Let There Be Cake

My mom and I celebrated her 82nd birthday a few days ago.

I took her out for lunch.

But it wasn’t easy.

The lunch part.

I arrived at her assisted living facility at 11:15.

As I said I would.

And I asked her where she wanted to go.

As I always do.

She said anywhere.

As she always does.

So I decided to take her to a great little breakfast place.

Right around the corner from where she lives.

Only one problem.

She’s 82.

And at 82, 11:15 is not breakfast.

11:15 is lunch.

6:15 is breakfast.

So when we got to that breakfast place we asked for their lunch menu.

That’s when they pointed to the back page.

My mom was in the mood for a little soup.

And a little salad.

Which was perfect.

Because one of the (few) lunch choices on the menu was 1/2 soup and 1/2 salad.

So that’s what she ordered.

Just one problem.

They were out of lettuce.

Really.

What restaurant runs out of lettuce?

A breakfast restaurant.

That’s who.

My mom was not thrilled with this revelation.

But at 82 you go with the flow.

So she ordered the 1/2 sandwich and 1/2 soup.

She wanted a turkey sandwich.

Only they didn’t have turkey.

Really?

Really.

Really!

By this point my mom had enough.

So we politely stood up.

Said thank you.

And headed back to the car.

Fortunately there was a Mexican restaurant a mile away that worked just fine.

We got seated immediately.

Which was good.

And within moments, she locked right in on what she wanted.

Tacos.

With rice and beans.

And to our surprise, they were actually in stock.

Ole!

Honestly I didn’t really care what was on the lunch menu.

I just cared that I was having lunch with my mom.

On her birthday.

It wasn’t too long ago that celebrating another one of my mom’s birthdays felt like a bit of a long shot.

In March, the doctors told her that they had found a mass on her kidney.

In April they called it Kidney Cancer.

Believe it or not, that diagnosis didn’t sit well with her.

It didn’t sit well with me either.

But while I remained hopeful.

And optimistic.

My mom did not.

In fact it sent her into quite a tailspin.

And what made it worse was the doctors recommendation.

Wait six months.

See if it grows.

And deal with it then.

Easy enough.

For them.

Not easy enough for her.

Six months is a long time.

Especially when you’re not sure if you have six months.

I had to talk her off the ledge several times.

Which is a lot easier than it sounds.

After all, she’s in her 80s.

Bipolar.

And she lives on the third floor of her building.

Thankfully I’ve never heard the doctors tell me I have cancer.

But she has.

Now.

And as hard as I tried to tell her I know how you feel.

I don’t know how she feels.

But I told her that worrying about things you can’t control is a waste of energy.

Pretty much the same advice she had given me when I was growing up.

But the shoe had switched to the other foot.

My parent needed some parenting.

And plenty of support.

Now she was the one who needed a shoulder to cry on.

And she was the one who needed the “everything is going to be ok” speech.

Even if I wasn’t sure that everything was going to be ok.

But despite some sleepless nights.

And sleepless days.

She made it through the six months.

Until it was time for that next cat scan.

Which took place a few weeks ago.

And after six long months, the result showed nothing.

Nothing.

... that’s good.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing had grown.

Nothing had developed.

Nothing.

My mom was unsure at first what the doctors were saying.

That’s the 82 kicking in.

But upon further review, reality set in.

In a good way.

She used words like “really happy” and “very exciting” and “good news.”

Words I hadn't heard out of her mouth in a while.

At least six months.

The doctor told her that she doesn’t need to come back for another year.

Giving her the best birthday present we could've asked for.

You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

My kids and I went to visit my mom a few days ago at her assisted living facility.

As we left, I couldn’t help but think.

I hope that wasn’t the last time they would see her.

I realize that is a strong statement.

And a sad one.

And a negative one.

I just hope it’s not a real one.

The mom I know.

The bubbie they love.

Just wasn’t there.

When we left the facility, we said goodbye to a frail woman.

With tears filling up her 81-year old eyes.

The bottom line is she’s just not in a good place.

Right now.

And I’m not sure if she will be.

Again.

The news that she had been diagnosed with kidney cancer is more than she has been able to handle.

The news that doctors feel her prognosis is good is something she hasn’t been able to hear.

And it is clearly taking its toll.

Each time I talk to her I feel more helpless.

I can’t imagine how she is feeling.

Yesterday I stopped by her facility to drop off a few things.

And to say hello.

Not goodbye.

Although I wouldn’t be seeing her for about a week.

My 13-year old daughter and I are heading out on her 8th grade trip to our nation’s capital.

This is a trip we’ve been looking forward to.

Since she was in 7th grade.

I was hoping to see my mom before I left.

But unfortunately she was not around.

