This is the Hardest Part

Don't worry people, the hardest part isn't all that big of a whoop, but for me it's heart wrenching at times.

The following pictures are from a visit in May (perhaps) with Becca (Mom's super-woman physical therapist/sister of Mom's palliative care dr.. Dr. Kent/dear friend) and her entourage of kiddos. My words won't match the pictures, but they sure are pleasant at which to look.

Here it is, June 29, 2017. About three months after Mom returned home from the hospital for her last stay there.

Mom for the most part is feeling better than she has in maybe years. No swelling in her legs. She is usually alert and peppy. She makes lots of people laugh and smile. Mom, for the most part, feels great.

Normal hemoglobin levels are about 11. Hemoglobin is the stuff that transports oxygen around our bodies. Low hemoglobin can make a person tired, make their organs and muscles not function correctly, make them feel yucky. The highest Mom's hemoglobin gets is just over 10. Let us not forget the episode a few year ago where her hemoglobin was hovering near a 5...the same day Mom had dressed herself, made herself a fried egg, transferred in and out of the car a few times to get her blood drawn, then was casually reading the paper when Dad got the call to take her to the ER. People, someone else with a 5 point level of hemoglobin would be dead in the bed. This lady? Just another day in paradise. 

Let us remember that mom's newest Dr holds the title palliative care. No life-saving episodes for Mom anymore, just trying to keep her comfortable and have a good quality of life. So. Without chemo, Mom's hemoglobin level drops 1 point a week. Her hemoglobin starts at a 10 after a transfusion, then each week drops a point (do the math, do the math) so about every four weeks she has been getting a transfusion.

When the blood work comes back with a 7.6, I get on the phone with Dr. Kent and she asks me the same question every four weeks.

"How is her quality of life?"
"Well, she went to the bonfire last Saturday night and roasted marshmallows."
"Okay, I'll order the transfusion for tomorrow. Peggy Anne? Remember that at some point this is not going to be the solution."
"I understand Dr. Kent, it's about quality of life. Thanks so much for all you do for my mom."

Then Mom gets the transfusion.

Fast forward to four weeks later. I call Dr. Kent.

"How is her quality of life?"

"Well, she went to the tea party last Tuesday. And when my husband took her Chinese food on Wednesday, she hooped and hollered and caused a good ruckus."

"Okay, I'll order the transfusion for tomorrow. Peggy Anne? Remember that at some point this is not going to be the solution."
"I understand Dr. Kent, it's about quality of life. Thanks so much for all you do for my mom."

Then Mom gets the transfusion.

Aaaaaaand four weeks later? I call Dr. Kent.

"How is her quality of life?"
"Well, when I spoke to her Friday, she fussed at me cause she wanted new bras because her current ones didn't fit right. She insisted that she wanted to go to Walmart HERSELF to try some on."
"Okay, I'll order the transfusion for tomorrow. Peggy Anne? Remember that at some point this is not going to be the solution."
"I understand Dr. Kent, it's about quality of life. Thanks so much for all you do for my mom."

Then Mom gets the transfusion.

And so it goes.  Mom's pain level has increased (cancer progressing, deep bone pain) so we upped the meds and that seems to be working.  Today life is good for Mom.

Okay People, HERE is the hardest thing.

This. This picture right here. For me? This is the hardest thing. You see, since the stroke close to 12 years ago, this is how Mom's place at the kitchen table has looked. There was a place-mat there and she had her ice cold water and a hot creamy cup of coffee, straws in both, please. 

For a little over a year now, since Mom has been at the Manor, I make sure the place-mat is there before I bring her to the house. I fill the cup of ice cold water and make her a fresh creamy cup of hot coffee instead of how she did it herself over the years. We have a grand old time futtsing around the house, cleaning out closets, straightening fabric, and moving Dad's papers so he can curse her with a smile after she has left.

People? This     breaks my heart. 

Cause after all the hootin' and hollerin' is said and done and I've returned Mom safely to the Manor up the mountain, I return back to the house to see this.

These mugs shout at me:

Mom is not here.

The house seems to have a Mom-sized hole in it.

She will not sip from these straws tomorrow.

She doesn't live here anymore.

Seeing these bad-boys sitting on that place-mat hits me in the gut like a punch. For a moment, it truly takes my breath away.

Then as quickly as it came, the feeling escapes me. I put the mugs in the dishwasher, laughing because when I open the dishwasher a month from now during my next visit, those mugs will be in the top rack, freshly warm and clean, cause Dad prides himself at having each dish in the house clean before I come, regardless of how long it's been.

Hey, People, I got a little drippy on you, but know that my sad outlook and attitude can quickly change into an attitude of gratitude. This lady is ALIVE, People, when she should have been dead years ago. 

ALIVE. 

SHE WANTED BRAS THAT FIT.

Ain't nothin' to be sad about that.