Dog Days Are Over

It's been so long since I've written anything so I know I am most likely writing this to me, myself, and I...which is ok with me. Today is October 8th, 2012. It marks the 3 year anniversary of the day my mother took her last breath on this earth. With having had to live through many life events without her including my wedding, my graduation from grad school, buying a house, and my first job as well as countless birthdays, Christmases, and Thanksgivings, I have learned not to anticipate a day like today. It only makes it worse, like one of those self-fulfilling prophecies. I tend to try to keep things positive and not jinx myself if I can help it.

My sleep pattern has been off lately, and I never thought much of it until this morning around 5:00 am when I was wide awake in bed, scared straight from a horrible nightmare. I don't know if I was more frustrated with my lack of sleep or the fact that my brain can conjure up such intense images. My dream consisted of people I love dying in horrific ways, over and over again, until I finally forced myself to open my eyes to make it stop. Laying there frustrated, I realized what today was. I tried to roll back over and go to sleep with no success.

Under such intense stress after my Aunt Polly died April 24th up until the day my mom died, I had tons of nightmares that kept me from sleep, and it was explained to me that depression and grief can manifest itself into dreams when our awake minds won't let us process what is happening in our lives. Totally makes sense for a a period of my life like that, but I am sad, and embarrassed to admit that I feel weak that this still haunts me like it does.

I have come so far but it's almost as if my brain won't let me let it go. I feel like I go 2 steps forward and 3 steps back.

Last week, I woke up in the middle of the night, out of the blue, in the middle of a panic attack bad enough I had to take my xanax. I was completely floored by this and never put it together that I was anticipating today.  During holidays or my birthday, I begin to act funny--less sleep, more anxiety, scary dreams. It all makes sense when I really take the time to put it together.

My friend and I were discussing the loss of my mom one day, and he told me, "You really need to learn to let this go." It was so insulting to me. Although he never knew me before I lost my mom, I thought he had understood how far I have come and the progress I have made from so long ago when it first happened. I got defensive. "I've let a lot of it go," I told him. But really, there was no sense in arguing my point as he clearly couldn't understand, not having known me beforehand and not being inside my head and heart now.

Without having the control I thought I had over my own emotions and grief, today has shocked me to the core. Our subconscious is a powerful thing, much more than you or I could ever imagine. It just goes to show you that when you think you're ready to handle the day, you crash and burn the hardest.

I'm not sure if this is a cruel joke or a wake-up call. Either way, it blows.

I cried here and there, looking at pictures of her or thinking of how much I missed her, but I was able to keep it together. I would give up everything I have for one more day with her to make sure she knows how much I loved and respected her. How happy she made me and how wonderful of a person I thought she was. Part of me really believes she knew that but I still would love to tell her one more time. I try to be like her in all ways.

Today on my way home from work, I was listening to a mix CD with "angry" music as I like to call it. Just to shake things up, at the end of the CD are a couple of "Florence and the Machine" songs. My very favorite song of hers, "Dog Days Are Over," came on. Immediately, my eyes filled with tears and my heart felt so happy.

"Happiness, it hurt like a train on a track
Coming towards her, stuck still no turning back
She hid around corners and she hid under beds
She killed it with kisses and from it she fled
With every bubble she sank with a drink
And washed it away down the kitchen sink

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

Run fast for your mother and fast for your father
Run for your children for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind you
Can't carry love with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses
'Cause here they come


And I never wanted anything from you
Except everything you had
And what was left after that too, oh.

Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back
Struck from a great height
By someone who should know better than that

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses
'Cause here they come

Run fast for your mother and fast for your father
Run for your children for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your loving behind you
Can't carry it with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses
'Cause here they come"

Even though it's my favorite song, I never focused so much on the words. Running away from all of your baggage and sadness. Feeling happiness and freedom and no longer being afraid to run away from what keeps you down. Moving on is so hard and things will work against us, but we must continue to try and want more from what we are given. 

It's like someone shook me and said, "Even though you've been through a pile of shit, things WILL get better."  I love this song even more than I did before. 

My brain and my heart are clearly in a battle to win. Can't they both win? I need to learn the balance between being able to process this loss and still keep her happy memory alive. Either way, I know that 3 years is still a bit too early to learn this lesson, but I hope to be there some day and be at peace with what comes my way. Because things can only get better.

