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.

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.