Shift the pain

If you’ve ever watched someone die of cancer you know that it’s a horrible way to go. Sometimes I wonder if it would be any different if Mom’s cancer were in some unseen internal organ, rather than hanging around her neck like a gigantic goiter on a tree trunk.

Thanks to pain medications, Mom doesn’t have to feel the relentless march of the cancer around her neck, her carotid, and into her lungs. With increased pain meds this week, she’s living in a zombie-like state, waking and smiling when someone speaks to her, then dozing off again, perhaps after a nonsensical effort to talk. When meals are served, she’ll eat a few bites with help, but quickly loses interest.

This morning when I first went to her room, she said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” What could I say?

“Are you in pain?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” she said, and dozed off.

My sister, who has been hospitalized all week, first with gallbladder surgery, then pneumonia, saw Mom today for the first time in a week. Though I’ve been keeping her informed of Mom’s decline, she still was not prepared.

I’ve found myself wondering if they’re giving Mom too much pain medication. Would she be a bit more awake and communicative with less medication? Then I realized how selfish I am to want Mom to be able to keep her eyes open and speak to us. The pain is now ours. She deserves a rest.

Sue