To put it in a light-hearted term, my mum was diagnosed with 'Jill the Dancer' (Jill The Dancer rhymes with cancer).
In 2016, the evening after my final mid-year exam I was feeling pretty damn accomplished and shovelling my face full of copious amounts of celebratory food and relaxing. That was until I received a phone call from my mother. I almost purposely did not answer this call either. I often didn’t answer her calls because we had a poor relationship. This was due to me distancing myself in order to dodge her extreme emotional abuse which was a detrimental symptom of her own emotional demons.
BUT, I was feeling great and I did pick up the phone, ready to take on what was on the other side of the line, so as to not ruin my excellent mood. Unfortunately that was inevitable because the woman on the other side was unable to hold a conversation through her sobbing and tears.
She’d had a sore back the past few months and had finally organised to have it looked at. Unfortunately, this revealed a mass on her lung. I was only 19.
In the horror of the news, appointments were booked as fast as possible. We were still unsure whether this news was anything to fear, that was until we were sat in this hospital and the words slipped through the doctor’s mouth that it was indeed cancer.
The cancer had been growing for 2 years and was specifically caused by smoking. The same smoking that she had given up 2 years prior. This meant that there is every possibility that she quit smoking weeks, even days too late.
The doctor showed us her PET scan, and it wasn’t just her lung that light up light a Christmas tree. The tumour was metastatic, and had spread into both lungs, her liver, and her gluteus maximus muscle. As you’re probably aware, when cancer spreads into other parts of the body it can no longer be treated by simply cutting it out, because it is very likely it’ll continue to spread. In other words, the cancer had become terminal. My mother was diagnosed with stage 4 terminal lung cancer.
Cancer is such a prominent thing in the world. But it is NEVER something we think will crash into our personal lives. Now, I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel not-sad, either. To be honest I had a feeling we were going to receive bad news so I was really only feeling awkward and just… Existing.
This wasn’t my first experience with cancer. As I say, it’s such a prominent thing. Before I met her my grandma passed from lung cancer, and as a child my pop did too. In 2012 my best friend’s dad also lost the battle. In 2015 my dad was diagnosed with Chronic B Cell Lymphocytic Leukaemia, and soon after news hit that my mum’s best friend’s body was riddled with disease. Both are tracking on just fine, dad’s as stubborn as ever, and my mum’s friend has never for a second given up.
Whilst studying a full-time load at university I attended doctor appointments, radiation and chemotherapy treatments, and overnight stays. I knew this hospital almost on the back of my hand, but I’m awful with directions so it all looks the same to me now. If you were working one night and remember a young girl walking down the corridors in pink onesie pyjamas with he then long hair in piggy tails, that was me! I’d like to personally thank you for that night and how accommodating you were for me, especially because you witnessed first-hand how LOUD my mother’s snoring was when she was out cold from medication. Also a huge thank you to all workers at Charlie’s because my mum generally was the world’s most stubborn patient, ever. You went above and beyond to help her, you gave her rooms and you even managed to get her a private room at Bethesda Palliative Care, even though she had no health insurance.
My mum stayed with my Aunty and I and I helped in the administration of her medication. Even though I administered such high doses of morphine-based medication I never quite understood how much pain she was in. See, the cancer had embedded itself in her ribs, so with every jolt she experienced the same pain you’d associate with severely cracked rib bones. I wish I’d taken the time to understand this, instead of categorising her as a ‘typical mother’ when she’d shriek as I’d take fast corners with her passengering in my car.
Only 6 months after her original diagnosis, I had a better relationship that I’d had with my mum in many years. I now truly loved her, and that just made the beginning of the end so much harder. She was now unconscious in her bed at Bethesda, and she had been for days. This was only 6 months from her original diagnosis. Something old me I must spend the night, as I almost went home. I woke up throughout the night, because even though my mother was receiving high levels of medication for pain – the same reason she was no longer conscious – she still shrieked and moaned so loudly in absolute pain when the nurses turned her. At 5am I got up to get another blanket for myself. Before I left the room I told her how much I loved her whilst I stroked her head. I told her I was going to step out for 5 minutes, and that she did not have to hold on for anyone but herself.
I regret a lot of things throughout her journey, like not being the one who held her hand in the last hours of her consciousness. But I will forever be grateful for staying there that night. Because when I came back 5 minutes later she had passed away. I opened up the windows and let the sunshine in, and I climbed in to bed next to her. I called my family to let them know, and I waited in the bed for them with my mum instead of calling nurses or rushing the end of her journey. Because the sun was rising when she passed,I told myself that every morning when the sun rise I would be able to say good morning and hello to my mum, and every night when the sun set I would be able to say goodnight.
The Three P's: Pause, Pursue, Positive.
As I say, no situation is 100% bad. The death of a loved one seems like one of life's all time lows, and I promise you even then there are positives waiting to be found. I've paused and thought about it, I've pursued and searched for the silver lining, and I've emerged from the grey with positivity.
Family closeness. My mum had her own demons which pushed me and other family members. Even though cancer is such a horrible illness, it did bring the family closer together. My relationship with mum was rekindled, and when she passed we both knew we loved each other.
Mum treated her body kinder. My mum was a dysfunctional and aggressive alcoholic. Her diagnosis almost completely stopped her drinking. This radiated throughout her body... She was basically glowing.
Mum will be bought comfort. She was in oh-so-much pain, right up until she passed. When I walked into that room after she passed, I knew that she was not in pain anymore.
Learning the importance of life. Such as forgiveness. My whole life I carried a sense of hate towards my mum for everything she put me through with her drinking. When faced with cancer, this hate seemed so empty and held no meaning any more. I truly loved her.
Life experiences. No one wants to experience the loss of a loved one, but it does provide us with life experiences. These experiences though can sometimes isolate us because no one our age tends to understand. For that I am grateful for CanTeen, an organisation for youth suffering with the affect of cancer. I've met so many amazing people who I can talk to. They aren’t shocked because they’ve too experienced an invasion of cancer in their lives and have felt the same way as you. To listen to someone’s story is just as beneficial as to tell your own. It makes your sadness, anger, guilt and regret – just to name a few – feel normal. And feeling normal is so important to those feeling so abnormal in that moment. CanTeen let’s youth be youth. Which is what we deserve. We don’t want to grow up faster than we have to.
So out of all the cards in the deck, it looked like the world dished me out a joker. But like any card game – whilst jokers aren’t usually included – you’ve just gotta keep on playing until you’re out of cards. And lemmie tell you a thing. I’ve got many cards left in my deck. A life worth living. Continue bringing the joy – you’ll thank yourself.
A x
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