"I am a very lucky girl"

Yesterday, while I was brushing my teeth next to my mom, who was getting ready for our outing, she said to me, "You know, I am a very lucky girl." Mostly just because I didn't want toothpaste to spray everywhere, I didn't say anything, and just waited for her to continue.

"You don't really realize how many friends you have and how many people love you and care about you until something like this happens. Even people that I really only see once a year or so, like my friend Janet, are making me feel loved. I am really lucky."

Mom only sees Janet once a year at the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk when they work at the registration table. Last night, Janet brought over dinner for my parents and stayed and enoyed it with them. It is very touching to see this type of love and care, especially from a person who only sees my mom once a year.

However, people that are lucky enough to spend more time with my mom know just how special she really is. From the first week in the hospital, this was very obvious. The nurses visited her on their lunch breaks, and she quickly learned about their fiances, wedding plans, school schedules, kids' names, and house-buying adventures. These relationships have only grown with each visit and stay in the hospital. The morning I took her to have emergency fluids, when she was admitted with the infection, she looked at one of the nurses in the office, Matt, and even though she could barely catch her breath and she was crying and feeling miserable, she looked at him and asked, "Did you get a haircut? I like it." I couldn't help but laugh quietly at this.

She has always taken time to get to know people in her life on different levels, and has always gone to great lengths to make sure they know they are cared for. Even the ones that "poke" her with needles, deliver bad news, and may only see her once a year. Of course, being her daughter and being able to spend the majority of my time with her, I am able to see these relationships blossom, and to be honest, I am often in awe of them.

After she was diagnosed, she was "assigned" a nurse in her oncologist's office, Barb. Barb was expecting her first grandchild, and only after several days of knowing Barb, she knew the baby's gender, name, and the feelings of love and acticipation Barb possessed for the baby's arrival. She even bought her a "grandma's brag book" photo album to give to her at the next office visit. She is unbelievably thoughtful, and pays attention to small details most people wouldn't even catch.

This post is much shorter than all my last, because I don't have much to say regarding this subject. Of course, I could continue on and on with examples and stories of how special she is, and if you are reading this and unfortunately haven't had the pleasure of meeting her, be assured, you are missing out on the opportunity to know such a wonderful, wonderful person. I only hope that you have people like this in your life, and that if you haven't found one yet, that you take the time to look for the good in your loved-ones and the wonderful things they do for others. You, through them, will feel fulfilled and happy to be around them. Being around her makes me feel complete, and loved, and wanting to do good for others in my life. These types of people, these people that make you want to be a better human being, are truly gifts from God that should be treasured forever.

I love her with more than I could ever put into words.

I can feel everything

We are very close to the bone marrow transplant up at Cleveland Clinic. This is such a bundle of mixed emotions, not just for me, but for all of us. We know that if she doesn't get a transplant, the outcome will be grim, so the transplant is her only hope for success, but on the other hand, the transplant opens her up to all kinds of problems and risks, all of which make me sick to even think about. I don't want to her saving grace to be her demise. We have begun the 3 week countdown.

She had to go up to the Clinic for some preliminary testing to make sure her body is still ok for the transplant. Her and my dad left yesterday, and even though I had a day off, she didn't want me to go. "You need to stay home and get yourself together. Tomorrow'll be boring, you don't need to be there." She's always thinking of everyone else instead of letting people be there for her. Always thinking about my schedule, balancing my demanding internship with my graduate work with my thesis with my every-day life...always concerned I won't burn myself out or make myself sick. Too late, Momma! But I'm doing the very best I can to maintain some normalcy, for her sake, while still trying to keep my head above water. Always for her, always showing her that I am doing my best for her.

One of her tests was a bone marrow biopsy, which unfortunately is one of the worst things to put a person through. I have seen my fair share of loved-ones go through this test, but because they have had it done at a smaller hospital (Aultman), they were taken care of so wonderfully that this test was not difficult for them. While under "conscious sedation" or "twilight," they can experience the procedure as easily as possible, which always eases everyone's nerves, from the patient to the person waiting for them in the waiting room.

