had gotten pneumonia in her good lung and was going on a breathing machine. They were going to move her up to the ICU. Suddenly, this became our norm in our family.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
*The following was written after returning home from the hospital after delivering Aryn*
Aryn J Hanson
These last 3 days have felt like a blur. Probably due to everything emotionally, and the medicine. It was a lot of work. First, we used citosin to get me to get contractions. By evening of the 2nd night, I started getting little ones. Around 1am today I was switched to a more aggressive medicine. I contacted for the next 9 hours. At 10:08, I delivered Aryn. 9 1/2 inches tall 290 grams. So beautiful. 10 fingers, 10 toes. Aryn had Adam's lips. The hospital was wonderful. They were very caring, and thoughtful, and went out of their way to make me and my family comfortable. They put this picture of the leaf and tear drop on my door so all doctors and nurses knew what was going on. Our parents contacted the Queen of Heaven mortuary for us.
Delivering Aryn was so hard. I chose to not do an epidural, (I have this horrible fear of needles anywhere near my spine) and used other medications to ease the pain. My body hurts all over, and to top it off, my heart aches. I begged to be released that day. I did not want to stay where other moms were enjoying the delivery of their babies. Maybe I was jealous, or angry, or just too sad. Either way, I'm glad to be home.
"The distance between joy and sorrow can be measured by a heartbeat."
*Celebrating Aryn's Second Birthday*
Saturday, November 7, 2009
*Celebrating Aryn's Third Birthday*
Looking back on all these posts I've made over the last 8 years on this day is remarkable. You have to really hand it social media and this push to "share memories". I am seeing it. The growth. It might be subtle, but it is truly there.
Upon returning home from the hospital, there was quite a bit to be done. We had to plan a funeral for Aryn. We had to decide on so many things. At 22 years old, this was completely out of my league. Thumbing through the funeral home's catalog along with my husband and my mother, we came upon the perfect urn. A royal blue color, which seemed so strong only to break through with gorgeous doves in flight. The urn, in the catalog, was called, "Coming Home". Yes. Aryn was in fact not with me but with our Lord. And I found peace in that. With my grandmothers and other family that had already passed away, he was safe with them until I got there. This urn would do just fine.
3 years ago today at 10:08 am, I delivered Aryn J Hanson only to have a chance to say goodbye forever to him. Happy Heavenly Birthday, Aryn. Mommy misses you. "You never know how much strength you have until strength is all you have left."
Had a wonderful evening with my in-laws. Enjoyed pulled pork and ended the night singing Happy Birthday to Aryn and eating cake! I can't believe it's been 3 years already. And now Aryn has a sister to watch over. I love my family.
*Celebrating Aryn's Fourth Birthday*
Happy Heavenly Birthday, Aryn. Four years ago, you were with us for but a moment, but now you're in our hearts forever. You have a little sister now, can you believe it?! I will always remember the brief time God gave us with you and be thankful for that. Until we meet again...~Mommy.
*Celebrating Aryn's Fifth Birthday*
Well, today at 10:08am 5 years ago, I was able to meet my dear child face to face for the first and only time. Aryn has made my life so special because I now know how precious life really is and to love the ones you are with. Being 20 weeks through my pregnancy it just wasn't enough time with him. Happy heavenly birthday, Aryn. You are always loved and remembered.
Celebrating Aryn's Sixth Birthday*
Celebrating Aryn's Sixth Birthday*
Happy Heavenly birthday, Aryn!
*Celebrating Aryn's Seventh Birthday*
"My body hurts all over, and to top it off, my heart aches. I begged to be released that day. I did not want to stay where other moms were enjoying the delivery of their babies. Maybe I was jealous, or angry, or just too sad. Either way, I'm glad to be home."
7 years ago today I was doing the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I was saying goodbye to my first child. In a hospital room where it took 3 days to induce him. In that instant at 10:08 in the morning, I became a mother without a child. It wouldn't be for another 3 years that I would be blessed and terrified to be pregnant again. I woke up this morning and sang "Happy Birthday" to Aryn in my mind. I sat up in bed and remembered a few things...
