What Pancreatic Cancer Took From Us

Dying from complications....one day busy with holiday shopping and ordinary errands, the next irreversibly transformed into a shell of herself, all because of unexpected developments that seem to accompany some of the more difficult cancers to treat.

It’s a shock for all who knew and loved her. Less than a month ago, she finally discovered why she hadn’t really felt well in a while. Not only was she diagnosed with one of the most difficult cancers to treat -- pancreatic cancer -- she was Stage 4. At best, she might buy a few extra months to get her affairs in order and say her goodbyes with chemotherapy. There was a slight possibility that she might enter clinical trials and discover some small miracle that knocked back the cancer enough to allow her to enjoy a little more time, a few more moments of joy. But there was also the very real possibility that palliative care would be the only real Band-Aid for what ailed her.

The shock of such a brutal diagnosis coming just before Thanksgiving was hard for those of us who loved her to accept, but it was especially difficult for her. It came as the great holiday season commenced. This was her time of year. She adored decorating her house. There were tiny little Christmas scenes everywhere -- miniature cottages set upon white batting on tabletops and snowmen tucked into nooks and crannies. There were always decorative candles scenting the air, pine cones and boughs draped on fireplace mantels, and angels on high. She even scattered little treasures throughout her winter garden. The walk up to her gingerbread-like house on a snowy night was magical, especially enhanced with the tiny twinkling lights she draped here and there.

She loved shopping at this time of year, whether it was for people or pets. She was the only person who always remembered, after my mom died, that my dad likes real handkerchiefs. Every year, she would make sure he had new ones. She made sure that cats and dogs had toys that would offer hours of playtime that would amuse their pet owners. She took great pains to shop for the people she loved. I thought about that the other day when I donned a fleece top she had given me more than ten Christmases ago. I am reminded of her every time I pull it on over my head.

The last time I saw her was at her son’s wedding a few months ago. We spoke on the phone a few times as the countdown to the ceremony began. She was ruminating on the fact that the planning and execution of the wedding was an exhausting process. Did she really want to wear silver shoes and a lace dress? I told her she would look lovely. I advised her to smile and focus on having a good time, because that’s what her boys would remember years from now. I had no idea it would be the last time we would all be together for a happy occasion. There was so much fuss, she lamented. She remarked that she would be glad when it was all over and she could relax again. I think that was indicative of what was happening to her body as the secretive cancer began to spread. She wasn’t feeling quite right, but it was the kind of feeling that was too vague to be remedied. The symptoms could have been anything. That’s the trouble with pancreatic cancer. By the time the doctors figure out what the trouble is, it’s often too late.

That wedding, in the end, will be our salvation in many ways. I am so grateful we had that chance to gather. It was poignant when the mother of the groom took to the dance floor with her son. It was even sweeter to see her out on the dance floor, wiggling and wriggling as the sound system pounded out a steady beat. She was smiling and laughing, laughing and smiling. That is how I will remember her.

But I will also remember the tremendous tribute to her motherhood that came in the form of her two sons at her bedside during her sudden and unexpected final hospitalization. There, in her hospice room, these fine young men took turns watching over her, making sure that she was as comfortable as possible after the heart attack and stroke robbed her of her faculties. Their compassionate efforts were testimony to the love she raised them with and the time she dedicated to their upbringing. As her new daughter-in-law gently leaned in to check on her breathing and cover her up when the blanket was kicked away, I realized her son had chosen a bride who would stand with him in difficult times. But I also watched another young woman, newly engaged and soon to join the family, gently place her hands on the bedridden patient whose life was about to end. This dying woman would not be there to share the joy of seeing her second son marry the woman he loves. She would not have the chance to dance at another wedding because cancer caused these terrible, irreversible complications. My father keeps saying she would have been a wonderful grandmother. It’s too true. She would have thrilled at the prospect of that. She would have loved to spend hours outdoors with little children, working in her garden as they napped in their playpen in the shade on a fine summer’s day.

That is perhaps the hardest thing to accept about her untimely death -- all of the experiences she never got to have, all of the joy and the laughter she dreamed she would someday know. It’s so easy to imagine what would have come next in her life if cancer hadn’t come knocking at her door. It’s so easy to picture all of the activities that would have brought family and friends together to celebrate the good things in life.