Imagine my surprise and anger to find out that not only did they (the Clinic) not give my mom anything to calm her down or to help ease her since she was so frightened, but they actually argued with her and told her it wasn't necessary. "I don't think you understand. I'm the biggest chicken you ever met. I need something, I get too nervous," I heard her say a few days prior on the phone to the nurse. They didn't listen, nor did they seem to care.

I spoke to her this morning on the phone on my break from class, and she was already anticipating the procedure and crying. "I'm scared," she said over and over again. "I know you're scared, but the anticipation will be the worst part, I promise," I lied with a forced optimism in my voice. I'll do anything I have to to try to make her feel better, even if I have to lie through my teeth. But it didn't work this time. I was nervous for her, and waiting to hear from her in recovery after the procedure gnawed at me all afternoon. I looked at my phone every couple minutes, until I finally had to keep it in my car because I knew I wouldn't hear from her until later. That was even harder. I worried for her all afternoon and couldn't do anything productive, so I just got in bed to rest until I heard from her.

My phone finally rang earlier this evening, and my heart actually stopped for a second. That anticipation, that heart-skipped-a-beat feeling when that moment finally comes that you've waited for all day. I picked up the phone, nervous of what I would hear on the other end.

Her voice sounded like she'd been ripped apart and put back together again. She was breathing heavy with exertion. "Hi, honey," she said with a shaky voice, like she was about to cry. I asked her how it went, and she responded that it "wasn't good." She could feel everything. She was wide awake. She cried the whole time.

I hate these people, these people that are so non-caring that they couldn't even give her some medicine to calm her down, to ease her nerves and let her know that she would be ok. A woman who has already experienced one bout with cancer, now facing her second and preparing for a bone marrow transplant. A grown woman in her fifties, reduced to a crying, scared child, and no one would comfort her. All I could think of was, "How dare them." Where's the compassion? The respect for a suffering person? I'm so angry at these people for reducing her to a huddled mess that is now lying in bed, so distraught and still upset she could barely carry on a conversation with me.

My heart hurts so much for her, almost all the time. I'm so consumed with her hurt and her fears and her nerves and her worries, at almost a constant rate. I feel so protective over her, and I love her so deeply that I wish this hurt and these fears and nerves and worries were mine and not hers. I would gladly take them to save her. Gladly, and without a second thought.

I hope there are other people who feel this type of love for someone. This type of love is so special and so unknown by so many, unfortunately, and the ones that are lucky enough to experience it, I hope they know how truly lucky they really are. I know how lucky I am, and I am so thankful and happy to have someone like her in my life, I couldn't ask for anyone more special and I wouldn't replace her if I was given the option. I would ask for her each and every single time, just like she is, flaws and perfections, just her and no one else.

The Many Meanings of "Tired"

Although I am supposed to be finishing my internship at the Cleveland Clinic this week, I hit my breaking point earlier this Monday and made the ultimate decision to end it prematurely. From the last post where I was taking my mom to the ER, one of my biggest worries came to life. Because her blood cells bottomed out because of chemo, she was susceptible to infection, and we have been so lucky thus far on this journey that I guess I counted that possibility out. But I should have kept alive rule number one in the guidelines of a sick loved-one: Always be ready for the worst.

Mom has pneumonia, c-diff, a staph infection in her PICC line, and her kidneys are taking quite a beating from all the chemo. And we're only two and a half weeks away from her bone marrow transplant.

She is so tired of being in the hospital, and it's really starting to take its toll on her. Any bit of news that's even the slightest bit negative is throwing her into tears and episodes of complete anger, and I feel so sad for her. My heart is so tired of this, so tired of picking up the pieces of her heart when mine is barely hanging on anymore. I just wish this all would end, just would go away and life would keep going where we all left off. Little problems seem like nothing anymore, and everyone that has the nerve to complain about them in front of us seems like such a joke, such a selfish, self-centered joke. I would give anything for this to not be happening. We are all so tired.