-It was confirmed that Aryn had passed away on Friday 11/2, and sadly the hospital was booked until Monday 11/5 for me to go in. That was the longest weekend I've had to endure.
-Aryn had Adam's lips
-Aryn looked perfect. 10 fingers, 10 toes...so tiny
-The first nurse....a special "bereavement" nurse, you know, someone trained to deal with this sort of thing...introduced herself by hugging me (um, no) and proceeded to complain about how naughty her 3-year-old was and how she wanted to spank her. (Ya, lady, I would trade places with you right now in a heart beat) . Needless to say after that and the umpteenth time of her hugging me, she was replaced thankfully...
-They have small donated clothes for the babies in the hospital for this sort of thing, and I to this day still have them.
-This sort of thing is not written in the What to Expect books. I mean, yes, there is a section in the end briefly addressing it...but nothing about what I SHOULD expect when I got to the hospital that day.
-At Mercy Gilbert, they had people calling several weeks later apparently to follow up on everyone's stays at the hospital. What the person called me failed to do was actually see why I was there. Because it was the most heart-wrenching thing to hear her ask, "And how are you and the little one doing?" To which my reply was, "Well, I'm getting better, but you better look at your file because my baby was a stillborn."
-I said it 7 years ago, and I still stand firm on this. When you get into a part of your life where there is devastation all around you, where the doctors are telling you what will happen, even when at times...when you feel like everything....every innocent thing that you know to be true is ripped from you, you have to find a way, ANY way to grieve. For us, we chose to laugh. We made morbid jokes. We made "too-soon" jokes. They doctors will tell you what the numbers mean, when the inevitable is. But they can't tell you how to grieve. And by laughing, that gave us control over the situation again. It made me who I am today. It is that special thing about mine and Adam's relationship. So in a sense, perhaps Aryn gave us that gift before we had to say goodbye.
-It was confirmed that Aryn had passed away on Friday 11/2, and sadly the hospital was booked until Monday 11/5 for me to go in. That was the longest weekend I've had to endure.
-Aryn had Adam's lips
-Aryn looked perfect. 10 fingers, 10 toes...so tiny
-The first nurse....a special "bereavement" nurse, you know, someone trained to deal with this sort of thing...introduced herself by hugging me (um, no) and proceeded to complain about how naughty her 3-year-old was and how she wanted to spank her. (Ya, lady, I would trade places with you right now in a heart beat) . Needless to say after that and the umpteenth time of her hugging me, she was replaced thankfully...
-They have small donated clothes for the babies in the hospital for this sort of thing, and I to this day still have them.
-This sort of thing is not written in the What to Expect books. I mean, yes, there is a section in the end briefly addressing it...but nothing about what I SHOULD expect when I got to the hospital that day.
-At Mercy Gilbert, they had people calling several weeks later apparently to follow up on everyone's stays at the hospital. What the person called me failed to do was actually see why I was there. Because it was the most heart-wrenching thing to hear her ask, "And how are you and the little one doing?" To which my reply was, "Well, I'm getting better, but you better look at your file because my baby was a stillborn."
-I said it 7 years ago, and I still stand firm on this. When you get into a part of your life where there is devastation all around you, where the doctors are telling you what will happen, even when at times...when you feel like everything....every innocent thing that you know to be true is ripped from you, you have to find a way, ANY way to grieve. For us, we chose to laugh. We made morbid jokes. We made "too-soon" jokes. They doctors will tell you what the numbers mean, when the inevitable is. But they can't tell you how to grieve. And by laughing, that gave us control over the situation again. It made me who I am today. It is that special thing about mine and Adam's relationship. So in a sense, perhaps Aryn gave us that gift before we had to say goodbye.
Happy Heavenly Birthday, Aryn. Mommy loves you.