The battle for happiness

I was recently in a discussion in which it was insinuated that I am not happy, which may be true to a certain extent. I thought about what it would take to make me "happy" and what I would really need, if I had the perfect opportunity and all the money in the world to attempt this and finding the ultimate happiness in my life.

I think it's important here to make sure it's very clear that I am happy to have the things in my life and couldn't be more appreciative of a strong, wonderful family and my husband who is also my best friend. I have amazing friends who have done wonders for me that I'm sure most of them don't even fully understand, and I am so blessed to have a job that I enjoy and that I am 100% committed to. These things make me happy, and to think about them brings a smile to my face.

The type of "happiness" I'm talking about is a deeper kind, the kind you feel when all is right with the world and you can think of nothing else in the world you could possible wish for.

Truth be told, I'm not so sure that many people have this kind of happiness in their lives. A true and utter contentment for the way things are with no desire to replace or change them--if we could all be so lucky.

I remember a while ago, my mom and I were getting in her car to go somewhere, and just out of nowhere I told her how happy I was with my friends and school and that I really felt great. "Good," she said, "a lot of people are not that fortunate."

When my mom was going through chemo, she looked at me one day, again this was out of nowhere, and said, "I am such a lucky girl. I have so many people that love me. It's unfortunate it takes something like this to realize it, but I am such a lucky girl." It amazed me how content she was with the world...no hair, a PICC line hanging out of her arm, chemo rushing through her veins. And she felt lucky.

Back to thinking about what would make me really, genuinely happy is this: buying a one-way plane ticket to somewhere, maybe Paris, probably Paris, and going without a time line of any sort. No one would know, and it would be just me by myself. I have come to realize over the last two years without my mom how so much about me has changed and how very different I have become. While there are traits I have developed that I do like about myself now like my will to stand up for myself and the "fire" I have inside me to be myself without putting on a front to others, there are things that have taken a backseat in my life that I miss dearly.

I have hardly any patience for anything, at least compared to what I used to. I have the hardest time making up my mind with huge decisions like taking a new job. My courage is at an all-time low. My self-esteem is, at times, even lower.

I have never felt so much myself and so much least like myself, if that makes any sense. All I want is to be myself and "rediscover" these traits about me that I have lost and figure out how to incorporate the new traits I have found along the way. I feel as though the only way I can achieve this is to find solitude and break myself down and build myself back up. The right way. By myself, so that I do not lean on anyone else for this type of achievement except myself.

With being surrounded by so many supportive, loving people, it may be hard for some to understand why I would want my solitude at a time of such loss and confusion. For this reason: The other answer to what would make me happy is having my mom back in my life. I never have fully realized until just recently how much I depended on my mom for so much: my courage, my self-esteem, my self-worth, my patience. My happiness.

On days like today, there is so much I miss about my mom and so many things I love about her, even her flaws, that I can barely even focus enough to put them all down on paper. I have become angry without her. I have become cynical and untrusting of others. I lose my patience quickly and sometimes it is not for any logical reason. Some days I wake up not wanting to get out of bed or go got work or even talk with anyone, and for no other reason than the simple fact that I don't feel like it.

At the same time, I have grown to become so appreciative of things I have. It takes almost nothing anymore to make me smile. I am easily pleased. I laugh more now than I ever have. I look at the sky and try to figure out which shade of blue it is that day. I love the sound of rain and I don't let anything come in the way, when I am home to enjoy it, to sit down and just simply listen to it hit the window. I can remember nothing but good things about my mom and even the things that drove me crazy like her humming off-key to music on the radio now brings a smile to my face.

I wish so much for one more daytrip to amish country, to visit our favorite stores and shop and laugh and enjoy the day together. I want so badly for it to be a crisp fall Saturday, to wake up in my bedroom next to my parents' room and to jump out of bed excitedly, knowing we were going on a roadtrip together, just her and I. I would love to hear her humming along with the oldies on the radio, off-key and all, while we were traveling to our destination.

Because anything is better than what I have now. She is gone, and I am left with only memories.

