So much time has passed. So much has happened. I know it's important to keep moving forward, but if I don't deal with issues, they keep coming back to me.
I've been through 4 chemo treatments, my last one was January 11, 2008. I've lost all my hair, as they promised I would. I've gained weight, experienced mood swings that put my worst PMS episodes to shame. Gotta love the steroids!
All-in-all, I had very few problems with the treatments ... for which I thank God and my family. The worst experience of all was the passing of my mother during my treatments.
She "made her transition," the Monday following my first treatment. She'd suffered with dementia for several years ... actually, we all suffered with her, in our own way. We lost her completely to dementia about 3 years ago. I had a very difficult time going to see her, especially during her last year.
I would visit her when it was less painful to see her than the guilt of not seeing her.
When I learned of my breast cancer diagnosis I was mad at her. Actually, I was mad at her dementia. It had robbed me of my mother, with whom I needed to talk with. I always talked with her about life issues, she always made things better. She was my mom.
My last visit with her was just before Halloween, 2007. I was to start my chemo treatments on November 9. I wanted to visit her before I started the treatments, because I knew I wouldn't be able to see her once they were stared.
I also wanted to tell her about my diagnosis, but I didn't want to worry her...if there was any chance that she possibly knew. I really her. I needed the comfort of my mother and her assurance that everything would be okay...just as she did when I was afraid as a child.
I brought her some things she needed plus "fun stuff." Mom always loved to decorated for holidays, so I wanted to take her some Halloween things ... including candy corn. The nurses also advised that I should buy her a baby doll, because she liked holding them.
For the first thirty minutes of my visit, she was asleep. She finally awoke as I finished marking her name on all of the items. She awoke with that far-off, frightened look. The look that always broke my heart, because there was no recognition of who I was.
She finally sat up, and made her way over to a chair next to me. I gave her some candy corn, and she brightened up. Mom always loved candy. At that point I decided to 'go for it' and tell her about my diagnosis. As I was explaining it, she seemed to connect with me.
I explained that they had successfully removed it and I was about to start treatment. I told her that I was scared, but that I felt that everything was going to be okay. At that moment she looked at me, and with the most clarity I'd seen in years, said, "Of course it will!"
Then, just as quickly as she seemed to be in the moment, she slipped away...back into the recesses of her dementia. I wanted to talk more...I wanted more from her...but that's all she could give. And, it was more than I could have ever hoped for.
I didn't realize that it would be my last visit with her, but I'm sure she did. She made her transition on November 12, 2007, but left me with parting words that keep me moving forward on my road through treatment and recovery.
I love you, mother. Neither of us are saints and we had plenty of difficult times and hurtful words...but, you were there for me when I needed you the most!
God bless you and keep you in his loving arms ... and, tell Dad "hi!"
Namaste,
Chele
I've been through 4 chemo treatments, my last one was January 11, 2008. I've lost all my hair, as they promised I would. I've gained weight, experienced mood swings that put my worst PMS episodes to shame. Gotta love the steroids!
All-in-all, I had very few problems with the treatments ... for which I thank God and my family. The worst experience of all was the passing of my mother during my treatments.
She "made her transition," the Monday following my first treatment. She'd suffered with dementia for several years ... actually, we all suffered with her, in our own way. We lost her completely to dementia about 3 years ago. I had a very difficult time going to see her, especially during her last year.
I would visit her when it was less painful to see her than the guilt of not seeing her.
When I learned of my breast cancer diagnosis I was mad at her. Actually, I was mad at her dementia. It had robbed me of my mother, with whom I needed to talk with. I always talked with her about life issues, she always made things better. She was my mom.
My last visit with her was just before Halloween, 2007. I was to start my chemo treatments on November 9. I wanted to visit her before I started the treatments, because I knew I wouldn't be able to see her once they were stared.
I also wanted to tell her about my diagnosis, but I didn't want to worry her...if there was any chance that she possibly knew. I really her. I needed the comfort of my mother and her assurance that everything would be okay...just as she did when I was afraid as a child.
I brought her some things she needed plus "fun stuff." Mom always loved to decorated for holidays, so I wanted to take her some Halloween things ... including candy corn. The nurses also advised that I should buy her a baby doll, because she liked holding them.
For the first thirty minutes of my visit, she was asleep. She finally awoke as I finished marking her name on all of the items. She awoke with that far-off, frightened look. The look that always broke my heart, because there was no recognition of who I was.
She finally sat up, and made her way over to a chair next to me. I gave her some candy corn, and she brightened up. Mom always loved candy. At that point I decided to 'go for it' and tell her about my diagnosis. As I was explaining it, she seemed to connect with me.
I explained that they had successfully removed it and I was about to start treatment. I told her that I was scared, but that I felt that everything was going to be okay. At that moment she looked at me, and with the most clarity I'd seen in years, said, "Of course it will!"
Then, just as quickly as she seemed to be in the moment, she slipped away...back into the recesses of her dementia. I wanted to talk more...I wanted more from her...but that's all she could give. And, it was more than I could have ever hoped for.
I didn't realize that it would be my last visit with her, but I'm sure she did. She made her transition on November 12, 2007, but left me with parting words that keep me moving forward on my road through treatment and recovery.
I love you, mother. Neither of us are saints and we had plenty of difficult times and hurtful words...but, you were there for me when I needed you the most!
God bless you and keep you in his loving arms ... and, tell Dad "hi!"
Namaste,
Chele
