LOSING BATTLE
As I stepped out onto the tarmac the icy winter wind lashed at my face, cutting like knives. The short walk to the boarding stairs seemed like an eternity. As I found my seat and placed my hand luggage in the overhead compartment I noticed that the plane was almost full. Taking my seat and fastening my belt, I felt a wave of apprehension come over me as thoughts of why I was here began spinning through my mind.
My father had called earlier in the day. He informed me that my mother had been extremely unwell for a few days. His words rang loud and echoed through my mind. “Her cancer is back. It’s aggressive. I think you should come home; she doesn’t have long.” I couldn’t believe my ears. It had been two years since her chemotherapy and mastectomy. She was in remission. How could this be? I had seen her only a few weeks prior on a visit. She was smiling, happy, well….
I closed my eyes as the plane began to taxi down the runway. I hated planes. Especially the take-off. It quite often bought tears to my eyes as my knuckles whitened around my travel companion’s hand. But this time I had no companion. I was alone. Alone with my fears and my thoughts. As the plane shuddered and burst forward, gaining the necessary momentum to leave the land, my eyes remained closed and my grip remained tight. Only once the plane had flattened out could I open my eyes and feign relaxation. The bright city lights faded into the darkness as I headed towards home.
A smooth landing failed to alleviate my anxiety. I almost ran from the plane clutching my carry-on baggage. No check-in baggage. No time for that. As I raced up the escalators to exit the airport, I could almost feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I needed no directions; I had been here before. All I could think about was making it in time.
I arrived at the hospital at 10pm. Well past visiting hours. But they were expecting me. Tentatively I entered the room. As I cast my gaze over my mother, my heart sank into further despair. Her eyes were closed, she looked meek, weak, small. She was alone. But she was still alive. Her skin had gone a pale-yellow colour. “It has spread to her liver,” my fathers’ words echoed. She was refusing any further treatment. The cancer was too aggressive. She was too weak to even attempt further chemotherapy.
I sat down on the edge of her bed and gently took her hand. It was covered in bruises from multiple attempts to find veins. She slowly opened her eyes. They too were tinged yellow. This was a conclusive sign that the cancer was in her liver. I held my breath waiting to see if she knew who I was. The look in her eyes immediately told me she knew it was me. It was obvious she was in pain and heavily sedated, but through it all, still managed a smile. Our conversation was short as she struggled to keep her eyes open. I gently kissed her forehead and promised to return the next morning. “I love you,” I whispered as she closed her eyes and sleep took over. She did not respond, I just hoped she had heard it.
By the time I arrived the next morning her mind had wandered further. She appeared to be answering conversations only she could hear and slept more than was awake. Doctors would come and go, talking to my father, making plans. They were moving her to palliative care, to make her more comfortable. My mind was abuzz with thoughts. I could not accept that I was about to lose my mother.
After she was moved to palliative care in the late afternoon my father and I decided to leave for the day. She was now unconscious and not responding. Shortly after dinner, at around 7pm, the phone rang. We both knew who it would be. Heading back to the hospital I could feel a large lump in my throat and a mess of knots in my stomach. On the way I had called the rest of the family to meet us there. To say their goodbyes.
Her breathing was now sporadic, and she was unconscious. Watching her struggle with every breath, my heart was aching. Aching for her but also for myself. I again held her hand, and gently stroked her hair. I placed my face close to hers and whispered, “It’s okay to let go, it’s okay to go.” I held back a river of tears as I said this, but I knew she needed to go. My children were there, and I wanted to be strong for them.
Her condition worsened quickly as her breathing became further laboured. Suddenly, she opened her eyes. Then, taking her last breath, she was gone. I checked her pulse. Nothing. Now I could not stop the tears from flowing. In my mind I was running. Running away from this horrible place. But my feet remained steadfast. I felt ill, I could not move. It was over.
As I stepped out onto the tarmac the icy winter wind lashed at my face, cutting like knives. The short walk to the boarding stairs seemed like an eternity. As I found my seat and placed my hand luggage in the overhead compartment I noticed that the plane was almost full. Taking my seat and fastening my belt, I felt a wave of apprehension come over me as thoughts of why I was here began spinning through my mind.
My father had called earlier in the day. He informed me that my mother had been extremely unwell for a few days. His words rang loud and echoed through my mind. “Her cancer is back. It’s aggressive. I think you should come home; she doesn’t have long.” I couldn’t believe my ears. It had been two years since her chemotherapy and mastectomy. She was in remission. How could this be? I had seen her only a few weeks prior on a visit. She was smiling, happy, well….
I closed my eyes as the plane began to taxi down the runway. I hated planes. Especially the take-off. It quite often bought tears to my eyes as my knuckles whitened around my travel companion’s hand. But this time I had no companion. I was alone. Alone with my fears and my thoughts. As the plane shuddered and burst forward, gaining the necessary momentum to leave the land, my eyes remained closed and my grip remained tight. Only once the plane had flattened out could I open my eyes and feign relaxation. The bright city lights faded into the darkness as I headed towards home.
A smooth landing failed to alleviate my anxiety. I almost ran from the plane clutching my carry-on baggage. No check-in baggage. No time for that. As I raced up the escalators to exit the airport, I could almost feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I needed no directions; I had been here before. All I could think about was making it in time.
I arrived at the hospital at 10pm. Well past visiting hours. But they were expecting me. Tentatively I entered the room. As I cast my gaze over my mother, my heart sank into further despair. Her eyes were closed, she looked meek, weak, small. She was alone. But she was still alive. Her skin had gone a pale-yellow colour. “It has spread to her liver,” my fathers’ words echoed. She was refusing any further treatment. The cancer was too aggressive. She was too weak to even attempt further chemotherapy.
I sat down on the edge of her bed and gently took her hand. It was covered in bruises from multiple attempts to find veins. She slowly opened her eyes. They too were tinged yellow. This was a conclusive sign that the cancer was in her liver. I held my breath waiting to see if she knew who I was. The look in her eyes immediately told me she knew it was me. It was obvious she was in pain and heavily sedated, but through it all, still managed a smile. Our conversation was short as she struggled to keep her eyes open. I gently kissed her forehead and promised to return the next morning. “I love you,” I whispered as she closed her eyes and sleep took over. She did not respond, I just hoped she had heard it.
By the time I arrived the next morning her mind had wandered further. She appeared to be answering conversations only she could hear and slept more than was awake. Doctors would come and go, talking to my father, making plans. They were moving her to palliative care, to make her more comfortable. My mind was abuzz with thoughts. I could not accept that I was about to lose my mother.
After she was moved to palliative care in the late afternoon my father and I decided to leave for the day. She was now unconscious and not responding. Shortly after dinner, at around 7pm, the phone rang. We both knew who it would be. Heading back to the hospital I could feel a large lump in my throat and a mess of knots in my stomach. On the way I had called the rest of the family to meet us there. To say their goodbyes.
Her breathing was now sporadic, and she was unconscious. Watching her struggle with every breath, my heart was aching. Aching for her but also for myself. I again held her hand, and gently stroked her hair. I placed my face close to hers and whispered, “It’s okay to let go, it’s okay to go.” I held back a river of tears as I said this, but I knew she needed to go. My children were there, and I wanted to be strong for them.
Her condition worsened quickly as her breathing became further laboured. Suddenly, she opened her eyes. Then, taking her last breath, she was gone. I checked her pulse. Nothing. Now I could not stop the tears from flowing. In my mind I was running. Running away from this horrible place. But my feet remained steadfast. I felt ill, I could not move. It was over.
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