My mom is dying. We all are, it could be argued, but she seems significantly, painfully closer to finishing than any other members of our numerous nuclear family. Diagnosed with cancer, her stomach, spleen, and most of her large intestine chopped away by Chicago doctors, majorly re-intervened after her body suffered a post-surgical septic infection, her small intestine diverted to excrete out onto her belly, her body regularly flooded with poisonous chemicals "trusted" to "wipe out" her remnant, supposedly cancerous cells, routinely irradiated with harmful radiation meant to impede her own body tissue's growth indiscriminately, eventually re-intervened to eat and defecate through her mouth and anus again, her left shoulder's nerve damaged to the point of neuropathy by one of her surgeries, her esophagus gradually closing due to abnormal pleural fluids, unable to eat or drink absolutely anything without vomiting it back, her intestine now obstructed by an apparent mechanical defect, black bile coming out of her mouth regularly like petroleum from a drilling tower, I would say she's been dying for a while. But it's over two years after her first diagnosis, and she still lives. And for her sake, I wonder if I'd rather chosen the alternative, had it ever been my choice. Not that I would want it to be.
The hope for her complete recovery was relinquished since the first operation, but that for her return to an acceptable style of living has been a dwindling spark since then, and over two years later, I much doubt there's any left.
And on this I ponder. Not on the fragility of Life, on the thin border that separates us from Death, on the set of medical terms and facts I've listened and learned about in the last month, or on any such generalities. I ponder about me, and about my mom.
Despite the regular morphine, hot water bags, and subjectively soothing family companionship, my mom's body is in pain. Her digestive tract is void of nutrients; only leaked body biles aimlessly wander inside. Her mood seems, sadly, one of impotence. She lays on her reclinable bed 24 hours a day, a catheter connected to an artery under her left shoulder, bloodstream-ready nutrients being forcefully pumped throughout her worn, yet resilient, body, with a face so abject, it would appear she has no will left of her own. But she does: her mind is clear and her communications are coherent. She's constantly compelled to perceive pain, however, and to that situation we are all apparently so utterly helpless, that I almost feel Nature as cruel, not to provide my mother with a finger-clickable "off" switch at her direct disposal. Our distractions and laughter around her can only alleviate her so much - the depth and intensity of what she feels is only for her to know and face, and our empathic support, pain, and awkward walk-about with a grievance whose genuineness I still doubt, are barely even symbolic in comparison.
And me. Sad? I'm not. Grieving? Not really. Death is the only known end to Life, so it shouldn't be that much of a surprise when it comes. But for many people, it often is. Either end result of this situation seems acceptable to me. She can decay and die soon from this messy set of maladies, or recover from them, in which case she might live for a few more years, and die later. The end results are just fine. Some of my mother's close ones have lately often said "Let's pray for her wellness. Let's pray for her recovery. Oh Lord, please put your hand of health down on Orbelina, that she may be free from this cancer, that her body might be nourished and grow strong again". It does sound like a great blessing for my mother, especially when pronounced over and over, with many "Oh Lord" chants in between. But what right do I have to influence my mother's health? Yes, I would much prefer to see her active, energetic, and happy than how she is like in her current state. But she has often cried out, especially when under sharp spells of pain, that she would like to just "go to sleep once and for all", or to "be put to sleep", as she likes to evade both conciseness and words that "good people should not say". So how should I know what she really wants, or what is really better for her? Would I wish for her recovery, if I knew that she would spend her remaining years in frequent pains, a restricted diet, but more importantly, in a state of discomfort and discontent? I do not claim to know what is better for her, and so I do not wish either way.
I currently hold fast to the idea that pain does not necessarily imply suffering, though. But I have only once, timidly, mentioned it to my mother. I am aware that doing so is not unlike telling the only black kid in school that skin color is not important. Or something like that - I fail to produce an adequate analogy. But I told her this in the hope that she might detach from her body's pain, as the peripheral perception to her inner-er and subtler consciousness that it is.
