Letting Go

Light after the storm, Madison County, New York, May 21, 2006. The storm was SNOW in the higher places, like Paris Hill. (click on the image for a larger version)

I've been reluctant to write here about my mother's illness because of wanting to respect her privacy -- and because reading my blog has been something she did faithfully. But it seems clear that she probably will not be reading it again, and so I can tell you a little more about where I am and what I've been doing and feeling.

My mother has had ovarian cancer for the past three years. She had surgery when it was diagnosed, and then had chemotherapy, and she has had a very good quality of life for almost all of this time. Around Christmas, the chemo started to be less helpful, and its effect on her body mroe extreme; she began to lose a lot of weight and to get weaker and more easily fatigued. There have been a number of crises in the past couple of months: a blocked bile duct that caused jaundice and was managed with a temporary stent; a serious infection that landed her in the hospital a few weeks ago. After that, her health has declined pretty rapidly, and she has refused any additional treatment other than palliative care. I was here for ten days during and after that hospitalization, then went home, and we came back yesterday. She was glad to see us when we arrived last night -- and today is the first day when she has not gotten up at all. We're expecting a visit from the hospice nurse later this afternoon.

As I wrote to some close friends, this is a very sad time, but it is also beautiful, and strangely peaceful. I remember, lying next to her while she semi-sleeps, holding her hand, the times she was the one next to my bed when I was sick as a little girl. And I am aware, more than ever, of what a great circle life is and how it is both a simple biological pattern, making perfect sense, and a mystery we cannot begin to understand.

I have no idea how much time this process will take, but I will be staying here...I'll write occasionally, when I can. We're all grateful for your thoughts and prayers and love.

Comments

[mary]

Love and peace to you and your mother, Beth.

[Dave]

Hang in there. Wishing you much strength and courage in the days ahead.

[Jane]

I wish your mother, you and all others the experience that grace and love will bring you.

[Anna]

Dear Beth:
My heart goes out to you and your mother. Stay close in these unbearably precious moments - moments that I shared with my own mother recently.

"It is only with the heart that one can see clearly: what is essential is invisible to the eye." (Antoine de Saint-Exupery.)

Anna.

[Rachel]

(o)

Thinking of you, and keeping you in my prayers. I hope that being with your mother at this incomprehensible time can be a source of blessing for you, now and in the years to come.

[Brenda]

{{{Beth}}} and {{{your mother}}}

Holding you in my thoughts and prayers, this is a very beautiful and sad entry, much love...

[Lorianne]

(o)

[St Antonym]

-love-

[patry]

Blessings and love to you, Beth. I, too, am an only child, and imagine your bond with your mother to be something like mine. Your posts, here and elsewhere, have been profound and moving.

[Marja-Leena]

How very heartrendingly beautiful and sad.... Love and wishes for strength and peace to you and your mother through this journey!

[Siona]

Oh, Beth, Beth. I have no words.

[Soen Joon Sn]

救病消滅, "May all the suffering of illness be ended." Oh Beth, you and your mother are in our prayers here.

[Julia]

Blessings and peace to your family
and wishing you treasured moments that only a mother and her daughter can share
Namaste

[language hat]

Thinking of you. Thanks for letting us in there with you.

[Chris Clarke]

I'm here if you need to talk, sweetheart.

(We all are, actually. But you might not have everyone's phone number, and you do have mine.)

Strength.