As previously mentioned on the blog, my mom has been here almost non-stop since January 30th, the day we found out about Parrish's cancer. I didn't even have to finish the sentence "Parrish's cancer is back" before she said, "I'm coming." She could hear in my voice that something was really, really wrong. She didn't ask "what can I do" but just showed up, which, of course, was exactly what we needed. Since then, she has been my wingman through this journey. She has gone above and beyond the call of duty. Laundry, grocery runs, cooking, cleaning, child care, hospital duty, Parrish duty, night duty, packing, moving, unpacking, decorating...and that is just to name a very, very few things. But, it isn't just what she has done. It is her presence that is so necessary in our lives.
About two weeks ago, my mom started having serious neck, shoulder and arm pain. She has a history of cervical disc problems, and she lives with daily pain. But, this was not her typical pain. Of course, she moved through it--doing all the usual things she does for us around here, in addition to celebrating the Fourth of July, taking the boys on an overnight adventure and then celebrating the boys' birthdays. But, by last Sunday, she was literally incapacitated from the pain. She couldn't even bear to be upright. My dad had been here for a few days, and I suggested to him that she needed to go home to see a doctor. When we broached the topic with her, she didn't immediately say "no." So, I knew it must be bad. My dad drove my mom back to Memphis last Sunday, and she has spent the past week dealing with doctors, having an MRI, trying to figure out the best course of action, and trying her hardest to heal herself through rest, ice and meds. Her MRI showed that she has a herniated disc in one spot and a bulging disc in another. It is not good. The doctor performed a nerve block early this morning, but he said that he is not optimistic that she'll get any relief from it because according to him, the herniation "is a real honker." Talk about a medical term. If the nerve block doesn't work, she could be facing surgery.
Of course, my mom isn't complaining about her pain or worried about herself. Through all of this, her concern is us. She feels like she has left us just before the storm. So my mom. She is the one in constant pain (pain that we caused by letting her do too much!), and yet, she is only worried about us.
Needless to say, the last week has been an emotional one. Not only have we faced another setback with Parrish's transplant, but we--especially me-- have lost our wingman. And, it isn't just all the things my mom does around here. That loss is something I can deal with. It won't be easy, but I can do it. Rather, it is the emotional support that is almost too much to bear. My mom makes this really isolating journey just a little less lonely. And, I don't mean lonely in the physical sense. Quite the contrary. I don't think I have actually been alone in ages. I am constantly surrounded by people in my house, at the hospital, at work. I am not in the least bit physically lonely.
No, what I am talking about is the sort of loneliness that is much harder to talk about, more uncomfortable to hear about and much less fixable. It can hit you in the midst of a large group of people. Everyone might be talking about what they are doing for the weekend or the latest movie that is out or the newest restaurant in town or kids' swimming lessons or kindergarten or an important Supreme Court decision. You are nodding your head in agreement or chiming in with the appropriate social response. But, in your head, you are retreating into an excruciatingly lonely place. Because, what everyone around you doesn't realize is that you have no idea what you are doing this weekend because your husband may or may not be in the hospital from _______ (infection, transplant, chemo, seizure, dehydration--insert word of choice in the blank). You have no idea about the latest movie or newest restaurant because you can't possibly hire a babysitter at night because since all the cancer stuff started, your children can't bear to have anyone but you put them to sleep and by the time that is done, your husband is asleep too. You also don't even know that the latest Supreme Court decision was released, because every spare minute of your day goes to researching every last thing relating to Hodgkin's recurrence, transplant success rates, survival statistics, alternative treatments, nutrition and more.
Believe me when I say that it isn't that I don't want to hear about the latest and greatest things or lament with a friend about her latest struggle...I promise, I do, so don't quit including me in the conversation. Most of the time, hearing about normal life makes me feel just a little bit more normal, but, sometimes--just sometimes--these sorts of conversations are a very stark reminder of how much our life has changed in the last six months. And, try as everyone will, they can't understand what our small family is going through, unless, of course, they themselves have gone through something similar. But my mom--well, she can relate because she has been living this journey right alongside us. She has been here since the first moment and has grieved our loss of normalcy at every step, showering us with love, support and understanding that is irreplaceable. She just gets it. That is what I have missed most this week.
