Two Months Later

When my mom was first diagnosed with brain cancer, every doctor we encountered told us that they would never tell us what timeframes to expect unless we specifically asked, and even then, they would caution us that every person’s circumstance is completely different. My mom didn’t ask so we didn’t ask. We googled, but we didn’t ask.

Within minutes we knew that the average life expectancy for GBM was 18 months, and when you dug into the stories you found people who only lived a few months and people who lived for years. You found stories of recurrent tumors and varying treatments and some, like ours, of inoperable tumors. It would never come back because it could never leave. We spoke with a neurosurgeon who attempted surgery on my mom shortly after diagnosis and found that because of its location, he couldn’t attempt removal without serious consideration that her quality of life would decrease dramatically. There was a high probability she wouldn’t be able to walk or talk if he removed the necessary amount to make any difference. And that difference was guaranteed to be temporary because this type of cancer was relentless and would come back no matter what. Of that, they were certain.

Around the 18 month mark, the time came when my mom lost her ability to walk. The right side of her body was no longer getting the signals it needed to operate, so it stopped. Her ability to talk went away more gradually, and to this day she will still utter a few words here and there. It’s not always what she wants to say, but the words come out nonetheless. A little over two months ago we were told that we were at the end of the line. Treatment would stop. And for the first time, a doctor gave us a timeframe without us asking. “She probably has about 2 months left.” 2 months. It was clear we were at the end of her battle.

I talked about my thoughts on receiving that news in this post and admittedly, this has been the hardest part of it all. Ironically, 8 weeks after we heard we had about 2 months left, my mom was sitting at an event with my dad and many of their lifelong friends from college. She was living proof that the timeframes simply don’t matter. The guestimates are guesses. Educated, yes, but guesses all the same. When my grandpa was given a similar timeframe at the end of his cancer battle, he gave away all of his winter clothes and then lived for 9 more months. Life is funny that way.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that she has certainly changed in the past two months. There are obvious declines in strength and energy levels and less obvious moments of being lost in her own world. She knows who we all are and hugs us tightly with her left arm. She tickles my back and arm whenever I slide up next to her and she laughs at shows like The Office and Friends whenever she’s relaxed enough to watch. It’s all bonus time. There are bonus smiles and bonus laughs and bonus hand-holding and bonus hugs. There are bonus moments of sitting next to her bed on my knees while she cups my face and plays with my hair. There are bonus lunches with friends and dinners with family.

There is also bonus heartache and grief. Bonus frustration and tears. Bonus anxiety and pain. I can’t only share the moments that are cherished because they wouldn’t be real. This is the most frustrating journey to be on. We can be grateful for the time and frustrated that we can’t see the future. The other night, after spending the day at the farm, I was angry and incredibly sad. I snapped at my kids and then started sobbing while sitting in a pile of toys I was trying to put away. I couldn’t stop and it wasn’t a quiet cry they didn’t notice, I was a wreck. Theo immediately ran to Duke and said “you need to get in here, she’s crying!” and Duke came over. He climbed into my lap and wrapped his arms around my neck and started gently patting my back. “I’m sorry buddy,” I said. “I didn’t mean to yell. Mommy is just really sad right now.”

Before I knew it, they were all three in my lap, hugging me and rubbing my back. Theo was apologizing because he was sure I was crying because he wasn’t being a good listener, Grayson kept asking “you otay, mommy?” and Duke waited patiently for me to finish. When I stopped crying and looked at them in the eye, I was filled with gratitude. How on earth was I lucky enough to get these three kiddos?! At that moment, I needed them more than they needed me.

In a lot of ways, I have tried to shield them from what is going on and they certainly don’t know any of the details, but in those moments of pure vulnerability, I was grateful for three small humans who only wanted me to be okay and still gave me space to feel. I hope we can nurture that instinct in them and encourage them to lean into it. It’s easier sometimes to compartmentalize and ignore the pain, but these days, I can’t seem to hide it. Everything is right there under the surface and maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.

Until next time,

-T-