Thanksgiving Dinner

I wrote this last year when I was home for Canadian Thanksgiving. People here in the States are always baffled when they hear Canada has a Thanksgiving. They wonder what it is we are thankful for, so I tell them we're just grateful we didn't become the 51st state. Of course, they know I'm kidding because I am proud to live here, and I'm thankful for all the awesome Americans I have in my life. You know who you are;)

For the first time, I have cooked the entire turkey dinner by myself, except for the brussel sprouts, which Mom prepared. After a long day in the kitchen— a room in which, up until today, I've spent very little time— I join my family at the dinner table.  Before they can enjoy the fruits of my labor, Terry, my stepfather, says grace. He is interrupted by my brother, Cam, who can't contain his laughter. Apparently, the spread of assorted dishes has my brother busting a gut.

We begin our binge, or what I hope will be a binge, when, after only two bites, Mom gets up from the table to retreat to the bedroom, where she remains in a supine position with a cold, wet towel draped across her forehead. She swears it is the cancer and not my cooking that has brought on this acute bout of nausea. 

Cam, still laughing, sits next to his girlfriend, Jen, who is a really slow eater; although, I don't remember her ever eating this slowly. 

Terry is masticating quietly. It's as if he is concentrating on digesting his food so that it won't make a reappearance later on tonight. Cam still looks like he is constipated; the muscles in his face are stiff and his complexion a crimson red. He is trying desperately to contain his amusement but keeps having spurts where spit and snot fly out of his mouth and nose from his inability to suppress his cackle a second longer.

Terry stands up abruptly and declares, "Enough! You are being very rude! Can't you appreciate the amount of time that went in to this meal?" He leaves and takes his plate to the kitchen. I thank him for sticking up for me, and I tell him I am not offended by how rude everyone else is being. At this point, Aimee leans over to whisper that she thinks it was a strategic move on his part. Unfortunately, I realize it's probably true; Terry had only eaten half of what was on his plate, and I can hear him clearing the rest of what's left into to the trash.  

Everyone seems to feel a little guilty right now.  I can tell because, in an effort to make me feel better, each one of them has piped up to tell me how great the brussel sprouts taste. 

Things I've Learned From this Process

I'm forcing myself to stay awake tonight because I'm too scared to go to sleep. I can't stop counting her respirations,* especially when she goes from these deep, rhythmic inhalations to... nothing. Right before I lean over to do a sternal rub on her, she takes a deep breath in, which, thank God, allows me to exhale a deep sigh of relief. Does sternal rub count as a form of resuscitation?

Anyway, to occupy my mind, I've been reflecting back on what these last three weeks have taught me. Sorry, guys, per usual, I am going to be brutally honest. Love me or hate me, whatever.

1) According to my mother, I am not a real nurse. This was brought to my attention a couple of weeks ago while I was bathing her.**

Mom: You are so good at this, Rachel. You should have become a real nurse.

Me: Mom, I am a real nurse, but thanks just the same. 

Mom: Ohhh, that's not what I meant. You should be taking care of sick people. 

I felt it futile to go into detail about how women in labor can be just as demanding (and with good reason) as any sick patient can be. All that matters, though, is that Mom thinks I'm good at this.

2) Time of death, like time of birth, cannot be predicted. We were told by her doctors that she had only "a couple of weeks." That was three and a half weeks ago. I'm not complaining, but with each new day, it is getting more difficult to see her like this.

3) This has been the most difficult patient assignment I have ever been given. Maybe it's because she is not a "patient" and I'm not really her nurse. But as a nurse, and as her daughter, I can't stand back and let anyone else care for her (except for my niece Aimee, who has been incredible, and my sister Andrea). That said, this has also been the most rewarding assignment I have ever encountered... Mom thinks I'm really good at it.

4) This sucks.

5) In the beginning, I underestimated how evil cancer actually is. Mom was doing so well for so long that I actually thought she was going to be a medical miracle and beat it. WRONG!! This evil parasite has reduced my mother to skin and bones. It has eaten away at her body and her spirit. Her eyes are now vacant and her body is slowly withering away into a vessel that, at one time, held her soul. I wouldn't wish this upon my worst enemy.