Parrish feels the same way. Aside from me, my mom is probably the only person Parrish can be totally real in front of--pain, grief, fear, anger and all. Of course, once your mother-in-law helps you change out of a vomit and blood soaked hospital gown or sees you spread out on a stretcher in your boxers, it sort of takes your relationship to a new level. But, not having to be "on" or pretend that this is all okay is a relief for him. And, Parrish misses that comfort. In fact, when I told Parrish about my mom's MRI results, his first response was "We are totally screwed." Nice. (In his defense, this was quickly followed by major concern for my mom's well being.)
Ivey and Campbell are definitely missing their Emme. Campbell wakes up most mornings going "Emme...Emme...Emme..." I am a close second, but don't hold a candle to his adoration of Emme. Ivey woke up two mornings ago and said that he had closed the door to Emme's room (aka, the guest room). He said that no one was allowed to go in there until Emme got back. He said "the rule is no one can stay there but Emme." The kid is nothing if not loyal (and just a little bit bossy). But, they just adore her...because she totally and utterly adores them. Her love for them pours out of her into everything that she does. I only hope that my boys see that same love from me.
Now, please, please don't misunderstand me, this post isn't a cry for help. I have an army, literally an army, of people here who are doing and will do anything I need them to do. We even had a dear friend from Memphis come earlier in the week (at a moment's notice no less) to fill in for a couple days while our nanny was out and Parrish had surgery (thank you, thank you Ginger!). I can farm out the doing. But it is my mom's presence that just can't be replaced.
We are all hopeful that today's nerve block will be the miracle cure. And, surely, we are due a small miracle, right? So, today, please pray for the nerve block to provide total and complete relief for my mom. One, because I can't stand to think of her in constant, excruciating pain (that we caused). But also, and waaaayyyy more selfishly, because I can't imagine going through the next few weeks without my wingman by our side.
About two weeks ago, my mom started having serious neck, shoulder and arm pain. She has a history of cervical disc problems, and she lives with daily pain. But, this was not her typical pain. Of course, she moved through it--doing all the usual things she does for us around here, in addition to celebrating the Fourth of July, taking the boys on an overnight adventure and then celebrating the boys' birthdays. But, by last Sunday, she was literally incapacitated from the pain. She couldn't even bear to be upright. My dad had been here for a few days, and I suggested to him that she needed to go home to see a doctor. When we broached the topic with her, she didn't immediately say "no." So, I knew it must be bad. My dad drove my mom back to Memphis last Sunday, and she has spent the past week dealing with doctors, having an MRI, trying to figure out the best course of action, and trying her hardest to heal herself through rest, ice and meds. Her MRI showed that she has a herniated disc in one spot and a bulging disc in another. It is not good. The doctor performed a nerve block early this morning, but he said that he is not optimistic that she'll get any relief from it because according to him, the herniation "is a real honker." Talk about a medical term. If the nerve block doesn't work, she could be facing surgery.
Of course, my mom isn't complaining about her pain or worried about herself. Through all of this, her concern is us. She feels like she has left us just before the storm. So my mom. She is the one in constant pain (pain that we caused by letting her do too much!), and yet, she is only worried about us.
Needless to say, the last week has been an emotional one. Not only have we faced another setback with Parrish's transplant, but we--especially me-- have lost our wingman. And, it isn't just all the things my mom does around here. That loss is something I can deal with. It won't be easy, but I can do it. Rather, it is the emotional support that is almost too much to bear. My mom makes this really isolating journey just a little less lonely. And, I don't mean lonely in the physical sense. Quite the contrary. I don't think I have actually been alone in ages. I am constantly surrounded by people in my house, at the hospital, at work. I am not in the least bit physically lonely.