It will take time for all of us who knew her to find our equilibrium once more. There is no denying that there is a hole in our circle now that she is gone, never to return. But I hope that with time, those of us who love her will find ways to keep her with us as we gather. We will recall her passion for cooking that set amazing meals on her table, her endless hours of nurturing her charming cottage garden, and her love for Christmas. With every passing year, we will incorporate a little more of her goodness into our own lives, finding ways to share the warmth she brought into our lives by offering it, in turn, to others. It won’t happen instantly. It will take time for us to realize how much we miss the little sparkles of joy she shared, the small touches she added in our lives. But I am confident that we will do it. We will be here with her sons, their wives, and her grandchildren, remembering the magical moments she gave us over her lifetime, and we will honor her by embracing her essence, by letting her live through our own inspired actions. In that way, she will never really die. She will always be a part of us, eternally residing in our hearts.

Avoiding Crowds with a Weakened Immune System

It's funny how many times normal life as I know it gets interrupted by cancer. Whether it's a friend whose epic battle rages on, through brutal chemotherapy regimens, or someone I love getting a devastating diagnosis on an undetected and very lethal type of cancer, it seems like every time I turn around, that beast is going after the people I care about in this world.

This is the season of celebrations, of holiday parties, joyful gatherings, and family times. For most of us, it's something to look forward to with delighted anticipation. But for someone who has an immune system weakened by cancer treatment, it can be a royal bummer.

Why? The minute you're told you can't go out to the movies or eat in your favorite crowded restaurant, what little fun you have in your life evaporates. When you hear that you need to avoid the general public, it's heartbreaking. It's the equivalent of being sentenced to solitary confinement in a dreary jail cell.

Or is it? That subject came up recently in a cancer circle. How can you have any fun if you're stuck at home? You might be surprised.

Having spent some time working with hospitalized kids in the pediatric wards of a couple of hospitals, I saw firsthand the value of keeping bedridden patients engaged in having fun. Why shouldn't adults benefit from the same strategy? Laughter makes us feel better. Playing keeps our spirits light. When we're having a good time, we aren't thinking about what cancer is taking from us. We're thinking about what we enjoy. That's great medicine for our psyches.

When my mom had to lay low, we brought the fun to her. We had movie afternoons and evenings that were great fun. She loved movies, so we got her premium movie channels for the TV and got her a subscription to Netflix. Sure, she could watch the movies by herself, but the truth is my mother was a social butterfly. There was nothing she enjoyed more than watching them with other people, so we made it an occasion.

When she couldn't go out to dinner in a crowded restaurant, we brought dinner to her and made it a festive occasion. When she couldn't mingle with other customers at local stores, we made sure she got to choose what groceries she wanted us to bring home. And sometimes, just because she was going bonkers staring at the same four walls, we went for long exploratory drives that took us on the roads less traveled.

People who are facing the serious challenge of wonky blood counts and suppression of the immune system during treatments still need to have social lives. They still need to feel like they belong to the living world. That's why, as cancer caregivers, it's important that we make fun happen for our loved ones.

Whether you read a favorite book to a loved one whose hands are challenged by neuropathy or you get together in the kitchen to prepare a favorite meal, think outside the box. When the outside world seems to pose a great risk, open up the house and let the sun shine in. What's wrong with inviting a few friends over for a game of cards or dominos? What's wrong with picking up a tasty meal to share with family?

The important thing to remember is that life is always supposed to be fun, and never is this more important than when cancer snatches away our loved ones' quality of life. As cancer caregivers, it's our responsibility to address the psychological aspects of such a blow. We want our loved ones to remain invested in life. The last thing we want is for them to feel all the good times are gone and despair is all that lingers on. Without fun activities, the hours drag on and on, pulling down the fragile spirit of someone challenged by cancer and its treatment.

Make an effort to lift your loved one's spirits by making home, sweet home even sweeter. Know what your loved one enjoys and make it happen at home. No one wants to be alone, like some sad, little bubble boy encapsulated in a plastic sphere, forced to play alone while everyone else has playmates. Keep plenty of hand sanitizer at the ready, wash your hands frequently, and make sure all visitors know that no one should come who might have a cold, the flu, or any other virus. You want your loved one to be safe, so take simple and smart precautions. And then open the door. Invite the laughter, the love, the joy into the house. Make your loved one part of all the action, at a pace he or she can handle.  Build on the moments that make us feel connected as human beings. Respect your loved one's endurance level. It's amazing what that will do for the human spirit. It sends the message that life goes on, even with the challenges of being vulnerable to infection. That means cancer doesn't win this one. Cancer is not in charge of our inner children. We are.

Whether you host a party to trim your tree or invite folks over to spin a dreidel, give your loved one the chance to be involved. Bring the joy of the season home. Don't be afraid to go hog wild. Don't worry about overdoing the lights, the festive music, the food. Better to have too much fun (is that even possible?) than not enough. Celebrate!