Sometimes I wonder why this even happened in the first place. I try to think back to the time, the day before we found out, before we ever heard the word "leukemia." My aunt Polly was slowly dying, and we were all preparing. I was exhausted, trying to maintain normal chores around the house, graduate school work, a thesis, and a full-time internship at a long-term care facility, all while trying to not lose my mind and my sanity from my heartbreak about facing the approaching death of my closest aunt. I kept thinking, "I can't believe this is happening. Life is hard enough." Sometimes I wonder if this is all a cruel, sick joke for thinking that life is already hard enough. Kind of like when you do something stupid when you're little and your mom yells at you because you're crying and you shouldn't be, and she says, "Oh, I'll give you something to cry about!" I wonder if there's some type of connection with this. I just kept thinking, "Life is hard enough already. God, I'm so tired of this, I'm so tired."

My mom was growing tired of work, tired of her and my dad's house, tired of her routine: work, laundry, dishes, cooking, more dishes, bills, errands, work, etc., and she often said so. "I just am so tired of all this." With her sister dying from an illness she herself once had 8 years ago, I'm sure the thought scared her much more than their other sisters who had never had to experience such a thing. And while being so tired of her routine and from becoming so burnt out of life's nonsense, these things that aren't fair and we shouldn't have to deal with, when life is already as hard as it can be and there's no light at the end of the tunnel, or so it seems, she wonders, just like all of us, "How much more can one person take? Can one family take?"

Well, we got our answer.

Sometimes I wonder if this happened because we seemed to be challenging life, egging it on, so to speak. "I can't do this anymore, I'm so tired. Life is so hard right now, I don't think I can take much more." Maybe we asked for it. Maybe we pushed it over its limit. "Oh, I'll give you something to really cry about then..." Of course, the saying "Be careful what you ask for" comes to mind.

I'm sure this all sounds very anti-Christian and very negative and cynical and whatever else you care to throw in the mix. But I think, at one point or another, every person that is faced with this type of life stress, whether it be yourself or someone very dear to you like a parent or sibling, you have to ask yourself: "Isn't this hard enough already? Why now? What did I do?" So I must pose this question..."Are you really that tired?" Sure, you have kids to look after, dishes to do, a house to care for, work to be done, bills to be paid, maybe a little fender bender last week or a bounced check, a challenging class or a disagreement with a boss, maybe? But really, in hindsight, is it all that bad? Of course, these questions we ask ourselves and the hypothetical questions we pose to God like "What else could possibly go wrong?" aren't really meant to be answered, but unfortunately, sometimes, it is frightening how as soon as you truly start to wonder, something happens that suggests that maybe someone, or something, is just waiting for those little words to be thrown to the void. Just sitting there, ready to pounce. It doesn't care if you're tired, or that your aunt is already dying, or that your daily schedule is already starting to take its toll. You whine, you get what you asked for.

How terrible of me to think about this this way. But I'm sure I'm not alone, I'm sure there are many people who feel the same way. Otherwise, that saying "When it rains, it pours" wouldn't mean anything to anyone. And I'm sure when these people are challenged in some way, they can't help but ask the same questions. I'm sure what we were doing wasn't wrong and didn't render some thunderbolt from the sky that began the process of acute leukemia in my mom's blood. Obviously not. Is it a bad thing to be tired of life? Not just life in a general sense, but life's daily annoyances and challenges that people are faced with everyday? Does that make you a bad person, or a weak person, or someone who doesn't know how good they have it? I'm not sure. All I know is that I was already tired, and my family was already tired, and my mom was already tired. We were all dealing with alot at the time, and probably all wondering the same exact thing. "I'm so tired of all of this. How much more can we take?" I hate that that question was answered for us, and in such a terrible, terrible way. And at the worst time we could have ever begun to even fathom. I will never understand such things, my mind will never wrap around any of these concepts.

But I do know that I am tired of my heart feeling like this, and I am tired of watching my mom struggle through chemo treatments and now infections from chemo, and I am tired of coming home to a house without her here, and I am tired of going to school and being away from her, and being distracted by thoughts of her at the hospital, sitting there and hoping for a happy distraction from her life's realities. Things that make her tired. And more importantly, I am tired of listening to people complain about very small, petty things, things that mean nearly nothing in the larger scheme of things. My hope is that after you read this, after your coffee spills all over your pant suit for work in the morning, you do not say, "How much more of this can I really take?" or "I'm so tired of this!" Trust me, this is not being "tired." "Tired" is my mom sitting in her hospital bed for weeks at a time, wishing she was in Hawaii, or Disney World, or in Texas with her best friend, anywhere but where she is. "Tired" is having 5 chemo treatments, with no hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows, no energy, in complete exhaustion. "Tired" is having to watch all of it and pretending like everything is fine. Most people do not know this type of tired, and I hope they never will.

