-- By Arulnambi K.
Cancer is perhaps the most cruel of human ailments, and can be insidious in the way it creeps into a life. Often, pain that presents as a symptom could mean that it is already too late. Medicine has few answers to even the most common types of cancer, especially when the disease has advanced beyond its initial stages. For those of us who have seen a loved one felled by cancer, and have seen the physical and mental suffering, those images and emotions stay on forever.
Every episode of Amma's five year struggle with colon cancer began with pain. She was probably always fighting against a foregone conclusion, and she knew it only too well, being a student and teacher of zoology. Nevertheless, she tried to stay positive and leaned on her faith, but it was not always easy as the disease progressed. She suffered immensely during her last months, every week bringing new or more intense symptoms, as the disease increased in ferocity and choked her from the inside out.
I am still struck by Amma's courage in making that very difficult decision to not prolong the agony by opting for one more round of treatment. Her surgeon would later tell us that she had made a wise decision. It takes courage to fight the disease like she did until 2013, subjecting herself twice within three years to surgery and the harshness of chemotherapy. It takes even greater courage to say, "I've had enough. I will face what comes, which is likely going to include great pain. I will say my goodbyes and face the end."
How brave was Amma in making that decision? One has to marvel at the courage needed to make the decision she made, and go through all the torture that she went through. She suffered, she questioned the suffering, she pleaded with her late mother for the end to come quickly. She wanted our love, our attention, our compassion and our understanding. But she faced it all to the very end. Such a frail, simple and loving soul. And such suffering.
Some images and incidents linger in my mind, such as Amma lying on a stretcher in the PET/CT scan center, so tiny and weak, and hardly aware of the procedure she was going to undergo. She had been so anxious about it prior to her seizures. I had utilized her post-seizure euphoric state to get her to agree to those tests. Right after her scans were done, the technicians had rushed to roll her out of the scan machine. They seemed to project some sort of emergency, and my heart jumped into my throat for a second in blind panic, thinking something had happened to her. Later on, when I went to pick up Amma's scan results, my heart was pounding heavily. I knew what to expect, but nevertheless, I was more nervous than I had ever been. The results were as bleak as the doctors had expected, but seemed like good news to me as I had been fearing even worse.
The predominant symptom during those last months for Amma was an intense pain in her back, and she could hardly walk or even sit. She would take short, assisted walks around the house with a nurse holding her on one side and Thambi or me holding her on the other. I tried to distract her from her condition whenever I could. Once, while on one such walk through the kitchen, I pointed out the shabby job my father had done cleaning a dish he had used to boil milk, and it brought a small smile to her lips. The contrast between my parents, when it came to such matters of tidiness, was the source of a number of such inside jokes in my family over the years.
Amma hated staying in the hospital. So, I tried to distract her during her hospital stay earlier that month by having her watch "Animals Are Beautiful People," a favorite documentary of ours, on her iPad. She smiled and said, "You are distracting me very well." She was very sick but still sharp as a tack. She had read my intentions as astutely as ever. Later, one night in the hospital, she was in much discomfort and I tried to keep her comfortable. She said, "உன்னோட இந்த அரவணைப்பிலேயே நான் போய்விட வேண்டும்." ("I wish to go (from this world) in your care.")
My time with Amma had to end as I had to return to work after a prolonged leave of absence. Later that month, on January 25, 2015, to be exact, just before I left for my flight back to the U.S., I gave her a hug and a kiss and held her for a while. She had not expected it as we are not given to a lot of hugging in our family culture. She kissed me a few times and was in tears. It was very bittersweet, but I will never forget those last minutes with her. It was the hardest thing I have ever done - saying goodbye that day.