A few days a week she leaves her facility and heads to another senior facility to get some social time.

And medical care -- if she needs it.

As as luck would have it, yesterday she decided to stay at the other facility longer than usual.

And by the time she would be back.

I was gone.

To me that was not a big deal.

I knew I would see her again when I return to town.

In a matter of days.

To her it was catastrophic.

What I didn’t know when I left is what I found out when I got home.

That’s when I got a call from one of the administrators at my mom’s facility.

I could hear the concern in her voice.

Before I could hear her voice.

Apparently my mom had a very candid conversation with her a night earlier.

On April 28.

And in this conversation my mom said she was really hoping to see me before I left on this trip.

She said that she didn’t know if she would still be here when I got back into town.

Now even though I knew what that meant.

I still had to ask... “where is she going?”

At which point, the lady told me my mom said she was concerned she wouldn’t be with us anymore.

I quickly did the math.

And the math quickly added up.

Yesterday was April 29.

The day before April 30.

The day I was born.

On April 30, 1995 I celebrated my 28th birthday.

On April 29, 1995, my grandmother passed away.

Of cancer.

I can still remember my mom telling me that her mom died on April 29th so that she wouldn’t die on April 30.

She didn’t want her death and my birthday to share the same day.

So she chose to die on April 29.

And apparently my mom thought she would do the same thing.

This poor lady.

My poor mom.

Not only is she dealing -- or not dealing -- with the news of kidney cancer.

But she’s also trying to predict her own demise.

The tumor that she is carrying around with her is two inches long.

Unfortunately the pain weighs a thousand pounds.

Every conversation we have I remind her that the doctors are very optimistic.

And that we need to deal with the facts that we know.

And not the facts that we are making up.

Clearly it is not working.

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.

Mass Confusion

“I don’t care if we cure your kidney cancer.”

“I care that your kidney cancer doesn’t kill you.”

Those, the exact words of my mother’s radiologist.

After a wait that felt like forever, we finally got into the doctor’s office yesterday.

And that’s when we heard the news we didn’t want to hear.

My 81-year old mother has kidney cancer.

The meeting yesterday came nearly seven weeks after doctors found a mass on her right kidney during a cat scan.

Even with yesterday’s news, the doctors remain very optimistic that we still have options.

And that’s all any of us can ever hope for.

Options.

They explained that they have the option of burning off the tumor.

That’s called a Radio Frequency Ablation.

They have the option of freezing the tumor.

That’s called Cryoablation.

I think.

They can shoot alcohol directly into the tumor to wipe it out.

That’s called...

...shooting alcohol directly into the tumor.

They can take the entire kidney out.

That’s why we have two.

Or they can do nothing.

Come back in six months.

See if this thing has grown.

And go from there.

When we first arrived in the exam room the nurse practitioner came in to get things started.

She put on a brave smile and started talking.

She made a point to call the tumor a “mass”.

Except for the couple of times she called it a tumor.

Then she quickly corrected herself.

Calling it a mass.

When I asked a question about the kidney, she answered almost immediately.

She said something like, “pretend the kidney was a football and if you only treat the part with the laces, then....”

Football?

What page is that in the handbook?

-- If man asks question, quickly make sports reference.

After about 15 minutes, the doctor came in.

Considering she probably does this type of thing way too many times every day, there wasn’t a whole lot of foreplay.

There were no references to a “mass”.

Just tumor.

She whipped out the x-ray to show us where everything was.

She then told us based on where the mass, I mean tumor is located, some options are not a real option.

They’d rather not try to freeze the tumor.

Since it is close to some other body part.

And not too far from the spine.

The same goes for burning it off.

She said removing that kidney is still an option.

But not a good option.

Considering they are talking about an 81-year old patient.

So that left us with two.

Alcohol injection or nothing.

I must say considering the heavy news we had just been dealt, there was a whole lot of optimism in the room.

At least for me.

Hearing the doctor explain the facts the way she did made me feel encouraged about my mother’s future.

And very confident in the people who will be treating her.

Biology was not my best subject in college.

Either time I took it.

But when I’m not distracted by almost everything, I can be a pretty good listener.

Yesterday I heard every word they said.

I’m not sure the same can be said for my mom.

Long story short, she is scared.

And who wouldn’t be?

As I sat a foot away from her yesterday, I could feel her shake.

I could feel her pain.

I could feel her fear.

Nobody thinks that they are going to live forever.

But other than George Harrison, most of us are not ready to go.

And the good news is my mom is not going anywhere.

Not yet.

The doctors are going to talk again before suggesting the best plan for my mom.

Considering they don’t know how long this tumor has been there, leaving it alone might be the best thing to do.

I asked my mom if she would be comfortable with that.

I didn’t get much of an answer.