Looking back on all these posts I've made over the last 8 years on this day is remarkable. You have to really hand it social media and this push to "share memories". I am seeing it. The growth. It might be subtle, but it is truly there. Upon returning home from the hospital, there was quite a bit to be done. We had to plan a funeral for Aryn. We had to decide on so many things. At 22 years old, this was completely out of my league. Thumbing through the funeral home's catalog along with my husband and my mother, we came upon the perfect urn. A royal blue color, which seemed so strong only to break through with gorgeous doves in flight. The urn, in the catalog, was called, "Coming Home". Yes. Aryn was in fact not with me but with our Lord. And I found peace in that. With my grandmothers and other family that had already passed away, he was safe with them until I got there. This urn would do just fine.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
November 5, 2007
I checked into the hospital on Monday, and got settled in my room. I had an amazing support system of friends and family, flowers and cards. One in particular, which has always stuck out to me, was a card that stated, "When life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade. But if life hands you a load of crap, well, don't make anything." I smiled. And laughed. And the laughing, it felt good.
"I smiled. And laughed. And the laughing, it felt good."
Much to my surprise, as I obviously had no expertise in this area, it was taking longer than just a day. All our family visited throughout the next two days. I pushed my mother around the maternity ward in the hospital’s wheelchair to try to get some contractions. (They knew she had cancer and was a fall risk, so they made her use a wheel chair).
The first night, the nurses insisted I take an Ambien, which is a pill that would help me sleep. I hesitantly agreed. Now, with this medication, it made me a little… different. Through my vague memory and my family’s experience from that night, the Ambien made me very silly. After winning a hand of the card game 500 (a 10-no trump bid, mind you), I sang the theme song to the musical Oklahoma! and passed out.
On Tuesday night, my OB/GYN switched me to a much stronger medication to induce labor. The side effects, which are flu-like symptoms, were so horrendous that I didn’t sleep all night. There were chills, a fever, throwing up, instant diarrhea, and the confusion.
In a pit of fatigue, depression and inability to actually comprehend what was happening, I lashed out, "I can't! I can't push anymore! I wanna give up!" What is the point? I thought to myself. Its not like this is going to be a miraculous birth or anything. Adam demanded I look into his eyes and concentrate. And with that, my husband, my best friend, my everything was exactly what I needed to pull it together and deliver our child.
In a room that would normally be filled with baby cries and well wishes, there was silence. There was slight sobbing. And there was heavy hearts. And then the priest entered. For us it was important that our baby be baptized.
"What is the baby's name?" The priest asked. We had chosen names for our baby before all this was happening. Teresa, if it was a girl; and Marshall, if it was a boy. Sadly, with the lack of development happening because of all the issues, we couldn't tell one way or the other. "How about a name that works for a boy and a girl?" Someone mentioned. And then my mother-in-law shared that she was considering naming one of her kids Aaron or Erin. And it seemed perfect. The only issue was how to spell it. And it seemed only so perfect to spell it; A-R-Y-N.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Thursday, November 1, 2007
*It was the day before my OB/GYN appointment to check for the heartbeat. It was a quiet night that afforded me a time to reflect on the inevitable and where I was emotionally at the time. I wrote and posted this on this day in 2007*
Pregnant Today
Tomorrow will take forever to come
We will see if we continue, or if we are done
I might hear your heart, and I'll sigh with relief
Or I might hear nothing, to which I will grieve
It will be the loudest silence I'll have to endure
I'll ask to listen again, just to be sure
You tickled my belly, I rubbed you so
We knew each other; every high and every low
I close my eyes and think of you
You'll be with God, that is true
I can't understand why it has to be
I can't understand why you can't be with me
Its hard to know that I couldn't protect you
As your mother, I failed to perfect you
I know I'll see you every night in my dreams
Sometimes that won't be good enough, and I'll want to scream
I know some people say its better this way
But what do they know? Its us who has to pay
I'm hours away from knowing our fate
And when that hour comes, my heart will hurt great
Until then I'll rub my belly and pretend you are ok
And enjoy these last moments of being pregnant today
Pregnant Today
Tomorrow will take forever to come
We will see if we continue, or if we are done
I might hear your heart, and I'll sigh with relief
Or I might hear nothing, to which I will grieve
It will be the loudest silence I'll have to endure
I'll ask to listen again, just to be sure
You tickled my belly, I rubbed you so
We knew each other; every high and every low
I close my eyes and think of you
You'll be with God, that is true
I can't understand why it has to be
I can't understand why you can't be with me
Its hard to know that I couldn't protect you
As your mother, I failed to perfect you
I know I'll see you every night in my dreams
Sometimes that won't be good enough, and I'll want to scream
I know some people say its better this way
But what do they know? Its us who has to pay
I'm hours away from knowing our fate
And when that hour comes, my heart will hurt great
Until then I'll rub my belly and pretend you are ok
And enjoy these last moments of being pregnant today
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Today is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day
Everyone is invited to light a candle on October 15th at 7pm in ALL Time Zones, ALL over the world.
