The Facts of Life

I’ve never met Tony Robbins.

I definitely don’t have a degree in motivational speaking.

When it comes to pumping things up, I usually use an air compressor.

My first experience with a psychiatrist was the Bob Newhart show.

I was sitting on my own couch.

My first pep talk came courtesy of Animal House.

“Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?”

“Germans?”

“Forget it, he’s rolling.”

But when it comes to my mom.

And her current battle with kidney cancer.

My job is pretty clear.

Keep her moving forward.

Any way you can.

We talk every day.

Or so.

And our conversations are pretty predictable.

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Good, how are the kids?”

“Good.   You sound good.   How are you feeling?”

“So so.”

That might not be exactly word for word, but it’s pretty darn close.

Our conversation usually moves on from that point, but it always stays on topic.

The topic of cancer.

From the moment she found out there was a mass on her kidney.

Two months ago.

That’s been the only thing on her mind.

And can you blame her?

Thankfully I have never been on the other side of the conversation when the doctor says you have cancer.

But she was.

Last week.

I’ve also never dealt with 1/900th of what my mom has dealt with in her life.

She has.

And she’s survived.

Every time.

Maybe that’s why I feel so optimistic about her survival in this battle too.

Well that and that fact that every single doctor I’ve spoken to is optimistic.

And that’s a good thing -- although it’s not always in their makeup to make you feel good.

Just the facts.

Exhibit A -- Me.

Circa 1994.

One month after I got married, I suffered a major eye injury playing floor hockey without a face shield.

I’m not the smartest bulb in the picnic basket.

17 years later, I can still remember the doctor walking into the emergency room and saying...

“You may never see again with that eye.”

Slow down Marcus Welby.

You ever heard of foreplay?

Fortunately a month later, when the swelling went down, the eye sight came back.

Well, most of it.

If both eyes are open, the right compensates for the left and I can see perfectly fine.

And as long as I wear protective glasses, I should live a long and miserable life.

As for my mom, she has already lived a long life.

81 years and counting.

And she has seen her share of misery.

Raised in the 30’s without a father.

The 1930's.

She lost a child to a terrible accident when the child was five.

She saw her first son battle cancer when he was in his 20’s.

Thankfully he won.

That same son suffered a brain aneurism when he was in his 40’s.

Thankfully he won that too.

And all along the way she has battled her own issues with a bipolar disorder.

And more importantly how it is perceived.

This latest news of cancer....

Take a number.

But even with all of her experience in dealing, or not dealing, with heartbreak.

My mom keeps going.

Like the bunny.

That’s probably why this time has me a little concerned.

This latest battle is wearing her down.

And the battle hasn’t even started yet.

A few days ago we spoke about the decision of what to do with this tumor.

The doctors gave us a few options.

But they only felt comfortable with two of them.

Try to remove the tumor with a shot of straight alcohol.

Really?

I tried that in college, it doesn’t work.

Option II -- do nothing.

Well nothing until the next cat-scan shows if the tumor is still growing.

That next cat-scan is supposed to be in four months.

Four LONG months.

Clearly the stress is already getting to her.

And the thought of sitting for four months.

Waiting.

Might be too much for any one to take.

Even her. 

The truth is the doctors don’t know how long this thing has been there.

And neither do we.

And that’s what I told my mom.

I’m trying to keep it as real as I can with her.

Always, serving up an extra shot of optimism.

I told her that doing nothing, at this point, might make the most sense.

Wait a few months.

See if it has grown.

If it hasn’t, HOORAY.

If it has, we go for the alcohol injection.

And deal with it then.

But this is only IF she can live and enjoy her life during those four months.

If the stress is too much to handle, it could do more damage than the tumor.

I definitely realize that the last 73 words makes this all seem very simple.

And I most definitely realize that we are talking about my only mom here.

And I absolutely most definitely realize what is at stake here.

But the more we can keep the emotion out of this.

And just deal with the facts, like Joe Friday.

The better off we will be.

Maybe those doctors are onto something.

Fight On

My mom returned to her assisted living facility this week.

This came after a couple of weeks at a nursing home.

Which came after a couple of weeks in the hospital.

Thank you Medicare.

This revolving door is nothing new to mom.

She is bipolar.

And during her bipolar episodes -- which she has more frequently than any human deserves.

She becomes another person.

Sometimes it is “running, going, doing,” Mom.

Sometimes is “crawl into a hole” Mom.

The range is like when you spread your arms.

To show that the fish was "thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis big.”

Times nine million.

When these episodes happen, she usually needs a little help from the experts.

But even as she prepares to enter year #82.

She is still just taking it all in stride.

In fact, she has become quite good at dealing with whatever is on her plate.

And trying not to think too far ahead.

Definitely better than me.

Her most recent hospital visit was brought on by a lack of sleep.

Which turned into a depression.

Which caused her to shake.

Uncontrollably.

When I got the call that she was taken to the hospital, it was a call I had received before.

Many times before.

So many, I had grown numb to it.

Which is sad.

But unfortunately this trip was like no other.

During this latest trip, she said she had a bad tummy ache.

The nurses called it abdominal pain.

They did a series of tests to find the source of this abdominal pain.

And those tests showed....

...nothing.

At least nothing for the abdominal pain.

But they kept testing.

And eventually they found something.

Something not good.

The doctors called it a mass on my mom’s kidney.

My mom called it a cancerous tumor.

Either way.

Hearing this news scared me to ....

Well, you know.

The fear in my mother’s voice was unlike any I had heard before.

From her.

Or from anyone.

I usually try to break a stressful moment with humor.

But there was nothing funny here.

This was time for me to put on my grown up pants.

And in a hurry.

I have no experience dealing with this.

Thankfully.

So I relied on my heart.

