But we’re all grateful for that extra bit of time that treatment could buy her to slow things down, and for the medical team who made it happen. Things moved very quickly from the start. She fought hard through chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and immunotherapy - even knowing that it would at some point take her life.
Through everything, she was brave, strong, and never afraid. She didn't know what – if anything - awaited on the other side, but she found peace knowing that she'd be with my dad again after 25 years. She was selfless until the end, worried about her family and how we would cope, even in her final days in the hospital, when her lucid moments were few and far between.
In her last two weeks, she was supposed to just go in for a quick appointment for immunotherapy. Her oncologist said she couldn’t do it, that her blood results needed to be followed by an inpatient admission. Less than 48 hours later, we found out that she wouldn’t be going back home.
I stayed at her hospital bedside for her last ten days, holding her hand, as each day she slipped further away. It was the most precious time, and something I'll never forget. Visitors at the hospital were only allowed at this point for end of life. I’m eternally grateful that they were more than happy for me to stay there, and set up a folding bed for me so I didn’t have to leave.
As much as we knew it was coming, even her oncologist thought she’d have another week or two before things started to fail. Her oncologist left on the Friday, saying he’d see her on Monday. Sunday, at 1:50pm, she was gone.
She’d been mostly sedated for the last few days. But no one was expecting her to pass so suddenly. I’d been sitting by her bed, holding her hand, for days. One minute, she was there. The next, she wasn’t. I’ll never forget the way her face changed, as she stopped breathing and her eyes opened. I yelled for the nurses that something was wrong with mum. I held her hand, squeezing, shaking, telling her I loved her. The nurses came in and stood there. I wanted them to tell me that my worst fears weren’t coming true, not yet. Everyone thought she’d have more time.
It was nearly three hours before I let go of her hand, shaking, screaming, hysterically babbling to please wake up, please don’t leave me.
For the last few days, she was sedated to the point that the only way to describe it is living death. It was terrifying, but ultimately the best thing for her. As they adjusted the dosages, she would have lucid moments where she woke up, extremely confused. All I could do was tell her it was okay, that her doctor had given her some medication because they wanted her to get some rest, trying to comfort her until she went back to sleep.
The day before she passed, she woke up suddenly, looked at me, and asked
“Am I dying?”
Since the start, knowing it’d most likely spread to her brain, mum always said that she wanted her body to go before her brain. She didn’t want to go through what she saw my dad go through.
They don’t know exactly why her mind started to slip in that last week. The tumor had shrunk. It’s possible that it was a side effect from radiation. Her memory, both long and short term, slipped so far in such a short time. Within minutes, she’d forget what we’d been talking about, and sometimes even that I was there. It was distressing for everyone, especially mum, which is when they decided on sedation.
Mum would express that she was worried about me putting so much time and energy into trying to support her, both in those few months after we found out she was sick, but especially as I spent her final ten days staying in hospital with her. It consumed everything. I would tell her “helping you is helping me”. I was either trying to think of ways to support her, or visiting her to cook and make sure she had easy meals to reheat, or even just spending time with her, with no words needed. Watching movies she wanted to see.
The only thing I could say to her towards the end, sarcastically, was “Yes, I’m sure I’m going to look back and think ‘damn, I wish I hadn’t spent so much time with mum’”. There was never going to be enough time. No matter how much time I spent with her over those 19 weeks, I knew it’d never be enough, whether she had two months or two years left.
I take solace in the fact that we didn't leave anything unsaid. We had a lot of difficult, but necessary, deep & meaningful conversations, even in her last week. She had things to say that lifted weight off her chest, and I had many too. It wasn't easy, and there were many tears, but it gave me a lot of peace and closure, and I hope it did the same for her too.
But I can't help but have regrets. She’d told me days before her admission that she had pain, very similar to when she was first diagnosed. Her liver. I couldn’t see the jaundice, even after her doctor said it. I can’t help but wonder - should I have pushed her to go to emergency, as I was worried about her liver? If they caught it those few days earlier, would it have changed anything? Would they have been able to catch it and reverse it?
In the end, she was never scared. I can only hope to one day be as brave as her. She didn’t know what, if anything, was on the other side. But she knew that she would be reunited with my dad, who passed 25 years before, and that gave her peace.
On June 27th, at 1:50pm, the world became a bit less brighter
None of it feels real. After this horrible disease taking over our lives since February 12th, tightening its grip with each week that passed, everything feels so empty. For those 19 weeks and 2 days, almost to the minute since we found out, nothing else mattered. Since mum passed, everything feels so crushingly empty. I rewatch the funeral stream over and over. I listen to the songs on repeat - the songs she'd told us at the start of all this that she wanted. “Imagine” by John Lennon at the start. Then “Love Me Tender” by Elvis as they lowered her casket to join my dad.
Rest In Peace, mum. I know you’re back with my dad, the one and only love of your life, after 25 years, and how much comfort it gave you to know that you’d be with him again.
The beautiful morning fog, sitting outside the hospital with our morning coffees
The big haircut during chemo
Not the most flattering photos, but some of the most important.
Precious moments, spending the last 10 days staying at the hospital with mum
Our last fish & chips at the beach, 6 weeks post-diagnosis
xxBella
