This is the second entry in a series I have started on my mother's cancer journey. For the first story click here
Many things have occurred since I last sat down to write about my mother’s cancer journey.
We have learned more stories from others, endured port surgery, heart procedures, and miscommunications with medical professionals.
It continues to be a learning and challenging time in life with little or no support from others.
I will begin with more stories from the chemotherapy room.
There has been a seemingly fragile but strong woman present at several of the sessions.
She caught my attention one day as she sat in a recliner singing out loud to tunes playing on her I pod.
She was singing “I’m Not Your Superwoman” by Karyn White. Click here to view music video
I thought to myself she must be someone's superwoman if she is battling cancer.
At the next session, the woman begin suffering from SVT.
I watched as the woman's daughter was told she would have to check her mother into the hospital across the way for observation. I could relate to this because my mother has been suffering from the same racing heart condition.
The woman was back and singing again at our next session.
This time I struck up conservation with the woman's daughter. She told me that her mother had been taking care of her mom, who was suffering with cancer, when she began losing weight.
The daughter said the family thought it was stress from taking care of the grandmother. They later learned it was the same cancer.
Now the daughter has stepped into the caregiver role. She said when she is not at work she is running her mother to chemo or doctor appointments. That is when I realized I’m not the only one living this life.
We have been off our normal schedule with all of our recent complications, but the last time I saw the woman she was still singing her tunes, and she had traded in the scarf for a wig. She was looking like someone's Superwoman.
In addition to the usual cancer war stories exchanged in the chemo room, we have endured port surgery.
For those not familiar with the term port, it is a device implanted, usually in the left breast area, that allows the patient to receive chemo without the needle stick.
My mother endured nine rounds of chemo without a port. Her veins are virtually trashed and even the simple blood test is taking forever to do.
So the doctor said the procedure would be an outpatient procedure and take 30 minutes or less.
Well as always in our case, it was not that simple.
Instead of 30 minutes, it was three hours.
The surgery got under way and I waited in the designated area next to a family waiting on news from their doctor on their mother.
An hour went by and still nothing from the doc. Eventually the other family's doctor came and gave them the dreadful news that their mother had cancer and maybe a year to live.
Suddenly their loud joyous conservation turned to tears and silence. My thought was at least they are not alone like I have been through most of this journey.
Soon after our doctor came and told me that things were more difficult then anticipated. He tried both sides and was unable to insert the port, so they were seeking the help of another surgeon in a different operating room.
So off to another waiting room to wait for another hour or so.
Finally the doc came and said all was well and completed. The staff then scheduled chemo for the very next day, insisting it was the right thing to do. They said they had left what they referred to as access in the port so that chemo the next day would not be uncomfortable. They said if we waited even one day chemo would be a painful experience.
So the next day after port surgery we headed off to chemo. My mother had puncture wounds in her neck area that Dracula would be proud of.
We arrived for chemo, with my mother feeling weak and exhausted. The medical team took her vitals and then began the debate whether or not she was strong enough for chemo. They determined she was but they then couldn't find the "access" which meant a painful experience or more needles, the very thing the port was supposed to eliminate.
After a call to the doctor the staff determined the port was the way to go.
The chemo nurse took my mother to the restroom to do the deed of inserting the IV into the port. Now remember this is less than 24 hours after surgery and all of the chest and neck muscles are swollen.
After a scream that was probably heard throughout Oklahoma City, the chemo IV was inserted and the day went on in the chemo room.
I suffered a melt down and called family members to beg for help, but was told I should see a doctor and get some anti-depressants. I informed them that a pill will not drive the car or comfort my mother. After an argument and the realization that there would never be any help, I carried on and the journey continued.
Tune in next time to learn about Cardiac Ablations.