Role Reversal

I remember being maybe 7 or 8 and having the flu at Thanksgiving. I was really sick that time, maybe that's why I remember it so well. My mom fussed, like always, and worried over me for days on end. But the worst was at night. That's when I would feel the sickest, and she would hardly sleep because she would hold my hair out of my face while I threw up all night. And she got me water, and made me dry toast, and hugged me when I cried about all of it. And I'm 23 now, and can't remember the last time I was up all night because of the stomach flu, but I know that I would probably still want my mom with me. There's something so comforting about having your mom around during terrible things, even something as little as the stomach flu. And even when you're 23.

This is probably why new, first-time mothers have their mothers stay with them for a while. Or why they take them to pick out their wedding dress. Or their first house. Or while they're walking down the isle, in the back of their mind, they're calmed by the idea of their mom being there to celebrate such a wonderful day. Because any time you make a big decision, or are involved in a life-changing experience, your mom is the one who, besides you, is the happiest and most proud to be there, sharing it with you. Because even though it may be one of the biggest days of your life, it may be even bigger for your mom.

I am worried that all of these things, a wedding, a baby, a house, all of these things, I may have to do alone. And no, I wouldn't actually be alone, I would have my family and my husband to share them with, but there is a different sense of "alone" when your mom isn't there to see all of these milestones in your life. I am not ready to be alone.

This morning, I was awaken by my name being called out. This is one of the few nights I have stayed at home in nearly two months, only staying here before I head back up to Cleveland. You know that feeling of being disoriented, waking up somewhere that you can't recognize or remember why you're there? Add that feeling plus the panic of hearing, "Julie. Julia, are you there? I'm sick, please. Can you come here?" And she was crying. I got out of bed with a pit in my stomach, an unknown kind of feeling, and I ran into her room. "I'm just so sick. I don't know if I'm hungry or if I'm sick, " she said while she cried.

We checked her temperature, because I was worried she might have a fever since she was talking a little weird. 98.3. I pinched the skin on her hand. Slow turgor. I told her I think she needed to go to the hospital, that she was really dehydrated and that's partially why she didn't feel good, among having massive amounts of poison racing through her entire body? This is, of course, dripping with sarcasm. But nevertheless, she looked terrible. There really are no words to describe this feeling, this ache that starts in your heart, while you're watching someone cry and moan and breathe heavy and ask for food but turns your suggestions down because "nothing tastes good." This ache travels to your stomach, and you start to notice how empty it is. Empty because you're hungry, but also this emptiness when you're struggling in your life. That struggle between hope and despair, that pull that reaches from both directions so you're stretched too thin to cope with the feeling. And then it travels to your joints, mostly your knees and hips, and you realize you are barely holding yourself up. And lastly, it travels to your brain, making the whole systemic feeling complete, and your body is completely aware and engulfed in this ache. The ache of watching someone you love struggle to barely even do something as simple as lay in bed.

How sick do you have to be that you can't even lay in bed? And what does this person do, the person watching this struggle? The answer is, unfortunately, nothing. And this isn't even the worst? How will all this happen when she gets her transplant? If she can't lay in bed now, what won't she be able to do then? All these thoughts and questions are a daily, actually hourly, reminder of the looming actuality of the approaching transplant. And I ask myself things like this, and wonder about them, and then when I start to formulate answers, I feel panicky and anxious because I don't want to know what lies ahead. And my brain yells, "No, don't think about this. Just stop!" So I do, almost as quick as I start.

