LIFE Beeping machines were the only indication we were in a hospital room. That and the bed had gates on it. We could have been in a fancy hotel except for those silver gates. And the beeping. But the beeping was important. It was the beeping that meant the yellowish-pale, deflated skin and bones still held life.
Her life.
Non-Hodgkin Large-Cell Lymphoma, NHL, is one of the most aggressive forms of cancer in the United States, though it only represents 5 percent of cases. It attacks the fat cells in the body and causes brain tumors. If you are lucky and the new aggressive chemo works, you get at least five years of remission. Most people are not so lucky. Out of the 65,980 new cases in the US in 2009, 19,500 of them died.
My mom was diagnosed at the end of June, beginning of July in 2007. She was gone February 2008. She had just turned 56 that December. She had been having problems walking at first. She had fallen maybe three times. She stopped recognizing my sister who spent most of the days with her while the rest of the family was at work or school. The doctors could not figure out what was wrong until they did a brain scan. She had a tumor on the frontal lobe, too big to operate on. That was when they discovered the cancer in her lymph nodes. They did some form of radiation to reduce the tumor and started her on an experimental form of chemotherapy. She was in the hospital two months before they finally let her come home.
We took her to the chemo every day, either me or my dad, sometimes all of us. My sister would stay with her most of the time. We tried to stay as positive as possible. We wanted this to work; the doctors assured us she had every chance to survive. She was healthy aside from the cancer, maybe a little overweight, but with the chemo eating away everything, her weight was a good thing.
Chemo finished and the prognosis was good. The cancer had depleted, the brain tumor was the size of a pea. We went down to see my grandparents for Christmas and New Years.
My dad’s birthday was celebrated in another hospital room. At the end of January, another tumor, this time at the base of her neck- top of her spine. They had a new round of treatment to try. My mom’s body could not withstand the drugs they were using. She asked my dad to keep trying. He told her not to worry. He could not see her suffer anymore.
We moved her to a hospice center, a hotel room for the sick. Gone were the chemicals and waiting rooms. Gone were gurneys and the blue and white uniforms of staff running to another patient. The room they gave her had an armoire for her clothes, a TV bookshelf with books on the shelves, two nightstands and an overhead light, even a window seat.
Everyone could gather comfortably in the room to talk to her. Visiting hours were as long as the family needed, but large groups were asked to keep the noise level down some. Family could even stay the night to be close.
My dad spent almost every night there when my grandmother and aunt were not.
The last week she spent the entire time asleep. The beeping machines were the only indication she was still alive. The only sign we had that the yellowish-pale skin and sunken cheeks held a breath within them.
The beeping gave us all life. Renee 2010
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