I feel as though the one person who would support me more than anyone else in my life to go on a journey, by myself, with a one-way ticket in my hand, is my mom. This is how I picture it: Her picking me up at my house with my suitcase. Her taking me to the airport, the whole time wishing me nothing but luck and good thoughts to "getting better." Her parking the car and actually walking me into the airport, right up to the security line. Her asking me if I have everything I need, as any other mom would do. I would roll my eyes, like any kid would do, and reassure her that I am fine and that I have everything I need. I can see us hugging, knowing how badly we would miss each other but each of us hoping that I would return a better version of myself.

I know she wishes that for me now, even though she is gone. I want so badly to be better for her and for myself and for those around me that love me and miss me. If I can find a way to blend these two very separate versions of me into a form I am happy, truly 100% happy with, I will have won the battle.

Cancer. Round Four.

The time between my posts is getting longer and longer, which at times I think is a good thing but then again, maybe not. Good because this blog has been my form of therapy for the past two years and it's good to need it less and less, but bad because I don't often let things escape like I used to. If my therapist Cynthia were reading this, she would be rolling her eyes and saying, "Yes! You never let it out!" This is her biggest gripe with me, unfortunately, and after two long years of therapy and a $25 co-pay with every visit, not much progress has been made in that department.

However, it comes out every once in a while. When it does, it is usually cynical and dripping with sarcasm. Yikes!

I suppose I've been bottling some things up out of respect for and the wishes of my aunt Janny. Not many people know, and I have not been able to freely talk about the fact that she has cancer.

Just a little sidenote: My mom had 4 sisters, 3 from the same dad and 1 is a half-sister with a different dad but they loved each other as though that was never an issue. The 4 sisters with the same dad, the Lightbody side of the family, have now all been diagnosed with cancer.

My aunt Janny has bladder cancer. She had to be unusual and couldn't just have breast cancer like everyone else. For those of you who have read my previous posts, you know that my aunt Janny is the one who "took over" for my mom after she died. I had a hard time getting close to people after that and resisted it because I was afraid I would lose whoever I would get close to. For some reason, it was always in the back of my head that this may someday happen to my aunt Janny.

And now she has cancer too. I'm not saying I'm going to lose her to this or that everyone I love gets cancer and that it's my fault. But a little part of me wonders if it's my fault, if you want the honest truth.

She had surgery yesterday to remove her bladder. When faced with the decision to keep her bladder and have chemo or remove her bladder altogether while still facing a possible chemo treatment later, she almost didn't hesitate in deciding to go through with the major surgery. At the doctors office that afternoon she said, "Your mom and aunt Polly couldn't remove their cancer, but I can." And that she did.

She is now in the ICU after having experienced a nearly five-hour surgery with tubes and machines all hooked up to her. She is awake and talking but uncomfortable, of course.

I am currently battling a terrible virus that has prevented me from going to work all week, so I have stayed away from my aunt Janny and it is killing me. My family has been giving me updates so I feel better about the whole thing. It's very hard to be away from her.

So, to my surprise, my phone rang tonight and it was the hospital's number. My stomach sank into my feet--I know that number too well. My mom was in the hospital so often that I had it saved in my phone under "mom." I instantly recognized it and quickly had to remind myself not to panic. The raspy, tired voice of my aunt Janny was on the other end of the phone call, and it was so reminiscent of my mom's sick, fighting voice that it was actually frightening. I barely talked and I let her do most of the talking, mostly because I knew I would cry if I opened my mouth. I hung up the phone with her and was taken back to that place. That place I do not like to go.

At home, by myself, my parents at the hospital. My mom getting chemo while I'm at school or work, not knowing how it's going and waiting for a phone call. Finally, the phone would ring, and it would be her. That same voice. My same worry. Today took me back to that place.

It really shook me.

I remember my last phone call from my mom. I was sick, and I wasn't allowed to visit her because she was only two weeks out of her transplant and I could jeopardize everything if I passed on my germs. But I didn't have to because the hospital and their own, home-grown germs did that for me and took her away.

I am not ok with watching another one of my family members suffer like that and have to endure things that most other people can't even imagine. I'm not sure what this is that is happening to our family but I want it to stop. When this all started, back when my mom was diagnosed and my aunt Polly was still living, I tried to put on a brave face and fake a positive smile through my day. I actually got compliments on how upbeat I was..."Your family must really appreciate your positive outlook." Right.