So I offer her some dry toast. The good old standby for someone who is sick. "What about some toast? Does that sound good?" She agrees, and I see a window of opportunity to offer some butter with her toast, to give some more calories since she barely eats anything. Shot down. So I go pop the toast in the toaster. How funny this role reversal is, this mother-daughter switcharoo that happens at a certain age. Where they were once so consumed with your every need, your health, worried if you have eaten enough, worried what your future will be like, daydreaming about how your life will end up, wondering if you're happy, if you feel good, if there's anything in the world that they can do for you. And then, at some point, which is probably different for all mothers and daughters depending on their situation, you become this person that worries. Is she getting enough to eat? Is there anything else I can do for her? I wonder if anything would work? How long will this last? Will she be here for Christmas? Will she be here for my birthday? Will she be here for her birthday? Why is this happening to her? Why can't this be me instead?

It's so amazing how your brain worries about multiple things at once, and how it can travel in several different directions from the "now" to the very far future. And how, all while sorting through the hundreds of thoughts it experiences in only just seconds, you can relive childhood memories while daydreaming about happier future memories to try to keep yourself from breaking. And how you can still function with normal, everyday items: "Oh my God, she has a doctor's appointment in 10 minutes." So I pick up the phone, dial her doctors office, and tell them that she's not feeling well enough to come, that she just got to sleep and I didn't have the heart to wake her up but was there a time we could come later?

And I have a feeling of ridiculous irony. Mom calling her daughter off from school. "She's too sick to come today, and I don't have the heart to send her. But she'll be there tomorrow."

So I go upstairs, she eats a few pieces of toast and one shortbread cookie, and immediately falls back asleep. Among trips to the bathroom, the kitchen, the basement laundry room, I stick my head in her room to see how she's doing. To see if she's sleeping. To see if she's comfortable. To see if she's breathing.

It's odd, this role reversal thing. How it may never actually happen for some pairs. There are those that will always be selfish, always worry about themselves and never worry about their mother. Those that will always be waited on by them, instead of one day realizing that they may have to give rather than receive. On the other hand, there are some who try to make this switch right away, the young girls feeling as though they're more sophisticated and more intelligent than their mothers, telling their friends how they feel like the "adult". Overhearing this type of conversation at Starbucks always makes me laugh, but not because it's funny, but because it's such a freaking joke. They have no idea of the dynamics of the relationship with their moms, no idea at all. God forbid this girl, the one that is the "adult" of the family, finds out one day that her mother has cancer. That everything she took for granted, getting a Homecoming dress at the mall with her mom, having a clean house, laundry, and things for school, waking up to a birthday present before school, all because her mom thought of all the different ways to show her how much she loves her, all these things that she probably takes for granted, may be jeopardized by such a terrible disease that claims lives of the people we love. How ignorant and sad this little girl is, all these little girls that think this way...they have no idea how true the "adult" statement could possibly be.

While trying to stay true to the promise I made myself that these posts would not end on a sad note, I am trying to focus on how this thought, all of these thoughts, will somehow be positive in my life. I am happy, regardless of how I obtain them, to have these types of experiences and life lessons. I will be more fulfilled and more enriched, and I will truly appreciate things and the presence of other people in my life, because I know how quickly they can be taken away. There are some people who will never know this type of sadness, and who, therefore, will never know how precious people can be. Some people look at me and they are sad for me, and sad for my family. I don't like this type of pity, this type of look people give other people like me. That "oh my gosh I don't know what I would do if I was in that situation, but I'm glad it's her and not me" look, rather than the "I hope that if I ever am struck with such a situation that I will be as strong and as solid in my life" look. I don't like that people are sad for me, but I know that they are. And while I am somewhat sad for me, and for my mom, and for my family, I think I am even more sad for people like I just mentioned, those people that will never know the amazing love and appreciation you can have for another person and what you can find in your life. My hope is that, while I have always had this love and appreciation, they do not find them from watching their bald mother get bright red chemotherapy infused into her veins for 24 hours straight like I do.

On a different, yet related note, I am now getting dressed to take her to the ER. I hope that these people, these people that can't appreciate the love of people like their mothers, do not have to worry about things like this, like taking someone to the ER. They could probably never find the care and love required to fully do such a task. It's something you learn over time. Or over 5 rounds of chemotherapy. Or maybe after watching your closest friend take her last breath. Almost like learning an art. An art of love and care.