[ This series of essays is a meditation on the last days of my mother's life and the blessed time I was able to spend taking care of her. It seeks to shine a light on the last days of a great soul - on lessons learned, health, family, relationships, love and hardship. ]
[ Part 1 - Into the Maelstrom ] [ Part 2 - Blessings in Disguise ]
Cancer is perhaps the most cruel of human ailments, and can be insidious in the way it creeps into a life. Often, pain that presents as a symptom could mean that it is already too late. Medicine has few answers to even the most common types of cancer, especially when the disease has advanced beyond its initial stages. For those of us who have seen a loved one felled by cancer, and have seen the physical and mental suffering, those images and emotions stay on forever.
Every episode of Amma's five year struggle with colon cancer began with pain. She was probably always fighting against a foregone conclusion, and she knew it only too well, being a student and teacher of zoology. Nevertheless, she tried to stay positive and leaned on her faith, but it was not always easy as the disease progressed. She suffered immensely during her last months, every week bringing new or more intense symptoms, as the disease increased in ferocity and choked her from the inside out.
I am still struck by Amma's courage in making that very difficult decision to not prolong the agony by opting for one more round of treatment. Her surgeon would later tell us that she had made a wise decision. It takes courage to fight the disease like she did until 2013, subjecting herself twice within three years to surgery and the harshness of chemotherapy. It takes even greater courage to say, "I've had enough. I will face what comes, which is likely going to include great pain. I will say my goodbyes and face the end."
How brave was Amma in making that decision? One has to marvel at the courage needed to make the decision she made, and go through all the torture that she went through. She suffered, she questioned the suffering, she pleaded with her late mother for the end to come quickly. She wanted our love, our attention, our compassion and our understanding. But she faced it all to the very end. Such a frail, simple and loving soul. And such suffering.
Some images and incidents linger in my mind, such as Amma lying on a stretcher in the PET/CT scan center, so tiny and weak, and hardly aware of the procedure she was going to undergo. She had been so anxious about it prior to her seizures. I had utilized her post-seizure euphoric state to get her to agree to those tests. Right after her scans were done, the technicians had rushed to roll her out of the scan machine. They seemed to project some sort of emergency, and my heart jumped into my throat for a second in blind panic, thinking something had happened to her. Later on, when I went to pick up Amma's scan results, my heart was pounding heavily. I knew what to expect, but nevertheless, I was more nervous than I had ever been. The results were as bleak as the doctors had expected, but seemed like good news to me as I had been fearing even worse.
The predominant symptom during those last months for Amma was an intense pain in her back, and she could hardly walk or even sit. She would take short, assisted walks around the house with a nurse holding her on one side and Thambi or me holding her on the other. I tried to distract her from her condition whenever I could. Once, while on one such walk through the kitchen, I pointed out the shabby job my father had done cleaning a dish he had used to boil milk, and it brought a small smile to her lips. The contrast between my parents, when it came to such matters of tidiness, was the source of a number of such inside jokes in my family over the years.
Amma hated staying in the hospital. So, I tried to distract her during her hospital stay earlier that month by having her watch "Animals Are Beautiful People," a favorite documentary of ours, on her iPad. She smiled and said, "You are distracting me very well." She was very sick but still sharp as a tack. She had read my intentions as astutely as ever. Later, one night in the hospital, she was in much discomfort and I tried to keep her comfortable. She said, "உன்னோட இந்த அரவணைப்பிலேயே நான் போய்விட வேண்டும்." ("I wish to go (from this world) in your care.")
My time with Amma had to end as I had to return to work after a prolonged leave of absence. Later that month, on January 25, 2015, to be exact, just before I left for my flight back to the U.S., I gave her a hug and a kiss and held her for a while. She had not expected it as we are not given to a lot of hugging in our family culture. She kissed me a few times and was in tears. It was very bittersweet, but I will never forget those last minutes with her. It was the hardest thing I have ever done - saying goodbye that day.
[ This series of essays is a meditation on the last days of my mother's life and the blessed time I was able to spend taking care of her. It seeks to shine a light on the last days of a great soul - on lessons learned, health, family, relationships, love and hardship. ]
[ Part 1 - Into the Maelstrom ] [ Part 2 - Blessings in Disguise ]
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