If everyone lights a candle at 7pm and keeps it burning for at least one hour, there will be a continuous WAVE OF LIGHT over the entire world on October 15th, Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day.
17th Annual Walk to Remember in Mesa, AZ
Monday, October 12, 2015
October 19, 2007
Life as I knew it became a shit storm. And then my OB/GYN called about a week after my mother's diagnosis in regards to my recent blood work I just had done. Even then, I knew there was something wrong. He explained to me on the phone that my AFP level was low, and they couldn’t rule out Trisomy 21 in my baby. He suggested a Level 2 ultra sound. The next day, his nurse from the office called me and said that if I was available, they had an appointment for me at a genetics office that day. I confirmed and Adam and I drove into Tempe.
After an intense interview with the geneticist, I was still a little unsure of what to expect at the ultrasound. I climbed into the lonely chair, laid back, and exposed my stomach. The technician asked us the typical protocol questions and we answered. No, we didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, yes we brought a blank DVD to record the ultrasound.
She squirted the gel on my stomach and it is magically transformed into the gateway that connected us to our baby. I looked into the tell-all monitor. Why wasn’t he moving? The technician’s smile escaped her face. “I can’t see a bladder or kidney…” After carrying this baby for 20 weeks, my mother’s intuition kicked in. I knew there wasn’t a happy ending for this.
"They must be drawing straws to see who has to give us the bad news," Adam nervously joked.
She grabbed the tissue box and handed it off to me as if to give me a hug in some other way. She emotionally excused herself, and shut the door. All I could do was hold Adam’s hand and tried to burn a hole through the stubborn door with my eyes as to see through it. "They must be drawing straws to see who has to give us the bad news," Adam nervously joked.
The doctor, who had such a serious face, walked in and explained why my baby was going to die. There was indication of Trisomy 21 and Trisomy 18 and fluid building up around our baby's heart. I couldn’t even look at the doctor. Instead, I was distracted by the sink. There was nothing special about the sink. It was just there in the corner, like an eraser for these doctors and technicians to wash away all the pain they had bestowed upon me. But this sink, for a minute, kept me from looking at my husband and crying. He finished and it was final. My baby would die of a heart attack…and soon.
The doctor, who had such a serious face, walked in and explained why my baby was going to die. There was indication of Trisomy 21 and Trisomy 18 and fluid building up around our baby's heart. I couldn’t even look at the doctor. Instead, I was distracted by the sink. There was nothing special about the sink. It was just there in the corner, like an eraser for these doctors and technicians to wash away all the pain they had bestowed upon me. But this sink, for a minute, kept me from looking at my husband and crying. He finished and it was final. My baby would die of a heart attack…and soon.
