My mother died a horrible death. I have so many beautiful memories of our time together, but no matter how much I focus on the positive, I am haunted by what she went through in her last days of life. I have never been able to talk about it, other than to say it was unthinkable, and this is the first time that I have written about the last days of my mother’s life. For me that is unusual. I think that the main reason that I never talk about it is that I do not want to burden another heart with this horror.
She died of an extremely rare form of uterine cancer. They do not know much about the cancer. The doctors could not explain what caused it, and they do not know if it is hereditary. There simply has not been enough victims of this particular form of cancer to establish a pattern, and not much research is done about the cancer because of how rare it is. By the time my mother was diagnosed, it was too late. I remember the doctor saying that her cancer was beyond stage 4. The cancer had eaten through her uterine wall and was throughout her entire lower body when she began to bleed from it. This took her to the doctor. She felt down about the situation because she expected to go to the doctor to be told that she needed a hysterectomy; instead, she was told that she was going to die.
She kept this a secret for some time. This breaks my heart. The idea that she dealt with knowing that she was dying on her own for even a day pains me. I was pregnant with Little Chirp at the time, and the doctors told her that they doubted she would live to see Little Chirp born. Initially, my mother decided to refuse treatment. I am not sure what changed her mind. I think she dreamed of holding her grandson. About two months before Little Chirp was born, my mother broke the news of her cancer. She had to tell us at this point because she would not be able to hide her sickness once she started treatment.
From there, we embraced life together. I can and will write some beautiful stories about the times that we shared. Nearly every night, I would sit up in her room with her, and we would talk about our days and the boys. She was my confidant, my conscious, and my strength. So many people have praised me for taking care of her while she was sick. I am shamed by this praise because I feel she took care of me, not the other way around.
Mom fought; she fought hard, but she was fighting a battle that she could not win. In the end, the tumors constricted her intestines so that she could no longer process food and water. She had a tube put into her stomach to take out anything that she ate or drank because her digestive organs below her stomach were no longer able to process the intake. She essentially died of dehydration and being malnourished. They propped her up after she died to avoid having her liquefied insides pour out from her mouth. The last day, we did not sit together and talk about our day as we always did. She cried out in pain for hours. I held her hand, and I prayed to our Lord to take her home with him. I did not want to let her go. I wanted her with me forever, but I could not handle seeing her suffer anymore. It was not fair to her; she was ready to move on from her Earthly life. I prayed for her to die.
Cancer is cruel.
I made two promises to my mother before she died. My first promise was that I would not feel obligated to stay with my husband because of her. My children’s father had his flaws, and she knew of his gambling addiction. She herself was the widow of a gambler that left her desolate and dependent on me for a place to live. My husband had welcomed my mother into our home, and he was good to her. She feared that I would continue on with him in our miserable marriage because of her.
The second promise was to take preventive measures to ensure that I did not die of the same cancer. These measures would mean that I could not have more children. At the time that conversation upset me. She was always animate about not having a third child. She warned people with two children to not have a third. I hated when she said this because my sister is the third child, and I love my sister so much. Honestly, a part of me will forever wish that I had a third child, a strong-willed girl named Karis, Brooke, or Aspen, or a third boy intent on disruption of the Storey family brainiac, conservative dynamic.
Today, I have a new perspective on this last promise to my mother. I know that she loved my sister, and I know that if I would have had a third child that she would have loved that child just as she loved Brainy Bird and Little Chirp. I also know that if she would not have had a uterus that she would not have been subjected to such a tragic fate. The events of the last couple of weeks have given me clarity on this conversation with my mother, and I have made my decision. I am going to have the surgery, and I look forward to a long happy life as an extremely thankful mother of two.