I’m Elisabeth, Jeannie’s daughter.
This was a favorite poem of my mom’s by Karle Baker.
Let me grow lovely, growing old.
So many fine things do.
Laces, and ivory and gold.
And silks, need not be new.
And there is healing in old trees,
Old streets- a glamour hold;
Why may not I , as well as these
Grow lovely growing old.
Everyone who knew my mom knows this is exactly what she did -
she grew more lovely- growing old.
My Mom passed away on July 7th. It's been hard.
I was with her the last 7 days of her life...
the first 3 she was walking, moving around, eating...
then on the 4th of July it was as if she got on a slide...
and slid out of life.
It's strange being in this time space, walking towards the exit door of life,
not my life, but my moms.
It's sad and it is beautiful. I feel blessed that her spirits are high and she's facing this as a big adventure into after-life.
Now that she has gotten on oxygen, her world has improved drastically.
She can walk farther than the front door, before needing to rest.
She actually went shopping!
She has told hospice her goal is beachweek, which is family get together time every July in North Redington, Beach.
I was worried at first if she'd actually make it.
The oncologist's office is sterile and cold. I feel fortunate I've never had to go there for myself.
For my mom, this office has been a weekly destination for the last 9 months. Today, June 13th 2017, the hopes of overcoming and living past the lung cancer wane, as the oncologist reads a list of new organs the cancer has invaded, the thyroid, pancreas, abdomen, pelvis, liver, bones...
I felt a cold numbness overcome me after the 3rd new organ. The room was silent, though the doctors mouth was moving speaking of other lesions found in more areas of the body.
I felt a tear run down my face, I couldn't breath, I was frozen. The oncologist handed me the kleenex.
How do they stay so poised, the cancer doctors, as they read the sentence of death to someone.
There was no emotion, no concern. A dry delivery of the information that
her time alive is limited. The horrific 9 months of chemo and radiation hadn't worked to stop the cancer.
I looked over at mom. She sat back in her seat with a big exhale. Michael her long time partner and me, an emotional wreck. Mom, poised and collected, as usual for her, asked: So what does this mean? How long do I have?
3907 Medical Parkway #102