Driving home from the ultrasound was a hectic ride. We were busy calling our parents, our bosses; anyone that we felt needed to know that our little baby would not be one of this world. Adam asked me where I want to go, and I can only think of one place. Mom and Dad’s.
My heart was beating in the pit of my stomach as we pulled up to the place my parents called home for the last ten years. Before we even put the car in park I looked towards the door and my frail, cancer ridden mother briskly stepped out towards her eldest daughter. Only 5’2’’, like me, she had seemed to have lost a little weight from the chemo.
This proud, petite Italian woman had let her guard down for me.
Her feet were in the old flip flops she’s worn a bit too long, scooting along the concrete as she tried to keep them on. Her arms, as soft as my bed’s bamboo sheets, were extended out awaiting my body’s arrival to sooth me into comfort. And then there was her face; oh my God, her face.With the gold hoop earrings she’d worn since I remembered. And that scar on her face that she still refused to tell me how she got. As I approached her, I looked into those big bifocals which made her sad eyes and tears look even more depressed. This proud, petite Italian woman had let her guard down for me. She pulled me quickly into the house and grabbed a statue of Mary from the kitchen table. “She says it’s okay, you’ll have more later on.” And even though Mom was trying to make me feel better, I was offended. Why not now? At this point I had started an online blog to let everyone know what was going on instead of answering the same questions over and over.
We had two choices about what to do about our baby: we could have a medical abortion or wait for him to pass, be induced and deliver. As a part of a strong Catholic family, we chose the latter. We scheduled weekly visits with my OB/GYN to check the heart beat. It didn’t take long.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
October 16, 2007
On October 16, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. In 2007, there was no screening process for lung cancer. They had found that any type of regular screening was more of a burden than a benefit. So usually, when someone is diagnosed with lung cancer, it has probably been in them for a while. For my mother, according to her oncologist, she probably had the cancer since December 2006.
I got the news via phone call. Walking out of my last class at Arizona State University for the day and getting on the "Flash" bus to get to my car, I listen quietly as my mother says the scan she just had revealed a tumor. I silently cried as I listened to Mom explain that she and Dad were going to the doctor to get more information.
After I got news of my mother’s diagnosis, my head had never pounded so much. As I was sprawled out on my couch, my mother-in-law, who had rushed over to my house to be with me, comes over and re-wets the cloth and placed it back on my head. “Are you sure you want to go?” I had never felt so compelled to be at work than today; after all, my mother was just diagnosed with lung cancer.
My mother-in-law drove me the 22 minutes to work. I walked into my work, The Little Gym, and I am greeted by sad faces and hugs. My boss, who has always been a mentor to me, asked, “Are you sure you want to teach?”“Yes, Holly, I really need this right now. I need something normal in my life.” She nodded in agreement and let me prepare.
For over three years at that time, The Little Gym had been my second family so much that I just drifted there on my saddest day. I called my class, which consisted of 19 months to 2 ½ year olds which we call “Beasts” and their parents into the gym at 6:30 that Tuesday evening with my eyes so foggy from crying all day.
If there is anything that The Little Gym teaches the children who attend, it’s the confidence to do anything, and their instructors also reap the benefits sometimes too. I had dug deep down to be confident enough to walk in the gym that day and teach a parent/child interactive class.
The kids in the class didn’t care if I had a bad day, they were just happy to see me. As I continued for the next 45 minutes sharing with the parents how to spot their children on the beam and bars, letting them in on the emotional, social and other benefits of doing these activities, and singing a mouthful of jingles, I noticed I wasn’t thinking about Mom as much. I smiled for the first time that day.
The next day, before we headed to the hospital, Adam and I stopped by Mom’s house to grab a few things: Mom’s pajamas, her IPod, and her Tickle-me-Elmo…check, check and check.
Once we arrived at the Chandler Hospital, I stepped out of our car and into the crisp October morning. We walked into the main entrance, and get our visitor passes. The nice woman at the front directed us how to get to Mom’s room. Adam pointed out the coffee vendor and mentioned that we should stop there on our way out.
