Remembering and a Hard Lesson
to Learn
One year ago this month, the
nurses called from hospice at
about 6 a.m. to tell us that
they thought today would be
"the day". For weeks before,
we had known it was coming,
known that her time was very
short. The phone call just
confirmed what I had felt
anyway, that it was time. I
called my mom, who lives 90
miles away, and asked her if
she could come up for the day
and watch our kids while we
spent the day up at hospice. I
couldn't expect, and
truthfully, just didn't want,
my children --3 and 8 at the
time-- to be there when she
took her last breath. It's
hard enough just knowing
someone you loved is gone,
much less having to watch them
gasp for air that never came.
My mother-in-law was 54 when
she died from nasopharyngeal
cancer.
In March of 2003, Rube and I
were just getting ready to
leave on a long-awaited
vacation to New Mexico to
visit Rube's dad and their
family. The furthest south I'd
been before then had been
Denver, Colorado, so I was
really looking forward to the
trip.. We took one of our
nieces with us--partly because
we wanted someone else for the
kids to play with, to help
keep them entertained, and
partly because I'm a sucker
for my nieces and nephews,
they all have me wrapped
around their fingers almost as
much as my own children. I
just wanted to give one of
them the opportunity to see
and experience things that
they would otherwise not have
the chance to.
Two days before we left, we
got a call saying that Rube's
mom was going to have a biopsy
performed that Monday. She had
been having problems with pain
in her head, double vision,
etc... and had gone to the
doctor. They had seen a mass
in her head (not her brain),
and had ordered a biopsy.
Ruben talked to his mom, told
her we'd stay, but she wasn't
having it. She told us to go
enjoy ourselves, and someone
would call us and let us know
about how the biopsy went.
So, we went, albeit without
all the joyful anticipation
we'd had before. We drove
during the night, while the
kids slept, and we didn't talk
about it. To talk about the
threat of "what if" made it
too real.
We got to Albuquerque, where
Rube's sister lives, that
morning around 9. Got our
hotel, got settled in. And we
proceeded to start our
vacation with the Albuquerque
zoo, which has the coolest,
most animated polar bears I've
ever seen, lol! They were
totally suckers for the crowd,
doing routines on their own.
Loved it!
The next morning we got an
early call from one of Rube's
sisters back home, to tell us
the biopsy had begun, and
they'd call when they found
out anything. I think both of
us already knew, or felt on
some level, that things
weren't going to be good. And
when the cell phone rang with
a call from one of Ruben's
cousins at 11:00, while we
were checking out all the
great shops and stuff in Old
Town, it only confirmed it.
The results weren't official,
but the doctor who had
performed the biopsy said that
it definitely looked like
cancer, and that as soon as
the official results came in,
they would start making plans
for her treatment.
We headed back to the hotel,
so Rube could put in some
calls to his family. I took
the kids to the hotel pool to
keep their minds blissfully
ignorant, so that at least
they could this one vacation
where all was right in their
worlds. When Rube talked to
his mom later that night, and
Rube told her we would go
home, she stood firm and told
us to stay, and enjoy
ourselves, that there was
nothing we could do at home
anyway.
When we got back a few days
later, we went to visit his
mom, and found out more about
her cancer.. It was malignant,
centered in a place in her
head that doctors refer to as
"no man's land" because it is
a place in our heads where
it's a virtual tangle of
nerves, veins, etc...
Nasopharyngeal cancer develops
in the nasopharynx, an area in
the back of the nose toward
the base of the skull. The
nasopharynx is a box-like
chamber about 1 1/2 inches on
each edge. It lies just above
the soft palate, just in back
of the entrance into the nasal
passages. Although it is
considered an oral cancer, it
is different from most oral
cancers. It tends to spread
widely, is not often treated
by surgery, and has different
risk factors from most oral
cancers. The nasopharynx
contains several layers of
tissue, each containing
several types of cells.
Different cancers can develop
in each kind of cell. Here is
a picture, courtesy of
The American Cancer Society:
The area circled in red is the
approximate center of my MIL‘s
tumor, but located in the
right side of her head. By the
time it was found, it was
approximately the size of a
small grapefruit.
Her first appointment with the
radiologist confirmed that
Rube's mom would have to be
here, in the town I live in,
for her treatments. She was at
stage 3, and we were told that
the chance for success was
50-50. The plan for treating
her cancer would be daily
radiation sessions and
chemotherapy once a week, for
a total of 8 weeks.
At this point, my MIL was
doing poorly. Because the
tumor was getting in the way
of the movement of her jaw,
she had a hard time eating.