I find it hard to fake that sort of thing anymore. After my mom died, I continued to put on a smile for everyone and all that got me was a nervous breakdown and therapy. So I stopped and tried to let myself be upset and sad if I needed to be. I feel myself reverting back to that person, that quiet, angry person that keeps things in. I don't want to fake a smile if I don't have to and I don't want to be cheerful all the time because that's not how I feel.

Truth be told, I am angry. I am very angry. I can't believe another one of my family members has to deal with this, another one of my mom's sisters. Cancer. Again. When will it all just stop? The only good thing coming out of this is that I am not distracted by school anymore, and I can help my aunt Janny the best way I know how. I may not have a cute little smile on my face but at least I can snuggle and watch movies and cook and clean. Just like I did for my mom.

My aunt Janny has seen the best and the utter worst of me--she knows when I'm faking and she doesn't like it. I'm happy I will get to be myself with her. Maybe we will all come out better on the other side.

My second and last visit

For only the second time since my mom died, I visited her grave. I live nearby the cemetery where she is buried and drive by it almost every day, but I never stop. I'm too scared.

My visit wasn't planned. I decided to head to the grocery store, and the entrance to the cemetery is on the way. I instinctively pulled in without even thinking about it and immediately felt anxious. "Am I really doing this?" I asked myself. My car drove right to the mausoleum and before I knew it, I was sitting outside the entrance. My throat had a lump in it and I choked back tears. I took the keys out of the ignition and realized my hands were shaking and it was hard to swallow. I didn't want to go in but something was telling me I had to. I got out of my car, opened the double glass doors and stepped in. I walked down the short hallway and around the corner to where she is buried. I saw the gold letters spelling "Gail" and stopped mid-step.

I felt nothing.

All the anxiety and nerves I felt just seconds before melted away. I didn't feel sad, angry, scared, happy, sick, nothing. It was almost as if I was a shell standing there, completely hollow. I walked over to the bench in front of her grave and sat down indian-style. The mausoleum was so quiet it actually scared me, and I felt like the sounds of my breath were too loud. I took a deep breath and held it for a short while to take in how quiet, how dead it was in there. It was amazing to realize how many people I was surrounded by and not one of them breathing, thinking, living. Only me. And I felt as though I was disturbing the peace.

I don't think I lasted more than three minutes in there.

Walking back to my car, I decided I didn't need to do that again. I have come so far, and I still have a long way to go. Putting myself in a situation where I may take two steps back isn't worth it to me and I'm sure my mom would agree. Looking back on it now, I shouldn't have even stopped. I guess I felt like I had something to prove to myself, like I'm "over it" or something. I'm not. And I don't need to go to that place to be able to think about my mom.

She is not there. Her ashes are. But she is not. Our memories are not there either. In fact, they are everywhere but there.

There is not one place I have been where I haven't thought about my mom, and I feel as if she is all around me. The littlest things make me think of her, and almost all of them are goofy, inside jokes. Others are daily, every-day ordinary things that most people would never think of--at least not until the person they share them with is gone.

One thing that really stands out to me is coming home from Kent on the weekends. While most kids were ready to go out and get completely hammered, I couldn't wait to get away from studying, tests, pressure and go home to visit my mom. On Friday after work, I would head home. She usually was asleep on the couch by the time I got home so I went out with my friends. But Saturday morning was ours.

I hated getting up early then, but I would set my alarm for 7 so we could head to the farmer's market as soon as it opened. We would walk around really slow, take a good look at everything, and talk about everything that happened that week away at school. I would buy some produce and fresh pasta to take back home, and she would buy me a small bouquet of flowers to keep in my room. On Sunday afternoon when I would get ready to head back to Kent, she would sit on my bed while I packed my bags. I'm embarrassed to say there were many times when I would hug here goodbye and she would start crying. And then I would start too!

We just really loved each other. I'm not sure how else to put it. We just did.