We walked towards the elevator in front of us and my hands trembled as I pushed the “up” button. After we went up 3 floors we stepped out and walked down the curved, beige hall and approached room 302. On her door, was a red sign that said “Fall Risk”.
There I saw mom, in her bed, obviously a little delusional. Dad sat in the chair next to her, watching TV. There was a whiteboard with the names of Mom’s doctor and nurses for the morning shift right next to the door. I tried my best to hold back the tears and to not think about how weak my once strong mother was.I put her Tickle-me-Elmo on her bed tray and pressed his right foot. Elmo proceeded to start giggling, slapping his knee, and rolling on the table. Mom smiled.
We chit-chatted and she pointed out the sink by the door at let me know how all the nurses and doctors are supposed to wash their hands there before they treat her. It was nice to know she was well taken care of. A nurse walked in and started adjusting her medication machine.My mom, in her morphine induced state, introduced me to her. “This is my daughter…she’s due in March.” And then Mom cried.
My mother’s life changed dramatically after that diagnosis. Her body was slowly being taken over by the cancer. She acquired a soft and squeaky Minnie Mouse voice. She was on so many pills to counteract the chemotherapy. Anti-nausea pills, pain pills (she had two different types of morphine medications), and even Melatonin, a pharmaceutical type of THC (something found in pot) to increase her hunger. She laughed and cried out, in her infamous Brooklyn accent, “I’m gonna be a pot head!” It was nice to see that she even found the humor in her cancer.
I got the news via phone call. Walking out of my last class at Arizona State University for the day and getting on the "Flash" bus to get to my car, I listen quietly as my mother says the scan she just had revealed a tumor. I silently cried as I listened to Mom explain that she and Dad were going to the doctor to get more information.
After I got news of my mother’s diagnosis, my head had never pounded so much. As I was sprawled out on my couch, my mother-in-law, who had rushed over to my house to be with me, comes over and re-wets the cloth and placed it back on my head. “Are you sure you want to go?” I had never felt so compelled to be at work than today; after all, my mother was just diagnosed with lung cancer.
My mother-in-law drove me the 22 minutes to work. I walked into my work, The Little Gym, and I am greeted by sad faces and hugs. My boss, who has always been a mentor to me, asked, “Are you sure you want to teach?”“Yes, Holly, I really need this right now. I need something normal in my life.” She nodded in agreement and let me prepare.
For over three years at that time, The Little Gym had been my second family so much that I just drifted there on my saddest day. I called my class, which consisted of 19 months to 2 ½ year olds which we call “Beasts” and their parents into the gym at 6:30 that Tuesday evening with my eyes so foggy from crying all day.
If there is anything that The Little Gym teaches the children who attend, it’s the confidence to do anything, and their instructors also reap the benefits sometimes too. I had dug deep down to be confident enough to walk in the gym that day and teach a parent/child interactive class.The kids in the class didn’t care if I had a bad day, they were just happy to see me. As I continued for the next 45 minutes sharing with the parents how to spot their children on the beam and bars, letting them in on the emotional, social and other benefits of doing these activities, and singing a mouthful of jingles, I noticed I wasn’t thinking about Mom as much. I smiled for the first time that day.
The next day, before we headed to the hospital, Adam and I stopped by Mom’s house to grab a few things: Mom’s pajamas, her IPod, and her Tickle-me-Elmo…check, check and check.
Once we arrived at the Chandler Hospital, I stepped out of our car and into the crisp October morning. We walked into the main entrance, and get our visitor passes. The nice woman at the front directed us how to get to Mom’s room. Adam pointed out the coffee vendor and mentioned that we should stop there on our way out.
We walked towards the elevator in front of us and my hands trembled as I pushed the “up” button. After we went up 3 floors we stepped out and walked down the curved, beige hall and approached room 302. On her door, was a red sign that said “Fall Risk”.
