It Was A Wednesday, And We Had Tacos

I think like most people, I always thought I'd have time to make up for mistakes I had made in my relationship with my mom. My mom is so tough that I just always figured she'd live forever - sheer force-of-will would help her to overcome any obstacle in her way. I figured I could wait and set things right with my mom at some point in time.

Mom at my niece Tessa's wedding in May 2011.

Now that my mom's cancer is Cancer, I know that I missed that opportunity, and I cannot get it back. During the last seven seeks, I have taken Family Medical Leave to help my dad care for my mom. Back in June, doctors diagnosed mom with small cell lung cancer. At that time, my mom was "Mom." The same acerbic personality as always.

Over the summer, mom had a small stroke, and even though afterwards she said she felt fine, fine did not mean "fine." Over the last few months, my mom's condition has deteriorated rapidly. The picture below shows my mom in a wig; it does not show the wheelchair necessary for her to get around for events like a wedding.

Mom with my niece, Tessa, and friends at my cousin's daughter's wedding in September 2012.

I have no idea now why we didn't take pictures that day at the end of October. Since the diagnosis, my sister and her husband have brought "Meals on Wheels" to my parents to save my dad from a day of planning and cooking each week. On that day - it was a Wednesday - they made tacos.

Mom was in severe pain from the not-yet-diagnosed pneumonia and a new fracture in a vertebrae in her back. We had started giving her liquid morphine as per her palliative care nurse's instructions. The morphine had not yet started to sedate her, and my mom was still Mom. We laughed while we reminisced about eating "battles" my brother and I engaged in when younger. The most notorious of those took place while visiting my late grandpa in Texas. My brother and I ate over 20 tacos each that day - ah, the abandon of youth - and my mom complained about having to cook so many tacos. She had her sharp wit. She had her strong rebuke. She had the "Hurley eye," that raised eyebrow that indicated her disapproval of our actions. She was "Mom."

The picture below shows my mom, sans wig, on November 11th. As she always does, my mom "geared up" for the visit from my wife and daughters. She posed for this picture at my daughter Meghan's request. After my wife and daughters left, Mom immediately went to sleep, exhausted from even a few hours of activity.

Mom with my daughter, Meghan, on November 11, 2012

Yesterday's post illustrates how my mom's cancer has slowly taken away my Mom and her memory. Many friends and colleagues have written to offer me solace and encouragement. They have shared stories of their own last days with a loved one. A teaching colleague told me of stolen moments with his own mom and encouraged me to take this opportunity to get to know my mom "anew." I can't. I waited too long.

Don't get me wrong. I still see "Mom" in bits and pieces. She sleeps a lot nowadays. Sometimes for hours interrupted by brief conversations or bathroom breaks. And then she sleeps again for hours. Some days I have time alone with her when she wakes up, and we have snippets of conversations where she talks coherently and as "Mom."

Now that my mom's cancer is Cancer, I realize that I miss all of those elements of her personality that used to drive me crazy.

Who knew that the last time my mom was my "Mom" would happen on a Wednesday? And that we'd have tacos?