Another memory that really stands out in my mind is the day we went to the Cleveland Clinic to meet with the doctor who was going to do her bone marrow transplant. I felt sick all day, and I was in dress clothes because I was interviewing for an internship position with the Intestinal Rehabilitation and Transplant Program so I could be closer to mom during her treatments up in Cleveland. I was not convinced a transplant was the right thing to do, although it was her only chance. I had heard so many terrible things about it that I wasn't ready to let her go early when I knew we could take her home and enjoy her time while she still had it. But eventually we knew the cancer would come back and it would end the same way. So we went to see what they had to say. While she was getting some testing done before her consultation, I went to my interview. I made it back a couple minutes before the meeting started, and she just looked at me with big eyes, eyebrows raised. "So?" she asked.

"I got it," I said. "I already filled out all of the paperwork." I wasn't sure how I felt about all of this.

I saw her cute little lip tremble. "Don't do it, Mom!" I joked. She started to cry, which usually killed me even on a good day, but go ahead and add a bald head with the emotions of that day, and it was all over. Good Lord. I knew she was proud of me, and I was very happy to have the opportunity to be closer to her and still continue my education while she went through her transplant. Everything seemed to be working out the way it needed to.

But we all know how it turned out.

Regardless, I am happy I have that day etched on my brain. That single day got me through my Masters, writing my thesis, and finishing my internship. I'm glad I was able to give back to her all the strength and faith she had in me by having this diploma in my hand. Finishing school was by far the biggest accomplishment she got me through, because not a day went by I didn't consider quitting so I could lay in bed all day and just stop. Stop everything.

Looking back on it, I'm not sure exactly how I made it through all the bullshit. But I did. I really owed it to her to get through it safely.

That cold, quiet mausoleum could never hold the raw love I have for her. It is far too big to fit inside those walls filled with strangers' ashes. Our memories are too expansive and cover too much ground. She is not there, and I could never imagine trying to force all the great things about her into that place.

I love my mom way too much to go there again.

I'm sorry it's only me

I can't remember who I was talking to about losing my mom, but they had lost their mom as well, and they said something that really stuck with me (although, unfortunately, I can't even remember who said it) : "No matter how many people you have in your life, you always feel lonely without your mom."

This is completely true.

I've been saying it for a while now, how lonely I feel even though I am lucky enough to have many friends, a wonderful husband, and a large family. I still am very sad for my aunts, who had to lose two sisters within six months of each other, and it is incredible how small our "sisters" circle now feels. What once was six is now only four, and it feels monumentally different. Aunt Janny misses my mom a lot, since they had so much in common. Of course she misses Aunt Polly too, but my mom and her were really close. Kind of like me and my mom.

My Aunt Janny is the "baby" of the sisters. My mom used to tell me that she always wanted to be a mom, and when my mom would get her work paychecks, she would buy my Aunt Janny outfits like she was her own baby. My Aunt Janny really misses her, and I'm very sorry that she doesn't have her anymore.

We went out on a date together last night. We went to one of our favorite places, where the owner knows us both. She looked at me last night and asked, "I always see you with your aunts. Where's your mom or dad?" I explained that my mom had passed away from leukemia, and that my aunts and I are very close because our group is now significantly smaller since two of us are gone. The woman said, "Well, you all have to stick together."

My Aunt Janny and I talked about this more in the car after dinner. She talked about how much she missed her sisters and now that my mom is gone, she feels like she has no one to spend time with. Her and my mom had many plans for when they both retired.

My Aunt Janny is retired now.

I was trying very hard not to cry, and even though I am still sad for myself, I just don't think they will ever understand just how sad I am for them. I don't have any sisters, and I can't imagine how sad their hearts are to not have their full circle anymore.

"I'm sorry it's only me, " I said. I know she doesn't feel as though I am second best, but I feel as though I am second best. I am not their age. I don't understand what they understand. I do not have to deal with what they deal with.

She said she feels lonely. Me too.

I wonder sometimes if this void will ever be filled for any of us. My guess is no.

I've noticed I go through ups and downs with missing my mom. It's always in the back of my mind, but some days are harder to deal with than others. My patient at work really triggered something and I have been having a hard time. Although I am starting to come around again.

Luckily, my "rough patches" are much easier to deal with these days and do not last as long or hurt nearly as much.

When I really miss my mom, I hardly ever think about our memories, as many people have suggested for me. This makes me too sad that I can't go back with her. Instead, I think about what my mom and Aunt Polly are doing together in Heaven.

