Earlier this year, my mom was diagnosed with stage four cancer. In the past few months, she’s endured 40 days in the hospital. My dad spent every single night of these with her, to the point of sleeping in a chair when she was in the ICU.
There is no way to sugar coat what my mom has been through. She’s gone through surgery, chemo, and radiation treatments. She has been poked and prodded and tested to the breaking point. To be blunt, she’s gone through hell.
And yet, there have been good moments and some great conversations; both in her hospital room, and now at home. Last weekend, my mother made the decision that it was time to begin hospice care. My dad, sister, brother, and I fully support this.
Throughout this ordeal, there has been much good that has occurred in the wake of my mom’s illness. At the top of the list: It has brought us closer together as a family. It’s not that there were any problems before; however, for the past few decades, we haven’t spent much extended time together. This summer and fall, we’ve talked about things big and small, temporal and eternal. We’ve laughed and cried, hugged and shrugged. 2023 is turning out to be the most bittersweet year of my life.
Last Sunday, my mom was in extreme pain. On a scale of 1 - 10, she rated it a twelve or thirteen. To give you a little glimpse into what kind of a woman my mom is, she fretted that she might die on Monday, my dad’s 85th birthday.
Accompanied by my wife and daughter, I made a hurried trip to Iowa Sunday afternoon to be with my parents. Thankfully, the pain medicine kicked in, and by Monday morning, my mom reported to the hospice in-take nurse that her pain was a zero or one. She felt well enough to get out of bed and sit in her favorite chair in the living room.
During our brief, two-day visit, my mom shared a disturbing conversation that she had with a doctor. It was during what turned out to be her final visit to the oncology center where she was being treated. Her latest PET scan showed that her very aggressive cancer was continuing to spread. In the midst of their visit, the oncologist who saw my mom chastised her for being in a wheelchair. He told her that she needed to get moving. He said that the buzzards were circling over her head.
My mom is as tough as nails. And she doesn’t mind a doctor who tells it like it is. But the oncologist was out of line. Worse, he was as miserable of a comforter as Job’s friends. He was a real jerk.
The oncologist’s cruel remark has made me do some soul searching. I’m sure that I’ve been like Job’s miserable friends more times than I can recall. Who tonight, I wonder, remembers some careless or mean-spirited words I’ve uttered to them?
May they forgive me, even as I forgive the doctor.
I can’t imagine life without forgiveness. Can you?
Thank you. I'm sure glad that our paths crossed in Houston. Your friendship is a reminder of the wonder of the communion of saints.
The Man of Sorrows who is familar with suffering came to bring us joy. This has been the case for my mom, dad, and our family during this difficult time. Even amid the grief and pain there has been plenty of laughter; a reminder of The Day when there will be no more tears and no more graves.
I am so sorry, Brian. I am praying for you and her and your family.