And while I might’ve gone a little too cliche on her.

It felt right at the moment.

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”

“It won’t do any good to create a scenario that may not exist.”

“We need to find out all the facts first.”

I probably sounded more like Bill Clinton than her son.

But I kept searching for the magical sentence.

I don’t know if if I was doing more harm.

Or more good.

But at least I felt like she knew I was there.

Tumor is one of those words that only has one meaning.

Cancer is no different.

I don’t care what they call it.

It is scary.

Whether you are nearly 44.

Or nearly 82.

It is scary.

I told my mom I would talk to the doctors.

To find out more information.

Which I did.

And the information made me feel better.

A little better.

Of course the doctors were protective of every syllable. 

Their legal department wouldn’t have it any other way.

But the message was an optimistic one.

They said the mass was small.

“The size of two grapes.”

And they said they weren’t sure how long it had been there.

Meaning -- to me -- it might’ve been there for a long time.

And they said my mother was not the typical candidate for kidney cancer.

All good signs.

I think.

I had no idea what other questions to ask.

Other than “the” question.

Which I stayed away from.

But I kept asking questions.

And they kept giving answers.

And with every answer.

I felt better.

A little better.

I don’t know if freaking out is in the makeup of a doctor.

But none of the doctors I spoke with freaked out.

Which I took as another good sign.

They answered each question like they had answered it a thousand times.

Which they probably had.

At the end of these conversations.

I went back to my mom.

And brought her some more support.

And some more cliches.

Like dealing with this one day at a time.

Which is what we are going to do.

Mother's Nature

I don’t need an amusement park to go on a roller coaster ride.

I just need to call my mom.

That ride is enough to make anybody nauseous.

Especially her.

My mom has battled mental illness for most of her life.

And all of mine.

Throughout her 81+ years she’s seen more doctors than Grey’s Anatomy.

She’s been labeled more times than the clearance rack at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Manic/Depressive.

Chemical imbalance.

Crazy.

Several years ago she got a new title.

Bipolar Disorder.

According to webmd.com:

Bipolar disorder is a serious mental illness that is characterized by extreme changes in mood, from mania to depression. It can lead to risky behavior, damaged relationships and careers, and even suicidal tendencies if it's not treated.

Thankfully the last part has never been an issue for us.

I mean, for her.

5.7 million adults in the United States are living with Bipolar Disorder.

If you call it “living”.

I wasn’t really made aware of her condition until I made it through college.

Sure, I knew she was a little off-center.

But I thought it was just mom being mom.

Well after two husbands tried.

And moved on.

And after my brother gave her everything he had.

My mom was left on my front doorstep.

Literally.

She moved in with us a couple of years ago after she fell, while living on her own.

1000 miles away.

We tried our best to bring her into our home.

But it just didn’t work out.

For us.

Or for her.

Thankfully, I found a beautiful assisted living facility not too far from our home, which had an opening.

I stumbled and fumbled my way through the reams of Medicare paperwork.

But eventually we got the right signature on the right dotted line.

She’s been there for two plus years now.

They feed her.

They bathe her.

They pamper her.

They give her the medication she needs.

And best of all, they give her the attention she deserves.

But even with all of that, they haven’t found the magic potion to keep her moving forward.

Sure, there are stretches.

Long stretches.

Where she is doing well.

Living her life.

But like the four seasons, change is always coming.

The last few years she’s battled a lot more manic than depressive.

And in those manic episodes, it’s usually fine tuning her medication.

Sometimes at home.

Sometimes at the hospital.

But thankfully, we’ve made it through them all.

I mean, she's made it through them all.

Good or bad, right or wrong, I’ve become completely desensitized to the mania.

I have completely accepted the person I’m talking to is not my mom.

But rather some altered state inside her head.

I wish I was more sympathetic.

I really do.

I just can’t do it.

I’ve accepted that with the right adjustment in her meds my mom will return.

And she always does.

But I know that phone will ring again.

I just don’t know when.

Well it rang this morning.

And when I saw it was the assisted living facility, my heart stopped.

Again.

It took them  f i v e   a g o n i z i n g i n g l y   l o n g   s e c o n d s  to notify me that my mom was back in the hospital.

This morning one of the workers went into her room and found my mom shaking uncontrollably.

So they called the paramedics, who took her to a local hospital.

That’s where I spoke with her a couple of minutes ago.

She told me the doctors were not sure what the issue was, but that she hadn’t been sleeping “for a few weeks.”

She would stare at the ceiling throughout the night.

Get up in the morning.

Go to breakfast.  Eat half her plate.

Then go on with her day.

And then collapse into a short nap in the late afternoon.

All while battling a severe depression.

From what, who knows.

Not her.

Not me.

Not her.

I've spoken with her several times over the last few weeks.

And I could tell she was not her best.

But I had no idea how bad it had become.

I must admit my patience in dealing with her disease has worn me out.

Like husband 1.

And 2.

It breaks my heart to think that.

I’m ashamed to say that.

But it’s the truth.

I wish there was something I could do for her.

But I don’t know what it is.

And I don’t know that I have it in me to do it.

Maybe the best thing I could do.

Is what I did.

Deliver her to a fresh new group of caring people at her assisted living facility who want to help.

And thankfully help is what they have provided.

The conversation with my mom today really broke my heart.

I’m sure the guilt of not being there for her was part of it.

But this was not the same mom I’ve spoken to before from the hospital.

She had no explanation on why she hasn’t been sleeping.

Or why she is depressed.

She was plain confused by the entire situation.

But she was not delusional.

She was frustrated.

But not mad.

This was not some whacked out weirdo nut acting crazy.

This was my mom.

Speaking well.

Thinking well.

Acting well.

She was all there.

She just couldn’t figure out what was wrong.

And neither could I.