My mom and Aunt Polly really liked the movie Grease, so a lot of the time, I picture them sitting in a 1950s diner sharing a really big vanilla milkshake with a cherry on top. My mom would let my Aunt Polly take the cherry. Elvis is playing on the jukebox and they have poodle skirts on. I don't picture them younger, I picture them as I knew them. Both with hair, both healthy and cancer-free. I can see them talking with all of their friends, who look like the kids in Grease and American Graffiti. (If you haven't seen American Graffiti, I highly recommend it! A non-musical with Ron Howard and Harrison Ford!)

Even though I feel extremely lonely without them, I am glad they have each other and that they are having fun. I know they are together. I just know it.

Gone for good

It has been so long since I've written anything. I read back through some of my most recent posts and am happy to report that a lot has changed since then. I have a new job which happens to be in the same field that I love but only 15 minutes down the road from my house. The patients I work with are not as high-acuity which I thought would be a bad thing but really has been a blessing.

My heart needed to heal more than I realized, and I feel as though I'm making the last several strides to get there. While I will never fully be "healed," my journey is no longer an uphill battle and I'm thankful for that.

It's funny how your brain and heart takes time to relax from your struggles...and WHAM! Just when you start to get comfortable, something rattles your cage to remind you you're not finished grieving.

Without sharing too many details, I have been in the middle of a situation in which I believe a family is giving up on a loved one rather than providing her with the proper means to be able to rehabilitate further. Just when I thought we had finally agreed on a plan to provide her with enough strength to participate in rehab, they decided to cancel it and initiate hospice care instead.

Much to my surprise, this crushed me. I truly am shocked at how I am reacting to this decision, because I knew in the back of my mind this may be the route they chose for their loved one. However, as a healthcare professional who knows personally the boundary of "too far gone" versus someone who has the potential to improve, I felt as though we could make some progress with her. I really believed in her and I was prepared to fight for her. Unfortunately, it seems as though I was the only one.

It is very crushing to be stopped in your tracks when you feel as though you're doing the right thing for someone. All I can think about is my mom.

You learn quickly working in the long-term care industry that many of these people do not have advocates. Knowing this, I do everything in my power to care for them and be aggressive in my care when it is appropriate.

Today, it was appropriate.

Realizing the intense sadness I felt for my patient when I realized I would have to put a stop to my treatment, I tried to examine what in the world caused me to feel this way. Plain and simple: I do not have a mom to stand up for anymore. And all I can do now is stand up for other people's moms. Sad. But true. The thought of my mom laying in bed without anyone to help her makes me sick, so instead of playing the whole "woe is me" card, I have decided to use this in my profession to the best of my capabilities. Unfortunately, a wrench can easily get thrown in your plans when the family decides to call the whole thing off.

Looking back on everything that has happened, I know now why I work in this field and why I care so much for my patients. It is all thanks to my mom, and although she has been gone for over a year and a half, she continues to work on me in different ways. I can't explain how immensely happy I am that we gave her a fighting chance, and although she went down, she went down with a good, hard fight. She wouldn't have had it any other way. If I am ever in her position, I hope to be half as strong and put up at least half the battle as she did.

My opinion of choosing to end her suffering has not wavered, and today only strengthened the choices we made to help her along the way. We pushed it just far enough to try and get her through her infection, but in the end, we had enough sense and love to let her leave the world with dignity and knowing she did a job well done.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about her smile or the way she used to look at me when one of our favorite songs would come on the radio in the car. I miss our shopping trips, our matinee movies, our drives to Amish country, and our Saturday mornings laying in bed watching the Food Network. I miss the smells in our kitchen, the annoyance of her hair dryer at 5:30 in the morning, and the sound of her high heels walking down the isles of the grocery store. I miss seeing her black Coach purse sitting in our kitchen, her reading glasses sitting on the night stand, and little cards or small, goofy surprises waiting for me on my bed when I got home from school.

I loved knowing that an any moment, I could call her on the phone, even if it was the sixth time we would talk that day. I miss her voice so much it is physically painful and to look at pictures of her doesn't nearly do her pretty face justice. I want to touch her and smell her hairspray and her perfume.