Anything she ate, she had a
hard time keeping down because
of the pain killers they were
giving her for the pain in her
head made her nauseous. None
of the anti-nausea meds seemed
to help at all. She couldn't
hear out of her right ear
because the tumor was pressing
on her ear canal, pinching it
off. Her eyesight in her right
eye alternated between fuzzy,
double vision, and sometimes,
nothing.
Before her treatments even
began, she had to be put into
the hospital, because she
couldn't eat anything. The
doctors put a peg tube into
her stomach, through which
liquid food (Ensure, etc...)
could be poured in, to give
her nutrition. It seemed to
help some, and she was
released a couple days later.
Not quite a couple weeks into
treatments, she had to be
hospitalized again. The
treatments, and meds she was
on, were wearing her system
down. Her stomach no longer
could tolerate the liquids
given through the peg tube,
and she just could not stop
puking.. They inserted a pic
line into her. This is like a
small peg tube, about the size
of an IV, with the same type
of idea as an IV. It's a
venous line that delivers a
liquid of pure nutrients
straight into her veins.
Because of having to rely on
the pic tube, the hospital
kept her there for constant
medical attention. The cancer
center where she received her
treatments at was connected to
the hospital, so she still
went to her radiation session
every morning, and chemo on
Mondays.
When she was about 6 weeks
along, it became apparent that
her body couldn't handle the
effects of the treatment any
better than it could handle
the effects of the tumor. She
was still having problems with
her sight and hearing, but now
her throat was tight and sore,
and she could hardly speak.
Radiation had to pass on her
throat to get to her tumor,
and in the process, it
destroyed the glands that
produce saliva. Often times,
she was living in the past,
unaware of things around her,
forgetting people sometimes,
and where she was. But most of
the time she slept. Her body
was so torn down, it needed
that constant sleep to try and
regenerate.
Finally, the oncologist in
charge of her case, gathered
us and all the family
together, and told us that
according to X-rays they'd
done a few days earlier, there
was virtually no change, only
about a 6% reduction in size.
Also, the tumor was growing
towards her brain stem, and
was only 5 mm away from it. I
remember thinking; she's gone
through all this crap, for
nothing? I was so angry. The
oncologist went on to talk
about enjoying the time we had
with her, and to encourage her
to get well, yadda yadda yadda...I
don't think any one of us were
paying much attention. It's
hard to when you're faced with
the fact that someone you love
is going to die, painfully,
and there is nothing you can
do without it.
To buy us, and her, whatever
extra time we could, my MIL
finished her week and a half
left of scheduled radiation
sessions, then began the task
of trying to get well. It
helped a lot that the chemo
had stopped, she wasn't so
violently ill all the time,
and eventually, we could take
her off the pic line, and back
to the peg tube. It still
amazes me that for months,
that small tube was her only
source of food and nutrition.
After we got her back on the
peg tube, and she was feeling
better, we were able to move
her from the hospital to a
nursing home, where her body
could recuperate but she‘d
have access to medical help.
And it did help. She started
to feel better, could take the
meds she needed; she was able
to tolerate drinking water,
then broth, and then
Popsicles. She was even able
to tolerate small spoons of
Jell-O once in a while. All
of us were filled with a sense
of anticipation, as we seen
her getting stronger again. We
couldn't wait for the day we
went to the home for the last
time, to pick her up and take
her home.
Then we went to visit her one
day, and the right side of her
face was swollen, with her eye
on that side looking like a
tiny slit had been cut across
her cheek. The tumor was
cutting off the drainage from
her lymph nodes. When we came
home that night, I think both
Rube and I knew that she was
coming down to the wire, and
that we'd never get to take
her home.
A week or so later, she began
having problems with her peg
tube again, and keeping stuff
down, so she was put back onto
the pic line. The family was
approached again. It was
getting close, did we want to
move her to Hospice, a
terminal care facility.. So,
at the beginning of November,
my MIL was moved one last
time.
The focus in any terminal care
facility is not healing, but
to make them as comfortable as
they can in their passing. But
they also went above and
beyond in ensuring that we all
felt as much at home there as
we could. I can't say enough
good things about the Hospice
program here. Everyone there,
from the doctor to the nurses
to the cook, was just
phenomenal.
Once it began, it was like a
mudslide coming down. She was
unable to take any liquids in
her mouth, so her mouth,
tongue, and throat was just
one giant, dry sore. She lost
control of all bodily
functions, and pretty soon,
the urine in the catheter bags
was orange from dehydration,
and from the kidneys starting
to shut down. Every breath was
a gasp, even when she was
sleeping. You could literally
see the muscles in her neck
and throat working hard to
draw that breath into her
chest.
