June 5th, 2010 - A Small Piece of Dessert

I am incredibly proud of my mom. And amazed. And shocked. Today was the worst day we've had since I've come home and certainly the worst Mom's had in a long time. And that's probably why making it through this day was so powerful.


The adventure started at about 7am this morning, three hours after I'd gone to bed (which is, itself, another story), when Mom called down to the basement to wake me up. Now look: Mom knows I'm not a morning person. That's because I'm not, not by fucking a long-shot, so for her to risk waking me at 7am is not only odd, it's pretty much unheard of. Which meant that something was really wrong. So I wandered upstairs through the dense fog that was my brain and found Mom in severe pain and nausea from the chemotherapy.


For those who don't know anything about chemotherapy, it can be taken in several forms: intravenously (IV) or via pill. When Mom had her mastectomy three years ago, she had IV chemo, the old-fashioned chemo, the kind you've probably heard about because it's so god-damned awful: she lost weight, lost her hair, lost her strength and frequently lost her patience as well. Chemo, basically, sucks balls. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, that's the entirety of their advertising campaign:


Chemo: It Sucks Balls. ©


But this time, Mom was taking her chemo via pills. The drug is called Xeloda. Mom's doctors explained that Xeloda would be "nicer" than IV chemo. Yes, she still might see her hair thin or fall out; yes, she might experience "some" nausea; yes, she might suffer as her hands and feet became swollen and red and irritated. But... it would be a kinder, gentler chemotherapy. You know, like walking through a field of daises at sunset... If, by "daises at sunset", you mean, "pure, fucking evil that reduces your body and mood to an utter mess in an effort to kill off the cancer".


Just six pills a day: three in the morning and three again at night, for two out of every three weeks over a nine week cycle. And, since each pill was provided for the low, low price of $30 (at least in this country), who knows how the fuck poor people in America can afford to take it, because this would have cost Mom $15,120 if she had to pay for it out of pocket.

Thanks, medical establishment. Great job. Good times. 


So Mom's been up all night because her kindler, gentler chemo pills have have caused pain and nausea. She beyond exhausted. And I've been up all night because I've been acting like a friggin' motard, but I help Mom get a cup of ginger tea, organize a few things she'd requested and grab another 60 minutes of shuteye and 30 minutes of meditation (Quick sidebar: I've been practicing vedic meditation for about three years now and it's a huge help in many situations, I have to tell you).


When I got up after my nap, Mom was even worse: she wasn't eating, wasn't hydrating, and... not surprisingly, she wasn't in a good mood. So I grabbed my computer, sat in bed with her and just kept her company: I showed her photos from my nephew's briss that I'd snapped, I told goofy jokes, I got her to keep talking and, eventually, I suggested that she drink fluids and eat something. She refused. Her symptoms were such that the very idea of eating or drinking was a terrible consideration. So I asked if she'd taken her anti-nausea medication.


"I took some Compazine earlier. It didn't work."


"Do you have anything else?"


"Already took it hours ago. It's not working." Then - trying to sound as normal as possible - I offered the one solution I thought might provide some relief that she'd previously refused:


"Well, what about the pot brownies?"


I'd purchased some pot brownies for Mom three years ago, back when she'd had her mastectomy, radiation and traditional IV chemo. I'd brought them back to Philly with me from California because - as it turns out - travelling with Schedule 1 drugs is very easy in the post-9/11 world as long as your drugs look like food product. Only, despite risking my being arrested, Mom never used the goodies I'd brought her, despite losing her hair, her skin tone and her patience. But she had - for some odd reason - saved the contraband, buried them in a secret bunker known only to her in the freezer. Her response to my question was ludicrous.


"I don't want to take drugs," she said.


"Mom: you're already taking drugs. Lots of them, actually. And they're very toxic..."


"Well, those are legal."


"Yes, they're legal. But are they working...?" No response. "Mom, if you knew that something was available, right now, that might ease your symptoms, wouldn't you want to try it?"


"I... don't know what's going to happen if I take them," she said and I choked I started laughing so hard. This didn't exactly help Mom at the moment, but I couldn't help myself because I finally realized that she wasn't avoiding the pot brownies because they were illegal: she was simply scared of what might happen to her if she took them. And so, after she scolded me for laughing and after I calmed down enough to talk calmly, I simply explained how the drugs would work.


"You'll get high," I told her. "Lights and sounds will seem cool, you'll be relieved of your nausea and you'll get the munchies. It's why marijuana is so effective at combating the symptoms of chemo, Mom."


"I don't know. What if we get raided by the police?" There was a pause and then I just laughed my ass off again. But she was absolutely serious about her question.


"Mom: seriously... why would the police be coming to your home for a raid?"


"Well, I don't know," she said. "And that's exactly why I'm unsure about taking the drugs."


"Mom, you can't be that worried about a police raid, really..."


"Oh, no? And why's that?"


"Because you've kept the drugs in your house for over three years. Seems to me, if you were really worried, you would've thrown out the offending material years ago."


Silence.


"Look, it's your call. But one thing's for sure: it can't possibly make you feel worse than you already are. You're fucking miserable and need some relief. Tell you what: tell me where your secret stash is and I'll cut off a small piece for you..." And so it went. I found the secret stash buried deep in the bowels of the fridge and brought her some smaller pieces, each about the size of a thimble. I didn't want to overdo the dosage but I wanted to make sure that Mom had what she needed to get some fucking relief. And I'll give her this: despite her fears and her ethical fiber, Mom stepped out of the box and actually did something unusual and rare by being willing to try something different. But only after making me promise one thing:


"I want you to stay with me," she said. "I want you to check in on me. Don't leave me alone in case something happens." I gave her a hug, smiled, and told her not to worry: that I'd be right there no matter what. And with that, Mom ate some pot brownie, laid back onto her pillows, said "Yuck!" because she didn't like the taste and then closed her eyes.

And what happened next was even funnier.