My mom passed away in January of 2016 after being diagnosed with stage 4 cancer seven months prior. In hindsight, there were signs earlier on, but they were dismissed as simply a part of getting older for over a year. I’m not angry at the doctors; I’m furious at cancer.
At the time of her diagnosis, I lived in Northern California while Mom resided in New Mexico, where I was born and raised. I had seen her just over a year before, and she seemed her usual cheerful self. Now, I can barely believe that I didn’t realize something was amiss. I blame the distance between us.
When Mom called to inform me about her cancer, she casually mentioned upcoming chemo treatments and the fact that her cancer was already at stage 4. Since she lived alone, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her to face this heavy burden on her own. I couldn’t stay in sunny California while she drove herself to treatments. I immediately decided to go to her.
My husband and I owned a small press business. He took care of the financial and IT aspects, while I handled the rest. Thankfully, he agreed that I should go and take care of Mom. It was clear that he couldn’t run the entire business single-handedly with his own full-time job. As I made the difficult decision to sell the business, tears streamed down my face.
I had loved working with authors and artists; it had been a dream job for me. Just the thought of it still brings me deep sadness. But after I finished crying, I focused all my energy on caring for my Mom. With a deep breath, I boarded a plane to New Mexico and moved into her spare room.
I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t fully comprehend just how challenging it would become. I had this romanticized vision of taking her to appointments, picking up her medications, cooking for the both of us, and staying by her side. That’s how it happens in the movies, right? There’s a struggle, the caregiver assists with the little things, and then the patient triumphs over cancer. Instead, it almost destroyed me.
The truth about caregiving is that it’s a topic society tends to avoid discussing. It’s too closely associated with death, and people prefer not to dwell on that either. It’s messy and demanding, both physically and emotionally. It strains your relationships and compromises your health. Everyone expects you to be strong and endure without a word of complaint.
Even when the doctors informed us that the chemotherapy wasn’t effective and they could no longer provide further help, Mom remained in denial. We argued about her going shopping with friends, disregarding the risks of pneumonia she faced. We clashed when she insisted on driving her van despite her slowed reflexes. At one point, in frustration, she threw her phone at me. Exhausted from constantly checking if restaurants were empty as she demanded we go out, despite the doctors’ advice to avoid crowds, I would reluctantly order multiple entrees and drinks just to bring her moments of happiness. It was wasteful and costly, but those small moments meant everything to her.
Mom vehemently rejected the idea of hospice since she associated it with dying. When the time finally came to call them, I went out into the backyard and sobbed. I wish I had reached out to them sooner. They provided me with as much assistance as they did for Mom. When they were there, I didn’t have to feel guilty about taking a bath or getting an hour of sleep. I hadn’t realized what luxuries those simple acts had become. In my misguided attempt to be a pillar of strength, I made everything more difficult for the both of us.
During an attempt to help her into the bathtub, she slipped and fell, hitting her head on the counter. Despite my best efforts to catch her, she still needed stitches. We had to rush to the emergency room. On other occasions, she wanted to go to the hospital because she felt dizzy or nauseous. Often, it turned out she was simply dehydrated, but I couldn’t refuse her requests. I would have painful discussions with the emergency room staff, trying to explain the risks of pneumonia and death to a woman who was already battling a terminal illness. One of her “friends” convinced her that sleep medication would cause sleepwalking, so Mom repeatedly threw the pills away. To ensure she would get some sleep, I had to lie to her about what the pills were. I even stopped taking my own sleep medication, fearing she might need me in the middle of the night. I purchased baby monitors to listen for her. Sleep became a rare commodity for me.
One cold November night at 2 a.m., I went to check on her, only to discover that she wasn’t anywhere in the house. Panic set in. After searching the entire house, I found her wandering in a empty lot, barefoot and dressed only in her pajamas. She fought with me just for putting socks on her. She yelled at me to leave. But I stayed. Where was the closeness we were supposed to be experiencing during this time?
As challenging as it was for me, I know it was much worse for her. During Christmas preparations, she drooled into the cookie dough while attempting to make gifts for her friends. My brother ended up throwing them out instead of delivering them, and Mom never knew. Towards the end, she regressed into a young, precocious child in her mind and actions. My brother referred to it as “chemo brain.” Perhaps, in a way, it was a blessing because she found joy in the simplest things. Close to Christmas, we went on a hayride and she happily sang to the snowmen. It was heartwarming yet heartbreaking.
On Christmas Eve, I called hospice, and they set up a hospital bed in the living room. I later discovered that the stress of caregiving can weaken your immune system, as I ended up contracting strep throat. This was years before the COVID-19 pandemic, but I still wore an N95 mask when taking her soup or changing her sheets. By then, we were snowed in, and the hospice workers couldn’t make it to us. It was a lonely time, even though we were together. Mom stopped speaking and moving. I sat by her side, watching her chest rise and fall.
During the week preceding her passing, I slept in a recliner next to her bed. I played all the movies she had taken me to see and her favorite music. At one point, as I glanced over to where she lay, unable to move, I noticed a tear streaming down her cheek. I whispered, “It’s okay, Mom. Don’t cry.” But I knew I was lying. It wasn’t okay. She had every right to cry.
My brother was with her when she passed away one January morning. They talk about a death rattle, and I want you to know that it’s real. It came with loud gasps, jerking her torso. Then, she fell silent, and she was gone. The hospice nurse had previously told us that she would still be somewhat responsive for about five minutes after passing, so we talked to her about how much we loved her.
Today, people commend me for taking care of my Mom. But it wasn’t something great. Every time I speak with my aunt on the phone, she tells me how much of a blessing I was. I understand what she means, but I still believe it was a curse to witness Mom’s decline while feeling utterly helpless to heal her. I couldn’t improve anything for anyone. All I could do was decide which one of the three people she promised her antique divan to would eventually take it home. The author inherited her mother’s dog, Tiffie.
Photo Courtesy Of Kim Richards
As horrendous as this experience was, I would do it all over again. It’s cruel to imagine anyone enduring what Mom went through alone. However, I made countless mistakes along the way. I hope that Mom has forgiven me.
This experience transformed me in numerous ways. During that first summer after her passing, I watered the garden with my tears, blending them with the water from the hose. Even now, I find myself forgetting and reaching for the phone to call her. On the first anniversary of her death, I got a tattoo in her memory. It’s a sunflower with birds flying from the petals up to Heaven. Along the stem, the words “You are my sunshine” are etched, recalling a song she used to sing frequently.