No, what I am talking about is the sort of loneliness that is much harder to talk about, more uncomfortable to hear about and much less fixable. It can hit you in the midst of a large group of people. Everyone might be talking about what they are doing for the weekend or the latest movie that is out or the newest restaurant in town or kids' swimming lessons or kindergarten or an important Supreme Court decision. You are nodding your head in agreement or chiming in with the appropriate social response. But, in your head, you are retreating into an excruciatingly lonely place. Because, what everyone around you doesn't realize is that you have no idea what you are doing this weekend because your husband may or may not be in the hospital from _______ (infection, transplant, chemo, seizure, dehydration--insert word of choice in the blank). You have no idea about the latest movie or newest restaurant because you can't possibly hire a babysitter at night because since all the cancer stuff started, your children can't bear to have anyone but you put them to sleep and by the time that is done, your husband is asleep too. You also don't even know that the latest Supreme Court decision was released, because every spare minute of your day goes to researching every last thing relating to Hodgkin's recurrence, transplant success rates, survival statistics, alternative treatments, nutrition and more.
Believe me when I say that it isn't that I don't want to hear about the latest and greatest things or lament with a friend about her latest struggle...I promise, I do, so don't quit including me in the conversation. Most of the time, hearing about normal life makes me feel just a little bit more normal, but, sometimes--just sometimes--these sorts of conversations are a very stark reminder of how much our life has changed in the last six months. And, try as everyone will, they can't understand what our small family is going through, unless, of course, they themselves have gone through something similar. But my mom--well, she can relate because she has been living this journey right alongside us. She has been here since the first moment and has grieved our loss of normalcy at every step, showering us with love, support and understanding that is irreplaceable. She just gets it. That is what I have missed most this week.
Parrish feels the same way. Aside from me, my mom is probably the only person Parrish can be totally real in front of--pain, grief, fear, anger and all. Of course, once your mother-in-law helps you change out of a vomit and blood soaked hospital gown or sees you spread out on a stretcher in your boxers, it sort of takes your relationship to a new level. But, not having to be "on" or pretend that this is all okay is a relief for him. And, Parrish misses that comfort. In fact, when I told Parrish about my mom's MRI results, his first response was "We are totally screwed." Nice. (In his defense, this was quickly followed by major concern for my mom's well being.)
Ivey and Campbell are definitely missing their Emme. Campbell wakes up most mornings going "Emme...Emme...Emme..." I am a close second, but don't hold a candle to his adoration of Emme. Ivey woke up two mornings ago and said that he had closed the door to Emme's room (aka, the guest room). He said that no one was allowed to go in there until Emme got back. He said "the rule is no one can stay there but Emme." The kid is nothing if not loyal (and just a little bit bossy). But, they just adore her...because she totally and utterly adores them. Her love for them pours out of her into everything that she does. I only hope that my boys see that same love from me.
Now, please, please don't misunderstand me, this post isn't a cry for help. I have an army, literally an army, of people here who are doing and will do anything I need them to do. We even had a dear friend from Memphis come earlier in the week (at a moment's notice no less) to fill in for a couple days while our nanny was out and Parrish had surgery (thank you, thank you Ginger!). I can farm out the doing. But it is my mom's presence that just can't be replaced.
We are all hopeful that today's nerve block will be the miracle cure. And, surely, we are due a small miracle, right? So, today, please pray for the nerve block to provide total and complete relief for my mom. One, because I can't stand to think of her in constant, excruciating pain (that we caused). But also, and waaaayyyy more selfishly, because I can't imagine going through the next few weeks without my wingman by our side.
Molly:
ReplyDeleteIt is really beautiful how you can be vulnerable and strong and eloquent and lovely all at the same time. You have all of my respect!
I will be praying for your mom and of course still lifting up strong Parrish!
Love y'all!
Lauren Baum Malbrough