A Swelling of the Ground
El Madre died.
El Madre was 70 years old and living in a rented condominium on the ground floor of a three story building in Richmond, Virginia. Mid-February, she calls me up while I'm waiting for my train home. "Charon, I went to the doctor this week." This wasn't too strange; most of our conversations are about her health issues and various visits to doctors, specialists, and therapy providers.
"Oh?" I said. "How did that go?"
"I was coughing a lot and I couldn't keep anything down," she said, "so I went to see Dr. Hill. He gave me a couple of prescriptions and sent me in for a cat scan. I get the results on Friday." The train arrived. I got on and sat down in the handicapped seat (this wasn't a problem since I was in the third car of the train and the handicapped seat is only in effect in the first car).
"What are they looking for in the cat scan?" I knew but I wanted to hear it from her. You see, she's been smoking since 1958.
"They want to make sure nothing is wrong. Check out my chest." El Madre couldn't even say the words "Lung" or "Cancer."
B and I are getting married in August, by the way. We went up to where the wedding will take place that very weekend to taste food, cake, and finalize some things, but the spectre of the results were on my mind. All weekend, no call. Nothing from El Madre. When we got back on Sunday night, I called her.
She told me it was Cancer of the Lung. It wouldn't be confirmed until the biopsy was scheduled but when I talked to her primary doctor, he said, "I'm not an oncologist. But I've seen Cancer, and this looks like Cancer." So we waited for the biopsy. She had a huge tumor in her left lung. 4 inches wide and tall, they said. I made plans to be out there on the 12th of March so she'd have someone to take her to treatment.
She went into the hospital on March 9th. Her left lung had collapsed. I got there on the 12th. The prognosis, eventually, was that she had a 5% chance of living a year. If she took treatment, she'd have a 30% chance of it working, and if it worked, her odds of surviving a year were 25%. This was bad. She opted to decline treatment and go to hospice care. Her cousin volunteered to take her in down in Florida. I wanted to get her out her to Denver but the oxygen requirements at altitude were far too impractical.
The plan was to drive her down to florida without stopping and get her in a place where she could be comfortable. They discharged her on the morning of the 31st of March. We rented a minivan to take her stuff and her down. Straight shot down 95; 14 hours at most. I planned the logistics of it well. Oxygen...catheter...sedative for her so it would go quickly. The patient transport squad who has to bring a wheelchair didnt come so the nurse on duty took matters into her own hands. We went down to the van.
It took a while to get her in. We were on plan C for loading her up and she ended up in the seat. Then she had a seizure. The nurse told me to stay with her while she got help. I held my mother. It took a long time for me to realize she was dying. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her mouth moved strangely and then it stopped. It was a sunny day in Richmond, maybe 55 degrees. She died in my arms.
I'm an orphan now. Nothing prepared me for this. She didnt call me to wish me happy birthday because she was dead. I haven't talked to her in close to three weeks because she is dead. I think that the longest I have ever gone without talking to her is about 2 weeks. Her ashes are on a shelf now.
All of her is now reduced to a 3.5 pound package.
I'll bury her ashes next to my Dad's in North Dakota on the banks of the Jim River in accordance with her wishes. I'll read the 23rd Psalm and Emily Dickinson's "Because I could not stop for Death" before I commit her to the ground. There will be people there and it will be solemn. The tree at the gravesite will continue to grow. I will continue to live. I will get married in August.
But it's all different now, and it's hard to get used to it.
I'm an orphan now, you see.
El Madre was 70 years old and living in a rented condominium on the ground floor of a three story building in Richmond, Virginia. Mid-February, she calls me up while I'm waiting for my train home. "Charon, I went to the doctor this week." This wasn't too strange; most of our conversations are about her health issues and various visits to doctors, specialists, and therapy providers.
"Oh?" I said. "How did that go?"
"I was coughing a lot and I couldn't keep anything down," she said, "so I went to see Dr. Hill. He gave me a couple of prescriptions and sent me in for a cat scan. I get the results on Friday." The train arrived. I got on and sat down in the handicapped seat (this wasn't a problem since I was in the third car of the train and the handicapped seat is only in effect in the first car).
"What are they looking for in the cat scan?" I knew but I wanted to hear it from her. You see, she's been smoking since 1958.
"They want to make sure nothing is wrong. Check out my chest." El Madre couldn't even say the words "Lung" or "Cancer."
B and I are getting married in August, by the way. We went up to where the wedding will take place that very weekend to taste food, cake, and finalize some things, but the spectre of the results were on my mind. All weekend, no call. Nothing from El Madre. When we got back on Sunday night, I called her.
She told me it was Cancer of the Lung. It wouldn't be confirmed until the biopsy was scheduled but when I talked to her primary doctor, he said, "I'm not an oncologist. But I've seen Cancer, and this looks like Cancer." So we waited for the biopsy. She had a huge tumor in her left lung. 4 inches wide and tall, they said. I made plans to be out there on the 12th of March so she'd have someone to take her to treatment.
She went into the hospital on March 9th. Her left lung had collapsed. I got there on the 12th. The prognosis, eventually, was that she had a 5% chance of living a year. If she took treatment, she'd have a 30% chance of it working, and if it worked, her odds of surviving a year were 25%. This was bad. She opted to decline treatment and go to hospice care. Her cousin volunteered to take her in down in Florida. I wanted to get her out her to Denver but the oxygen requirements at altitude were far too impractical.
The plan was to drive her down to florida without stopping and get her in a place where she could be comfortable. They discharged her on the morning of the 31st of March. We rented a minivan to take her stuff and her down. Straight shot down 95; 14 hours at most. I planned the logistics of it well. Oxygen...catheter...sedative for her so it would go quickly. The patient transport squad who has to bring a wheelchair didnt come so the nurse on duty took matters into her own hands. We went down to the van.
It took a while to get her in. We were on plan C for loading her up and she ended up in the seat. Then she had a seizure. The nurse told me to stay with her while she got help. I held my mother. It took a long time for me to realize she was dying. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her mouth moved strangely and then it stopped. It was a sunny day in Richmond, maybe 55 degrees. She died in my arms.
I'm an orphan now. Nothing prepared me for this. She didnt call me to wish me happy birthday because she was dead. I haven't talked to her in close to three weeks because she is dead. I think that the longest I have ever gone without talking to her is about 2 weeks. Her ashes are on a shelf now.
All of her is now reduced to a 3.5 pound package.
I'll bury her ashes next to my Dad's in North Dakota on the banks of the Jim River in accordance with her wishes. I'll read the 23rd Psalm and Emily Dickinson's "Because I could not stop for Death" before I commit her to the ground. There will be people there and it will be solemn. The tree at the gravesite will continue to grow. I will continue to live. I will get married in August.
But it's all different now, and it's hard to get used to it.
I'm an orphan now, you see.