But I am not sad. Nor do I grieve. And I ponder about that. I've spent the last 4 weeks in Guatemala, running errands, talking to my mom, having my birthday celebrated, and generally trying to be as helpful as possible to my family in this time of medical urgency. And now I leave. I'm on a plane en route to Chicago, ready to move to California on Friday and to build up a Life over there. And as I search my intentions, this change is stronger in my mind than my mom's situation. I see her state as a task I'm done with for now, but my move, as something to look forward about, to organize, and to experience fully. I know she pains, but what else to do about it now, besides what my brother and his trusted medical friends are already doing?
About that I ponder. Serious illness and death of relatives is generally said to be dreadful, painful, and life-altering. But I feel quite well, somewhat thoughtful perhaps. I just enjoyed a tasty breakfast on the plane, I'm listening to exciting Flamenco Rock stored in my Nexus phone, and physically, I feel more sleepy than anything else (I barely slept about two hours last night).
And I wonder why. I think I'll claim no conclusions, but I will not deny having hypotheses. Am I just looking to get away, because something inside me knows it could hurt so bad? Possibly, but what I mostly felt while being with her was awkward helplessness, and not really much sadness.
Or have I detached emotionally from my mom so fully that I care for her pain little more than for, say, global warming? Or is it a plain, broad acceptance of everything, for it is all perfect, for nothing else is?
Three days later...
My mom submitted to surgery only about three hours ago. She was supposed to go in almost six hours ago, but I guess the operation was delayed somewhy. Heidi found me on Facebook and told me they were just entering her into the operation room. Three hours ago. The operation must've already been mostly completed.
A surgeon cut her abdomen skin up again, I guess. Reached her intestines. Observed the obstruction. Thought about the options, and decided on a course of action to fix her already-sliced-and-patched digestive tract. Oh, my mom.
And I am on an airplane, flying from Chicago to San Francisco, off to prepare my life around a new employment in Mountain View. New residence, new lifestyle, new future habits. I enjoy the thought of it. And I internally debate whether to connect to the Internet to know about my mom's status before landing. And I decide against it. Nothing to be done from here, and I'll find out later anyway.
I support your intention, whatever that is, mom. Love to you, mom. And strength of spirit. Your body made our bodies, and your character helped mold ours. And I like much, perhaps all, of what I am, so thank you. Best to you.
The following morning...
My mom's surgery was successful! Two cancerous masses and a web of... I don't know... useless tissue... were removed from her digestive tract, Heidi told me, and she is expected to eat again in five days!! My dad said she woke up half an hour after the operation, and began talking and everything already! This title and my thoughts in the paragraphs above seem much less relevant now. Go, mom!
The hope for her complete recovery was relinquished since the first operation, but that for her return to an acceptable style of living has been a dwindling spark since then, and over two years later, I much doubt there's any left.
And on this I ponder. Not on the fragility of Life, on the thin border that separates us from Death, on the set of medical terms and facts I've listened and learned about in the last month, or on any such generalities. I ponder about me, and about my mom.
Despite the regular morphine, hot water bags, and subjectively soothing family companionship, my mom's body is in pain. Her digestive tract is void of nutrients; only leaked body biles aimlessly wander inside. Her mood seems, sadly, one of impotence. She lays on her reclinable bed 24 hours a day, a catheter connected to an artery under her left shoulder, bloodstream-ready nutrients being forcefully pumped throughout her worn, yet resilient, body, with a face so abject, it would appear she has no will left of her own. But she does: her mind is clear and her communications are coherent. She's constantly compelled to perceive pain, however, and to that situation we are all apparently so utterly helpless, that I almost feel Nature as cruel, not to provide my mother with a finger-clickable "off" switch at her direct disposal. Our distractions and laughter around her can only alleviate her so much - the depth and intensity of what she feels is only for her to know and face, and our empathic support, pain, and awkward walk-about with a grievance whose genuineness I still doubt, are barely even symbolic in comparison.
