In 2005, my mother stopped smoking after 53 years. Four years later and months shy of her 70th birthday, my mother was diagnosed with stage IV squamous cell carcinoma—aka lung cancer. Because of the size of the mass and its location, post-surgery she was left with both of her upper lobes and a partially lower left lobe. Her breathing capacity was already compromised because of asthma but even more so without a third of her lungs. The next year consisted of continuous doctor appointments and chemotherapy and radiation infusions.
My husband and I were living in Austin while she was here in San Angelo. I routinely made the three-hour drive on the weekends—and sometimes during the week when my work schedule allowed—so I could be home with her during the infusion or to help her through the side effects afterward. There were good days and bad days. We did everything we were told to do. It was still not enough. A year after her diagnosis, she was told that it was time for hospice to step in. Our reality shifted from battling the disease to battling time. In June 2010, my husband and I moved her from San Angelo to Austin so she could live with us. Our home became a place where social workers, nurses, aides, and chaplains came and went, offering guidance in medications, supporting us as caregivers, and ensuring comfort management.
To this day, one of the hardest conversations to have was with a social worker who explained to me that we were dealing with palliative care, not healing care. I knew the situation we were facing, but I selfishly wanted to keep hoping that the inevitable wasn’t closer than I wanted.