She would try and talk to us,
and sometimes she'd talk about
people who'd already passed
on, sometimes she would talk
to those deceased, like they
were in the room with her. And
more than likely, they were.
Sometimes you could understand
what she said, and sometimes
you couldn't, due to the
dryness and deterioration that
the radiation had done to her
throat and speech, but always,
she knew we were there with
her. Every day, including the
last.
After I called, my mom got
here around 8:30 that morning,
and we kissed and hugged the
kids, and left. There was so
many of the family there with
her that day, as had been for
the last few months. Us,
Rube's sisters and brother and
their spouses, a couple of her
sisters and a brother, some
cousins, nephews, and nieces.
We were all there, to be with
her, when she needed us, if
she needed us to help, and we
were there for one another, to
offer a shoulder, or take a
hug.
Surrounding her bedside were
her children, and their
spouses, just watching her
laboring to breathe, hearing
her gasp, and trying to come
to terms with it all. We spoke
to her, held her hands, and
rubbed her legs, talked about
all the good times... And then
it was as if we all knew it
was coming, because we all
shut up, and the room got
quiet, and I KNEW it was
coming, it was almost a
presence in the room. And I
turned my face away because I
couldn't watch (I'm SUCH a
weenie). I heard one of her
sister's say, "What's wrong?"
and then one of my SIL's said,
"She's trying to breathe and
she can't. She can't breathe.
She can't breathe." And His
will was done, her spirit
carried far away, where she no
longer had to painfully
struggle to exist in our
world. She was free, but God,
how it hurt.
She left me with something
though, as I'm sure she's left
everyone else with something
too.. She taught me a lesson
that even when you think
someone has done wrong in this
world, even when they broke
your heart or caused you pain,
at the end of things, it
doesn't matter. You let go of
your resentment, and just
love.
You see, what separates this
from perhaps every other
cancer story you've read about
this disease striking down
some person who was in their
prime and was long-adored for
their charitable contributions
to life and society, is that
my MIL wasn't any of those in
her life before cancer. She
had made many mistakes in
life, in men, raising her
kids, and even in treating
some of her grandchildren.
I always hated seeing someone
die, and all of a sudden those
that had talked the worst
about them, were the first to
"rewrite" their past, and turn
them into some saint that
walked on water. But now I
realize that in most cases,
stuff like that doesn't come
from some egotistical,
much-too-late need to put up a
shrine to someone they talked
so bad about to make
themselves feel better. And
it's not about rewriting
history either, or shouldn't
be. It's about letting go.
I was probably one of the
worst to talk about my MIL. As
a mother, I had no respect for
someone who had put their
children through what she did
knowingly, and of her choice,
and as a woman, I hated how
she often times stuck her
current novio's wants and
needs before those of her
family. I hated watching her
call her other grandchildren
on their birthday or giving
them presents, and yet my son
would ask why grandma never
called him, or gave him
anything. I hated her fiercely
when one of her boyfriends
called my son retarded because
of his speech impediment, and
she LAUGHED. I hated her SO
much for not only NOT sticking
up for my son --her
grandchild-- but for laughing
at him.
I hated so much. And then the
day before they put in my
MIL's peg tube, we went to the
hospital to visit her, and
that's when I was able to let
go. Seeing her emaciated form
lying there --she had lost 40
lbs. before she even started
her treatments because she
hadn't been able to eat--,
crying, puking, frightened,
defenseless, and KNOWING that
things didn't look good, I
just let go. It's not that I
forgot what she did, or said
that the things she'd done
were okay. I realized that all
we had, all she had, was the
present, and that was all that
mattered.
She taught me that the past
should never be forgotten, but
it should never be rewritten
also.. It should be remembered
for all it was, or wasn't. The
good moments should be
treasured for what they were
without letting the bad stuff
muck it up. She taught me that
the future, whether it’s
minutes or years, is not a
guarantee, regardless of
prayers, hopes, or dreams. She
taught me to wake up every
morning and appreciate what
IS, instead of holding onto
hurts from yesterday or
hanging my happiness on "I'll
be happy when…” or "I'll be
thrilled if..." or "I wish
that...".
She taught me a hard lesson,
but it’s one that, a year
later, I still haven’t
forgotten, and never will.
Thank you, mom.
Dedicated to Betty “Tigger”
Najera Archuletta
July 23, 1949 - November 16,
2003
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