One Year Anniversary

I found this tiny skull made of howlite on a recent trip to Door County, WI.

Notice the gray streak -- right where my surgical scar was!

At this time last year, my head was pinned in place, my scalp cut open, and a section of my skull temporarily removed. That sounds a lot more dramatic than it turned out to be. A year later, I look back on that time with some fondness, partly because it was such an odd, fascinating experience to go through and partly because as stressful as my pre-surgical days were last year, my current level of stress is much higher. The hazy-dazy respite of relatively pain-free brain surgery would be a relief compared to watching my mother go through the long, drawn-out process of dying.

Last year, my husband and my older sister were in attendance at the hospital as I went under the knife. My other sister left that day for a work trip to Uganda (lucky bitch). Notably absent were my parents. I completely understood their absence and didn't mind it; my parents are in their 80s and have some dementia and various other health problems that would've made us worry more about them if they had come than about the actual patient in the ICU. My mom had asked me before the surgery whether they should come, however, because it's what they have always done. I've had my fair share of surgeries--all before the age of 20--and Mom has always been a comforting presence by my hospital bedside.

What we didn't know at the time was that Mom's increasing frailty and her weight loss, which shortly thereafter would be described as "precipitous," was due to tumors in her pancreas. In fact, it would not be until Mother's Day that we realized that something was seriously wrong. That began a series of trips to Wisconsin to take her to the oncologist, to meet with the hospice coordinators, the home caregivers. Even more trips to clean my parents' home and take care of Mom when Dad's dementia got in the way of Mom's care and he refused to open the door to the hospice nurse and started firing the caregivers because he thought they damaged or stole his plastic urinal jugs. (I kid you not. What a woman would want with his stinky old urinal jugs is beyond me, but … dementia.)

The hospice nurse thought Mom would not live out the summer. But here it is, November 1st, and she's still clinging to life. She can barely speak (largely thanks to bleeding on the brain from too much warfarin and a fall a few days ago) and she may be hallucinating now. It's so hard to see her in this condition. She's currently in a hospital respite facility, due to the fall and a series of miscommunications where the EMS crew and ER staff didn't understand that she was on hospice. It's a bit of a blessing because now she can get the round-the-clock care she requires and Dad can get some rest.Yesterday I left her hospital bedside to return to Minnesota, and guilt immediately washed over me. I hate the idea of her being alone, even in a care facility and even if she may not entirely know we are there or who we are. She had always been there for me.

But this is a meningioma/craniotomy blog. Barring any unforeseen developments in my brain, this will be the last post. I will get my first follow-up MRI next week, the first post-surgical brain scan of the decade of follow-ups I will need to make sure the tumor doesn't regrow. Physically, I'm doing very well. Completely normal.

My mom a couple months ago.

As I wrote this, I received a call from the hospice nurse. My mom just passed away this morning.

Healthier, happier times. Mom looks on as her great-grandson, my brother's grandchild, tries on his present. 

Thank you, Mom, for always being there. I love you. I miss you.