I want to lay on her chest in the ICU, even though she was already gone, because that was the last moment I would ever get to feel her again. I would take that moment rather than nothing at all, like now. There are so many monumental things I miss about her and so many little quirks of hers that I crave.

I hope that my patient's children who have made this decision for her care have enjoyed enough of the things I have enjoyed about my mom because when they're gone, they're gone for good.

Don't bury me yet

A new resident has recently been admitted at work. He is an older man who went to the hospital for what he thought was pneumonia and ended up with stage four lung cancer that is inoperable and the doctors, because of his prognosis and age, are choosing not to treat it. It has already spread to his adrenal glands. So now he is at our facility facing death.

The first day I met him, I did my day-to-day work duties and made sure I knew his nutritional background. But, nearly an hour later, I knew where he worked, how he met his wife, why he liked his job so much, and his worries about his diagnosis. I sat indian-style on the floor of his room and listened while he talked openly about his life, and I really enjoyed it.

He and his wife have been married for 63 years. He is very scared.

Today we had a family meeting with his wife. It's a routine meeting so the families can meet the team members at the facility who will be caring for their loved ones. She listened very quietly and was very polite while all of us talked about her husband's care, but she only had one question and none of us could answer it. How much longer will he live?

She is very, very scared.

We tried in several different ways to describe the tumor and his prognosis and bringing in hospice services, but we could not answer her directly and she was very frustrated.

I could see her starting to panic and I wanted to yell, "No one knows! Only God knows!"

Finally, she was answered with the statement that went something like "Take it day-to-day. That's all you can do. We don't know how long he will be here. Treat each day like it's the last." She seemed to be pleased with that, and although she kept a smile on her face, you could see her heart breaking on the inside and her world come crashing down.

My heart really hurts for her tonight. Having been through this situation several times, I can put myself easily in her shoes, knowing how hard it is to not know what will happen in one week, in one month. I remember watching my grandma decline during her battle with lymphoma and reading the book hospice provided our family about death and its stages. I learned so much and I was happy to have that understanding of the process...until my aunt Polly was placed on hospice. I hated knowing how her body was deteriorating and being able to understand each stage of death as she proceeded to the next, until she reached the last.

My mom, of course, was not placed on hospice but rather, we played a guessing game with her. Each chemo treatment was so intense and built on the last that I often feared being told we would have to put her on hospice, but that day never came. Instead, we got the news of an infection, then of liver failure, then of pneumonia, then of kidney failure, then the ICU, then the vent, and then the last line I'll never forget: "Her heartbeat and pulse are artificial and being controlled by medicine. Eventually, that medicine will max out and her heart will stop. You can choose to let this happen naturally, probably in several hours, or you can choose to end it now. Either way, she won't be here tomorrow."

Our guessing game came to an abrupt end, and we no longer were left to wonder what would happen in a week, in a month. It was over. We decided then and there she did not need to suffer anymore and we let her go.

The second they unplugged her IV, her heart stopped, and it really was all over. It just didn't feel real, although I could see her heart monitor showing a flatline.

We played a six-month guessing game with her, and when it was finally over, I wished we hadn't. I lived with her, knowing in the back of my head that she might not live through it, but I treated each day like it might be the last I saw her. I felt like in some way I had cheated her, like maybe I needed to give her more credit and she could fight it.

I'm not sure if this can play into my resident's new life, waiting for death. My wish for him, and for his wife, is that they enjoy each other's company until the very end, and that when he is gone, she is able to find some peace with the end of his suffering. I hope that she does not sell him short and bury him before he is gone...something I am afraid I was guilty of with my mom.

She knew I worried about her and even said to me several times not to "bury" her yet. I felt bad that she saw that kind of worry in me, but I just couldn't be so strong for her that I didn't worry. I did. I hope she is not mad at me and does not feel like I counted her out too soon. I didn't mean to do that.

If this happens to me again, I'm not sure I would be any different. I worry, and I'm scared to lose people I love. All along, I worried that if I was "too positive" that I would be setting myself up for disappointment.

Truthfully, I'm not sure how this all fits into my resident's story. It just made me think of my mom and reminded me of how frightening and frustrating the "waiting game" is. Everything makes me think of her, and I miss her very much.