For Rusty

Exactly 11 years ago today, my mom died; she was 48.  It wasn’t an accident or anything sudden; it was cancer.  To be even more specific, it was her third bout of cancer and her second with colorectal.

She was 27 when diagnosed with uterine cancer and, to make this diagnosis even more fun, was also six months pregnant.  At that time, she was given the choice to either terminate the pregnancy and have a partial hysterectomy or give birth, watch the baby die (he was eaten up with cancer) and THEN have the surgery.  Needless to say, she chose termination.

Approximately 18 years later, she was diagnosed with colorectal cancer and agreed to an aggressive treatment of chemo and radiation.  Everything seemed to be going well and all tests indicated the cancer had quickly gone into remission.  That changed the following year.

In June 1999, Mom had the surgery to install a shunt to make future chemo treatments easier as well as a colostomy due to the removal of the diseased portion of bowel.  Right before she was wheeled to surgery, she asked me if I was pregnant; yep, almost three months along.

That little conversation wasn’t really surprising considering Mom’s track record; she always knew when another baby was expected in the family. . . that woman was more reliable than any pregnancy test!

She had her good days and she had her bad days, but she never lost her sense of humor.  One day after the surgery, we were sitting on the deck, enjoying the weather and, somehow, the conversation turned to what would happen should the cancer spread to her bladder.  In an effort to make her smile, I told her she’d end up with another bag (similar to her colostomy) and she could then pretend they were tassels, but would need to learn to swing them like a stripper would the tassels on her pasties.  Mom laughed so hard, she was crying and snorting!  My stepdad, on the other hand, wouldn’t talk to either of us for a week.  OOPS!

As it became closer to school starting, I applied for special consideration to have the girls enrolled at my old school.  It was the only logical option since I was taking care of Mom every day while Dad was at work.  Of course, the application was approved.

We made it through Halloween (her favorite holiday), my son being born early (check out “Like Mother, Like Son”), Thanksgiving, her 48th birthday, my 28th birthday, my stepsister’s 19th birthday, Christmas, New Year’s/Y2K debacle and my oldest daughter’s 10th birthday.  We thought everything was finally looking up!

On January 25, 2000, Mom had a doctor’s appointment to discuss her most recent tests and lab work and we had planned to do some last minute shopping afterward since the next day was my stepdad’s birthday.

The doctor came in, sat down and chatted a bit while reviewing the reports and I grabbed Mom’s hand and gave it a squeeze before reaching down to adjust my son’s blanket (he was sleeping in his carseat).  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t look at either Mom or the doctor.  I knew what was in the reports and the tears started long before I heard him say there wasn’t anything else they could do.

Mom stood up, thanked him and told me to hurry because we had a birthday to shop for.

Now, you may think this to be odd behavior, but she had already made her peace and I believe she knew it was pointless to prolong it any longer.  Instead of going out fighting, Mom chose to go out with grace.

We still had Valentine’s Day, St. Pat’s Day, Easter, Memorial Day and my stepsister’s high school graduation and with each passing holiday and event, she grew even more fragile and weak.  By the time we had the graduation party on June 21st, Mom was self-dosing Morphine.

While I was getting ready to go home on June 23rd, Dad told me not to worry about coming by the next day (my daughter’s 7th birthday) to check on Mom; he’d take care of everything and we should make sure the birthday was fabulous.  Imagine my surprise to receive a call from him asking me to come by (without the kids) so he could go to the grocery store.

Dad was gone for hours and Mom was upset since I was missing the birthday.  I told her it was okay because we had agreed to go out for dinner that night and the girls were probably playing and watching movies anyway.  No big deal.

Once he came home, I could tell Dad been drinking and crying.  I didn’t say anything as I was leaving other than reminding him I’d be over the next day.

Sunday was the typical laundry/cleaning day (I didn’t do much during the week other than sit by her side and/or take care of the baby; weekends, we could switch off on who would clean while the other kept her entertained) and I left around 5p to get home for dinner and to spend time with the kids before bedtime.

Mom called about 9p, asking for me to come back over because she had been having trouble lately changing her colostomy and my stepdad wouldn’t respond to her calling via intercom.  Of course I went, but I was cussing him with each mile passed.

She was crying when I got there.  I helped with the clean up and finally got her to calm down before paying a visit to my stepdad and I didn’t hold back while telling him how ignorant he was to ignore Mom when she’s asking for help.  My oldest daughter had come with me and she was instructed to call immediately if I was needed.

In the early hours of the morning, my pager went off.  I called to check my voicemail and I could hear Mom moaning in pain while Dad was begging me to come back over.  (I don’t know why he didn’t call the house phone unless it was because he didn’t want to wake up anyone else.)  I was dressed and there in 20 minutes, but she was already gone.

I remember standing there and staring at Mom, too shocked to react and wishing I would have driven faster.  It wasn’t until Dad asked who Daniel was that I was able to think again.  Apparently, that was her last word; the name of my baby brother . . . the same baby she had to sacrifice all those years ago to save her own life.  I never answered him; it was her story to tell and if she hadn’t told him everything before, then she must have had her reasons.  (I later learned Grandma told him sometime after the funeral.)

I called the funeral home to come pick up the body before sitting at her desk, continuing my vigil and when they arrived, I watched every movement they made, listened to everything they said, but I never said a word.  I’m not sure when I woke my daughter so she could say goodbye, but I know she returned to the bedroom before the hearse arrived.  I don’t think seeing her Nono being handled by strange men would have been an appropriate final image for such a young girl.

All of the arrangements had been made months in advance, but the next few days were still a blur of activity with the wake and the funeral.  Mom wanted to be cremated so at least going to the cemetery was something we could postpone . . . thankfully.

I made a CD of the songs she wanted played and included a couple by Queen (“Who Wants to Live Forever” and “One Year of Love”) from “A Kind of Magic” . . . one of her favorite CDs.  It was a rather surreal experience since she had been the one to pick the tracks.  (Dad had forbidden us from including either “Bicycle” or “Fat Bottom Girls” . . . no sense of humor!)

All of these years have passed and there are some days it feels like she was just here and I still listen to that CD when I miss her the most.

In the decade plus Mom has been gone, I have had two more children and she has become a great-grandma almost twice over (in a couple of weeks, her great-grandson will be here); one of her brothers, my stepdad, her mother and my dad have all passed and there have been advancements in both the detection and treatment available for colorectal cancer.

Nothing will ever bring her back, but we all have our memories of Rusty (what else do you call a carrot-top?) and it is my job to tell her grandchildren and great-grandchildren about her because, after all, in those stories, she’s still here.