WOW, THIS SHIT IS GETTING DEEEPRESSING. Let's lighten things up a bit, shall we?

6) After this experience, dying in a plane crash—my biggest fear—seems like a trip to Disneyland... on shrooms (providing you're not the paranoid type).***

7)Vancouver Island is God's garden, which would explain all the rain it gets. But it seems to me that God is too busy watering his flower beds to answer prayers.****Ooops, probably shouldn't have just typed that, but considering anger is part of the grieving process, I think I'm permitted at least one blasphemous comment.

8) I could really get into running again—okay, jogging... okay, shifting my weight from one foot to the other in a pace that is slightly faster than a walk— if it weren't for the feeling that my ass, stomach and breasts are being ripped away from my body with each painful step. Oh, and then there's the weather. Jogging here is pleasant. Jogging in Austin is like running through hell in a snowsuit.

9) In times of need, family can be just what you need... but they can also drive you bat-shit-crazy!

10) If it weren't for all my friends, there is no way in hell I could have ever endured this without pharmacological help, which reminds me...

Last week, Mom encouraged us to start thinking about things of hers we want. I can't really take too much stuff back home due to luggage restrictions, so I'm keeping it simple by only taking things that are really important to me. I've stashed away some of her writing, poems and old photographs of her. She was absolutely stunningly beautiful. Like, movie-star-beautiful!

Oh, yeah, and sibs? Providing there's any left, I've also got dibs on these...

*Imagine that... a nurse actually counting respirations!
**This wasn't a George Costanza sponge bath moment, so get your mind out of the gutter!
***Realizing I still have to get home via air travel, I would like to retract this statement. I am not putting it out in the universe that a plane crash would be fun, and given the next footnote, God is probably pissed at me. 
**** Sorry, God, I didn't mean to offend you. The flowers here are absolutely beautiful. Good job! Too bad my mother looks like she needs some watering and some good nutrients, but whatever!

For My Mom

"What's the matter, love? You scared?" she asks, pulling back the covers and patting the mattress beside her. I am five and I have arrived at her bedside in search of safety from the shadows on my walls that look like ghouls, from the various creeks around the house that sound like intruders, or from any other imaginary thing that threatens my well-being. She welcomes me with open arms, and the minute I curl up next to her, every little fear dissipates. And just like that, I am safe. 

Fast forward 35 years. I am standing next to the bed in my guest room as I watch her sleep. She has retired early after a long day of activities. She and my sister have come down to Texas for a visit. She stirs to the sounds of my sniffles. 

"What's the matter, love? You scared?" She pulls back the covers, and I crawl in next to her. But this time, I am careful not to put too much weight against her; she is frail and I do not want to hurt her. I snuggle in next to her, my head resting against her shoulder. She has her arm wrapped around me and she is stroking my brow with her thumb. 

"Huh? What's wrong, darling?" 

It is a loaded question, and my sobs make it difficult for me to say all the things I want to say. How do I tell her about everything that scares the shit out me without addressing the elephant in the room—that pancreatic cancer, no matter how much treatment or positive thinking, is the Grim Reaper of all cancers. 

- I'm scared that you will never know how much I love you... how when I was young, I hated being away from you... how the affection you gave to us kids set the bar so high that I know I will never feel that kind of love again unless I have children of my own.

-I'm scared that if I ever do have children, they will never have the privilege of knowing you. It will feel so empty without you. 

-I'm scared that I can never convey to you how sorry I am for all the times, especially as a teenager, I tested your spirit and patience. If I could take back all the crap I put you through, I would. 

-I'm scared of how lost I will feel when I want to call you for advice, but you will no longer be there. 

-I'm scared that in the end you will be in pain.

-I'm scared that I am not strong enough to handle "the end." 

-I'm scared that when the end comes, we will not be strong enough to let you go, and you will hold on longer than necessary just to ease our pain.

-I'm scared that this so-called "afterlife" we all hope for is just a facade, and this is the last time we will truly be together. 

-Selfishly, I am scared about my own demise, and how I will never be able to face it with the courage and graciousness with which you have faced yours. 

-But most of all, Mom, I am scared of the day when my fears can not be allayed by your embrace. I am scared of carrying on the rest of my life as me without you...

 as a daughter without her mother.