The downfall of the health care industry--people like her

Today, I went to the hospital after 6 very intensely long days of not seeing my mom. Being up in Cleveland...yes I know, it's only an hour away from her, but when she has leukemia and preparing for a bone marrow transplant, not even living in the same house feels like miles and miles away. While I was there, I saw a woman, a nurse actually, that struck such a feeling of anger into me that I was actually taken by surprise. You know how you see someone, and you start to have feelings, whatever they may be, but you can't remember who this person is? And what's worse is when you meet eyes, and that little switch flicks on in your brain, but you just can't figure out where you saw their face? And then all of the sudden, it all hits you. Who they are, where you saw them, and why you are feeling the way you feel. What's funny is, this entire process takes a matter of miliseconds for your brain to put this all together, along with all the memories it conjures, and then, out of nowhere, all is clear and you are transformed into a different place and time.

My aunt Polly was moved to the Palliative Care unit at Aultman Hospital. She was dying from liver failure, encephalopathy for all you medical-fielders. She was severely jaundiced and retaining fluid so much that she was rendered nearly almost unrecognizable. You must remember, aside from my mom, aunt Polly was one of my dearest and best friends on this earth. I had even once described her as my "soul mate" to one of my friends. Truly, we were on this wavelength that only the two of us had access to. Very connected, like I had been her friend and grown up with her all through childhood, even though she was thirty-some years older than me. And she was dying a terribly painful death, that I sat by her side for, and watched. The only word I really can think to describe this is "excrutiating."

After she had been moved to the Palliative Care unit, one of my family members stayed with her every night so she wouldn't be alone. She was in and out of consciousness by this point, but when she woke up she always wanted to know who was with her. She was so full of fluid that we were told that we had to be very gentle touching her because she was highly sensitive and the slightest brush of her face could be painful. So we were very careful to touch her and hold her hand and to comfort her, always being 100% aware of the possible pain we could be causing her.

The night I spent with her was her last night she was conscious. I cannot express fully in words this process, but she fell into a coma this night, which is Stage 4 encephalopathy and the last one before death. Before this happened, she talked to people that weren't there, even reached out to people. I was very near to her when this happened, and I had first thought she was reaching out to me but her eyes never fully met or connected with mine, and I knew that this reach was not meant for me. I stayed with her for 32 straight hours, making sure she knew she wasn't alone. In fact, only hours before entering her coma, she ate an entire chocolate chip cookie that I fed to her.

Skip forward almost two days later. She is now in a coma, and she is doing the "fish-out-of-water breathing," which signifies that death is very near. She is not responsive to anything anyone says or does with the exception of when she is in pain. According to hospice policy, a physical assessment only needs to be done every 24 hours, which to me, even in 24 hours, is ridiculous. They're dying, we know that. Why do you need to know their pulse and blood pressure. It that really necessary? So the nurse walks in, and mind you, I've been with aunt Polly now all night, without sleep, and I'm very protective. She has to do a physical assessment, even though the nurse before her, already within the "24 hours," has already completed one. She puts the blood pressure cuff on her, and aunt Polly moans in pain and actually gets as loud as she's gotten in the last couple days. And this feeling...this feeling of anger and protectiveness. It was overwhelming. Now--I don't have children, but I have an outrageous love for my family that most people, sadly, only ever dream of having, and I am extremely protective over them in a way that I'm sure most mothers are protective over their precious children. Especially for my mom. And especially for my aunt Polly. How could this nurse, this person that has vowed to take care of people, especially dying people, do something that could make someone wrythe in pain? And when she's dying? And when it's not even necessary? I wanted to actually hurt this woman. And you know what she says to me?

She's leaning over my aunt Polly, who has finally settled back down, and she says, "I couldn't get a good reading. I think I have to do it again." It took all the strength I had in my body not to physically hurt her. Really hurt her. And scream at her. And tell her she's bad at her job. So bad, in fact, that she'd rather cause my aunt Polly more unnecessary pain than understand the fact that this so-called physical assessment was no more needed that day than her mere presence in the room. She simply had no business doing what she was doing. Her job was to make my aunt Polly feel comfortable, not to cause her more hurt. And to do it in front of her tired, distraught family?

