Friday, September 17, 2004
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Today was truly the worst day of my life so far.
You hear people say that all the time, but I now know what a worst day feels like. My older sister fought and fought to beat what turned out to be a really nasty brain tumor. It wasn't until the last couple months that I learned that it never responded to any treatment she did--Temodar, radiation, CCNU. NOTHING. When my dad had his brain tumor, a meningioma, he was in such a bad state, and we had so little hope, but he mostly breezed through it and regained a lot and it was benign. When Debbie was diagnosed with hers 2 years ago, I think we were sort of over-confident in trusting her words. She told us average prognosis was 7-10 years. She said she'd outlive her two dogs she'd just brought home the year before. We believed her, and we let her go through a lot of it on her own because it didn't seem so bad. And if dad could beat his, she'd surely beat this one.
I just spent the last month at home in IL helping to prearrange her funeral, in Virginia, packing up all of her stuff to take to IL, and trying to spend quality time with her, though I hated seeing her in such a position. She was always there to help others when they were down. Over the last 5 months since she ended up in the hospital from having shingles, I kept such vigilant track of what she was on, what the drugs were for, careful to understand everything going on medically, and trying to help her understand why safety should prevail over vanity in things like using a walker or wheelchair when it was no longer registering cognitively. While I was home and she was in the nursing home there, I just couldn't do it. I think even before I got there, I knew, though I didn't want to be right. I knew that those would be my final days with her. And there were some days I just couldn't go because I didn't want to think that those were going to be my final days with her.
I left IL on September 11. Since I am one of those people --those history major people -- who note dates constantly, I realized the date, even before that day, thinking that 3 years before I would have never guessed in the middle of the panic of the day, what I would be doing 36 months later. Twelve months ago, I was really affected by John Ritter's death. I think that day she knew that was it, also. After I said that I was leaving for Florida, she seemed upset, but wouldn't explain. I don't know that I like the way I said goodbye. She was in a quad room and that morning all of her 3 roommates were pretty lively and noisy. There were quite a few things I wanted to say. I left it that I'd see her in a couple weeks.
I think subconsciously, or in my soul, I knew today was the day. My alarm went off, I got up, took a shower, turned off the water, and got back into bed. I called in to work -- while in the shower, my head just started pounding. I slept until 11 or 12. I got up and worked on a couple things. I went back to sleep for a few more hours. I did happen to run out to get some caffeine. The only 15 minutes I was really away from here, I noticed later on caller id that my brother tried to call. I didn't know what was happening until I tried to call Michelle around 8 ET. Bobby answered and said he was waiting to hear from her, that she was at the nursing home, and he read the note she'd left about it being serious and there was labored breathing. That's all he had to say. My brother called right after that which is a blur, and then they called at 11:48 to tell me.
I've seen my dad cry lots. He's quite emotional. I've seen my mom cry a few times, but I didn't really grow up with her, and that side of the family is just another story for another day. My other sister, Michelle, and I have shared quite a few tears, especially over the last months and weeks. I don't think in my entire life I've ever EVER seen my brother cry. I still have to say I haven't seen it, but when he called me a little while ago (and when the phone rang I just knew what that ring was for) I couldn't hear him for almost a minute and then I couldn't quite tell if it was him or my dad. That was probably even more upsetting than actually hearing the news.
Goodbye Debbie, thank you for all the advice that kept me a pretty levelheaded person while growing up in a not so normal situation, for driving lessons on Christmas Eve in the ice, for consoling me when I cried and cried about being scared of death as a child, and everything else along the way. I love you and I will miss you dearly.
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You hear people say that all the time, but I now know what a worst day feels like. My older sister fought and fought to beat what turned out to be a really nasty brain tumor. It wasn't until the last couple months that I learned that it never responded to any treatment she did--Temodar, radiation, CCNU. NOTHING. When my dad had his brain tumor, a meningioma, he was in such a bad state, and we had so little hope, but he mostly breezed through it and regained a lot and it was benign. When Debbie was diagnosed with hers 2 years ago, I think we were sort of over-confident in trusting her words. She told us average prognosis was 7-10 years. She said she'd outlive her two dogs she'd just brought home the year before. We believed her, and we let her go through a lot of it on her own because it didn't seem so bad. And if dad could beat his, she'd surely beat this one.
I just spent the last month at home in IL helping to prearrange her funeral, in Virginia, packing up all of her stuff to take to IL, and trying to spend quality time with her, though I hated seeing her in such a position. She was always there to help others when they were down. Over the last 5 months since she ended up in the hospital from having shingles, I kept such vigilant track of what she was on, what the drugs were for, careful to understand everything going on medically, and trying to help her understand why safety should prevail over vanity in things like using a walker or wheelchair when it was no longer registering cognitively. While I was home and she was in the nursing home there, I just couldn't do it. I think even before I got there, I knew, though I didn't want to be right. I knew that those would be my final days with her. And there were some days I just couldn't go because I didn't want to think that those were going to be my final days with her.
I left IL on September 11. Since I am one of those people --those history major people -- who note dates constantly, I realized the date, even before that day, thinking that 3 years before I would have never guessed in the middle of the panic of the day, what I would be doing 36 months later. Twelve months ago, I was really affected by John Ritter's death. I think that day she knew that was it, also. After I said that I was leaving for Florida, she seemed upset, but wouldn't explain. I don't know that I like the way I said goodbye. She was in a quad room and that morning all of her 3 roommates were pretty lively and noisy. There were quite a few things I wanted to say. I left it that I'd see her in a couple weeks.
I think subconsciously, or in my soul, I knew today was the day. My alarm went off, I got up, took a shower, turned off the water, and got back into bed. I called in to work -- while in the shower, my head just started pounding. I slept until 11 or 12. I got up and worked on a couple things. I went back to sleep for a few more hours. I did happen to run out to get some caffeine. The only 15 minutes I was really away from here, I noticed later on caller id that my brother tried to call. I didn't know what was happening until I tried to call Michelle around 8 ET. Bobby answered and said he was waiting to hear from her, that she was at the nursing home, and he read the note she'd left about it being serious and there was labored breathing. That's all he had to say. My brother called right after that which is a blur, and then they called at 11:48 to tell me.
I've seen my dad cry lots. He's quite emotional. I've seen my mom cry a few times, but I didn't really grow up with her, and that side of the family is just another story for another day. My other sister, Michelle, and I have shared quite a few tears, especially over the last months and weeks. I don't think in my entire life I've ever EVER seen my brother cry. I still have to say I haven't seen it, but when he called me a little while ago (and when the phone rang I just knew what that ring was for) I couldn't hear him for almost a minute and then I couldn't quite tell if it was him or my dad. That was probably even more upsetting than actually hearing the news.
Goodbye Debbie, thank you for all the advice that kept me a pretty levelheaded person while growing up in a not so normal situation, for driving lessons on Christmas Eve in the ice, for consoling me when I cried and cried about being scared of death as a child, and everything else along the way. I love you and I will miss you dearly.
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