And me. Sad? I'm not. Grieving? Not really. Death is the only known end to Life, so it shouldn't be that much of a surprise when it comes. But for many people, it often is. Either end result of this situation seems acceptable to me. She can decay and die soon from this messy set of maladies, or recover from them, in which case she might live for a few more years, and die later. The end results are just fine. Some of my mother's close ones have lately often said "Let's pray for her wellness. Let's pray for her recovery. Oh Lord, please put your hand of health down on Orbelina, that she may be free from this cancer, that her body might be nourished and grow strong again". It does sound like a great blessing for my mother, especially when pronounced over and over, with many "Oh Lord" chants in between. But what right do I have to influence my mother's health? Yes, I would much prefer to see her active, energetic, and happy than how she is like in her current state. But she has often cried out, especially when under sharp spells of pain, that she would like to just "go to sleep once and for all", or to "be put to sleep", as she likes to evade both conciseness and words that "good people should not say". So how should I know what she really wants, or what is really better for her? Would I wish for her recovery, if I knew that she would spend her remaining years in frequent pains, a restricted diet, but more importantly, in a state of discomfort and discontent? I do not claim to know what is better for her, and so I do not wish either way.
I currently hold fast to the idea that pain does not necessarily imply suffering, though. But I have only once, timidly, mentioned it to my mother. I am aware that doing so is not unlike telling the only black kid in school that skin color is not important. Or something like that - I fail to produce an adequate analogy. But I told her this in the hope that she might detach from her body's pain, as the peripheral perception to her inner-er and subtler consciousness that it is.
But I am not sad. Nor do I grieve. And I ponder about that. I've spent the last 4 weeks in Guatemala, running errands, talking to my mom, having my birthday celebrated, and generally trying to be as helpful as possible to my family in this time of medical urgency. And now I leave. I'm on a plane en route to Chicago, ready to move to California on Friday and to build up a Life over there. And as I search my intentions, this change is stronger in my mind than my mom's situation. I see her state as a task I'm done with for now, but my move, as something to look forward about, to organize, and to experience fully. I know she pains, but what else to do about it now, besides what my brother and his trusted medical friends are already doing?
About that I ponder. Serious illness and death of relatives is generally said to be dreadful, painful, and life-altering. But I feel quite well, somewhat thoughtful perhaps. I just enjoyed a tasty breakfast on the plane, I'm listening to exciting Flamenco Rock stored in my Nexus phone, and physically, I feel more sleepy than anything else (I barely slept about two hours last night).
And I wonder why. I think I'll claim no conclusions, but I will not deny having hypotheses. Am I just looking to get away, because something inside me knows it could hurt so bad? Possibly, but what I mostly felt while being with her was awkward helplessness, and not really much sadness.
Or have I detached emotionally from my mom so fully that I care for her pain little more than for, say, global warming? Or is it a plain, broad acceptance of everything, for it is all perfect, for nothing else is?
Three days later...
My mom submitted to surgery only about three hours ago. She was supposed to go in almost six hours ago, but I guess the operation was delayed somewhy. Heidi found me on Facebook and told me they were just entering her into the operation room. Three hours ago. The operation must've already been mostly completed.
A surgeon cut her abdomen skin up again, I guess. Reached her intestines. Observed the obstruction. Thought about the options, and decided on a course of action to fix her already-sliced-and-patched digestive tract. Oh, my mom.
And I am on an airplane, flying from Chicago to San Francisco, off to prepare my life around a new employment in Mountain View. New residence, new lifestyle, new future habits. I enjoy the thought of it. And I internally debate whether to connect to the Internet to know about my mom's status before landing. And I decide against it. Nothing to be done from here, and I'll find out later anyway.
I support your intention, whatever that is, mom. Love to you, mom. And strength of spirit. Your body made our bodies, and your character helped mold ours. And I like much, perhaps all, of what I am, so thank you. Best to you.
The following morning...
My mom's surgery was successful! Two cancerous masses and a web of... I don't know... useless tissue... were removed from her digestive tract, Heidi told me, and she is expected to eat again in five days!! My dad said she woke up half an hour after the operation, and began talking and everything already! This title and my thoughts in the paragraphs above seem much less relevant now. Go, mom!
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