Here's my suggestion for you Ms. Joke-of-a-Palliative-Care Nurse: Go work in construction. Because your bedside manner is probably more useful for operating a jackhammer than touching anyone on this earth. Thanks so much.

I apparently was so angry that she read it on my face, and I turned around and looked at my cousin Doug. "I can't friggin' believe this," I said, and I just shook my head. The nurse took her stethoscope away from my aunt Polly and placed it back around her neck. "Is everything alright?" she asked. I, as kindly and calmly as I could, explained that the nurse on night shift already completed a physical assessment earlier that morning before leaving and that it was not necessary to complete another one, especially since it caused her physical (and completely unnecessary) pain. She simply replied, rather rude, "Well, that's my job."

By this time, the argument, as I suppose you would label this, was moved out to the hallway, with me and her, and a couple of my other family members all standing in a circle. "No, your job isn't to hurt her. A physical assessment was already completed, she doesn't need another one. She's freaking dying, we all know that. What will an accurate blood pressure reading tell you now?" The nurse's face looked a little pinched, and she started to explain that sometimes, when people are "near the end of their lives" (I wanted to hurt her again for saying that), they will explode in an agitation that no one can really know what the cause is...and that there's no way to know if she was in pain or what caused such a reaction. And very slowly she looked around at all of us and then directly at me and asked, "Does anyone have any questions about that?" She was just dripped with condescention. She wreaked of it. I hated her. Loathed her very existence and the fact that she was standing anywhere near me or my family. Or taking care of aunt Polly. And her image was etched on my mind.

So intensely, in fact, that seeing her tonight brought back such strong memories that I was talking to my friend Sara, and when I caught a glimpse of this woman and she actually made eye contact with me, I stopped talking mid-sentence. And what scared me more is that she was on the oncology floor when I saw her. How could they even let that woman work there, let alone on the oncology floor?

But what really bothers me, what really makes me upset, is the fact that this woman probably thought, "Hmm, she looks familiar," like you do when you see someone that you sat behind in chemistry three years ago but you never really spoke to them except to say "sorry, can you take off your hat? I can't see..." You know what I'm talking about? She probably had no recollection of who I was or where she knew me from. And here I am, sitting here, bothered enough to actually write a story about it. Who's winning now? Certainly not me. And certainly not the families she is probably currently "caring for" (ha!). Unfortunately, there are people like this in the health care industry who are not worth a damn to the people they are caring for. But it is our duty as a loved one, as a family member with rights, to speak up to these so-called caregivers. Because my family and I had such a reaction to this woman, she did not continue to check my aunt Polly's blood pressure. And after that discussion, she never came back to be my aunt Polly's nurse. A new one came. One that was wonderful, and very compassionate. She, in fact, made me proud to be entering into the health care field myself.

As my friend Sara and I were walking to my mom's room, down the hallway, after I had seen that woman, I looked at her and said, "That woman better not go anywhere near my mom." But I realized, what's done is done, and she is still working there, and still near patients that need love and a gentle touch, every day. And that thought disgusts me. And I have made a promise to myself, starting that very second I relived that memory, that I will not only never act like this woman when I am caring for my patients, but I will remember to make up for the lack of tenderness that unfortunately plagues parts of the health care field. I will make sure that my patients and their family members never know this feeling, this overwhelming anger that comes with playing this memory over again in my mind. I will be so much more than her. More than she every could possibly be. Because I love my family. I think you must really, really love your family to understand that connection between the two--why I would want to be a great health care practitioner because I love my family. So hopefully you understand. But if you don't, know that there are people, truly, genuinely good people out there, that will care for you loved ones and family members with the utmost respect, the way they would care for their own.

There will never be anything less for me.

What I won't do for my mom

My mom has cancer. Leukemia. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia, or ALL. She is 58, and she has already had cancer once before. That was breast cancer, stage 3, in her lymph nodes and required high doses of chemo and extensive radiation. She was in remission for 8 years, and just when I thought my life couldn't get any better, she is lying in the emergency room at Aultman Hospital.