There I saw mom, in her bed, obviously a little delusional. Dad sat in the chair next to her, watching TV. There was a whiteboard with the names of Mom’s doctor and nurses for the morning shift right next to the door. I tried my best to hold back the tears and to not think about how weak my once strong mother was.I put her Tickle-me-Elmo on her bed tray and pressed his right foot. Elmo proceeded to start giggling, slapping his knee, and rolling on the table. Mom smiled.
“This is my daughter…
she’s due in March.”
My mother’s life changed dramatically after that diagnosis. Her body was slowly being taken over by the cancer. She acquired a soft and squeaky Minnie Mouse voice. She was on so many pills to counteract the chemotherapy. Anti-nausea pills, pain pills (she had two different types of morphine medications), and even Melatonin, a pharmaceutical type of THC (something found in pot) to increase her hunger. She laughed and cried out, in her infamous Brooklyn accent, “I’m gonna be a pot head!” It was nice to see that she even found the humor in her cancer.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Heartbeats
I’ll just say it. I was a bitch to my mother growing up. I was as stubborn as her; and we fought with each other every step of the way. From what clothes to wear, to whether or not I should go to college, there was a never ending battle. But I think that’s what made our adult relationship much stronger. I spent many years doubting her, and as an adult, I had come to the realization that my mother was always right, and would never steer me in the wrong direction.
In July I had a funny feeling. I drove to my grocery store, bought a pregnancy test and went home. I quickly read through the directions, opened the package and prepared to pee on the stick. I counted to 5 in my head as instructed, and looked at the test. Woah! Two lines already?! Wait a minute, I’M PREGNANT! What an amazing feeling, knowing there was a little baby growing inside me. I told anyone who would listen.I was going to have a March baby.
After about a week since my news, my mom shared with me that her doctor diagnosed her pain as a pinched nerve in her back. Never doubting doctors before, we all accepted this and tried to move on. She was prescribed pain killers for her back in the hope that she would get some relief.
This woman took care of me my entire life, and now I got to return the favor.
But the pain did not go away. Stronger the medications got, and still my mother was struggling sleeping, stepping into the shower, and moving around. At this time, I realized how humbling this experience was for our relationship. This woman took care of me my entire life, and now I got to return the favor. I’d lay in bed next to my older mother, softly touching her arm until she drifted off to sleep.
“Maria, Mom’s face doesn’t look right,” Dad explained to me on a September evening over the phone, “Her entire right side is puffy. What do you think is wrong?” Why did Dad ask me? Was it because I took a human anatomy course?Because I lived the closest? Regardless, I had to answer.“Sounds like it might be a stroke, I’ll be right over.”
I walked into my parent’s house and Mom was trying to convince Dad that she didn’t need to go to the doctor; that she would be better. I slowly poked my head into the kitchen where they were and made myself known. Mom sat at the kitchen table and all I saw was her face. Dad was right, her right side was very swollen…the eye, the cheek, it was remarkable. It was as though my mother’s face was melting on one side. “Ria, what do you think?” I couldn’t answer to my mother; I just looked at my dad. “Dad, why don’t you call the ER down the street and tell them what is happening with her face, and whether we should be concerned?” At this point, my father dialed the phone and went in another room to talk. I heated up some chicken noodle soup for my mom and placed it in two bowls and I sat down with her to eat. Obviously depressed, she struggled to eat and make conversation as dad was still on the phone.
After a few minutes, she broke the silence. She took one more spoonful of soup, put the spoon in the bowl, sighed, and said with tears in her eyes, “I think I’m dying!”
I said the only thing I could think of as I jumped up to give her a hug, “No you’re not! We’re just going to take you to the hospital to make sure everything is okay! You’ll be fine!”
She spent a few hours at the hospital. She went through triage, had chest x-rays, and answered questions.“You better do a good job, because my daughter is having my first grandchild in your hospital in March,” she joked with the ER nurses.
She was sent home being told she is just stressed and that she needed rest, and she agreed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)