Her heart rate, blood pressure, and pulse are all normal, even though she was admitted with a suspected heart attack. I am watching the heart monitor, and everything looks fine. There is a bag of blood hanging, already being infused. "Julia, you know all this. Think. Why would they be giving me blood. My white blood cells are high..." A single tear rolls over her cheek and into the corner of her mouth. Everything is always a lesson, always an opportunity to help me with my schoolwork. "Think. I know you know this." My mind is completely blank. High white blood cells? Giving her blood? I have no idea. That' s a big fail for the person who just sat through five years of school to enter the medical field. "I have leukemia. They don't know for sure, but the doctors are pretty sure of it. They're running the blood tests again." But you know how sometimes you just know things? Really know them, in your heart and even deeper in your soul? She knew, and I knew. And the doctors already knew but they were trying to find a way out of having to deliver this news, hoping the second blood test would turn out differently. "Oh, sorry. False alarm. You're free to go."

My mom started to cry. And I started to breathe heavy, my head got fuzzy, and my knees wouldn't hold me anymore. I fell to the floor, against the chair in the corner of the room, and I remember crying and screaming, "NO" as loud as I could. And she doesn't tell me to be quiet, or that it would be ok, or to calm down. She just cries. My life immediately came to a halt. All the things I thought were good and fair and happy and going well, they all seemed like a big fat joke. I would give anything for that monitor to have shown a mild heart attack. How different things would have been...walks in the park and learning how to cook heart-healthy meals. Instead, we are learning how to pack food with calories and protein to help her gain back some of her weight, we are avoiding fresh fruits and vegetables to make sure she doesn't get an infection, and we are looking at her now the same way everyone looked at my aunt Polly.

My aunt Polly also had cancer. Breast cancer, stage 3, in her lymph nodes, which required high doses of chemotherapy and extensive radiation. She went into remission. Sound familiar? Almost.

5 years went by, and she was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in all four quadrants of her liver and spleen. stage 4. there is no stage 5. that's it. the doctors gave her 3 years, but she lived for 4 and 1/2. but this is another story for another time. but considering that my mom was diagnosed in March and my aunt Polly died in April...i'm sure you are smart enough to figure out why everyone now looks at my mom like they did my aunt Polly. but I will not look at her that way.

I will look at her the way she wants to be looked at. Like a mother. A sister. A wife. A loyal friend, and a loyal worker to her job. She never wanted to be a spectacle or to be show-offy for anything. She just wanted to be quiet and to live her life. She wanted to be independent, to have her own money, and she has always been proud of that.

That night, the night she was diagnosed, she sat on the edge of her bed with her feet hanging over the edge. My dad was in the corner of the room sitting on the chair, and I was huddled in a ball at the foot of her bed. The doctor had just left the room, telling us overwhelming amounts of information. My mom hung her head and it shook side to side, and she began to cry again. "All I ever wanted to do was grow old with you guys." And that's really all she's ever wanted.

There are endless things I would do for my mother. I would cut off all my hair and donate it in her name. I would raise money for 9 years in a row for the Relay for Life and walk past her luminary, feeling happy and sad at the same time. I would start a collection drive for donations for the Hope Lodge in Cleveland so when she stays there after her bone marrow transplant, she can feel like she has given them something in return. I would uproot my entire life, move an hour away from my boyfriend, my family, my friends, and my dearest of all, my mom, to take an internship at the Cleveland Clinic so I can be there when she gets her transplant. There are many things I would do for her, just to be near her.

But there are things that I won't do for my mother. I won't ask, "What did we do wrong?" I won't quit school. I won't get sick and depressed and forget what the women in my family have taught me. I won't sacrifice what I have worked so hard for, because she would not want that. I will not let this crush me, and I will not crack under all of this pressure. I won't change my attitude or my personality. And I won't give up the fight against cancer. And I won't bury her before she is gone, which she has asked me to avoid countless times. This is the hardest. This is what I struggle with most. Even I am worried she will be like aunt Polly. "Don't bury me yet. Don't give up yet," she says over and over again, with me on the other end of the phone, trying to recover from a horrible image of her in the bed where my aunt Polly died. I won't let this image take me down. I won't let this disease take me down. And I won't let it take her down.