{ Motherless Daughters } uniting those experiencing motherloss

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Cassie's Story

In October 2003 my mom, Cathy, got into a car accident. She wasn't hurt that badly, wasn't killed. Her car was fixed, but she had pain. She had a bumpy thing on her shoulderblade. The doctors told her that the bone probably fractured in the car accident and had healed wrong, so they gave her painkillers and sent her to physiotherapy. It got worse. Around Christmas she developed a lump along her jawline that got larger and larger over the weeks. They said it was nothing; she could have it removed at any time and then you would never know it was there. It was probably a cyst, they said. So they removed it and assured us that it was nothing, but they'd have it tested anyway. Tumor. Not cancerous, they said, but more testing just in case. It turns out it was full of cancer, and after more tests, by the end of January 2004 they had discovered that her entire body was full of cancer.

She came home that night, I think it was January 22nd because I'm pretty sure it was the night before my best friend Jess' 18th birthday, with her boyfriend Tim from the doctor's office really late. Like hours after her appointment. They had been sitting in Tim's truck figuring everything out, whether they should tell us, whether she should try and fight it or not. I think mostly they just needed time to pull themselves together so they could try and be strong while we were falling apart.

My brother and I were hopeful when they came through the door that, like all the other times, they would say it was nothing. But the looks on their faces told us otherwise, and as soon as she came through the door she started crying. We all sat in the living and they explained what they knew.

Cancer all through her body. Mostly likely incurable. They didn't know where it came from. She probably had it for a year or two before they found it. One year to live. Give or take. That was the killer, for us. One year. We all just cried and cried for a while, hugging and sobbing. There were so many questions but it was hard to get them out. She was only 43. My brother and I were only 18 and 13. There was so much more life to be lived.

We called my dad to come over. He had never been inside Tim's house before, our new house, it was his first time. We sat down with him and told him the same things. We decided then and there that Nick and I would live with Dad once she died. He would buy a house. We would still see Tim. She would try and fight it even if it was pointless. Afterwards we showed my dad our bedrooms because he had never seen those either, I cried into my dad's shoulder on my bed, and then when he went back to his apartment I called my friends. Jess came over and we cried some more.

Mom said she would try and fight it, and she did. She started radiation on the larger tumors on her back right away, and eventually chemotherapy. Family flew and drove in from all over the country to be with us, to help us, to see her. It was amazing. But it was also sad.

She stopped working, obviously, and essentially became a shell of her former self. The first few months she was optimistic, upbeat. She was the same old Mom she'd always been, she just slept more and took lots of pills. Even the chemotherapy didn't seem to be affecting her at first. It wasn't until her second treatment, during March Break, that I started to notice changes. She was vomiting and beginning to lose her hair. The pain from her radiation treatments and more painful tumors couldn't even be touched by the medication they were giving her. She basically lived in the livingroom because it was too painful for her to sit or sleep anywhere but on the couch.

On Valentine's Day we discovered that the ladies in her office that she worked with were holding a fundraiser for her, selling all kinds of Valentine's Day goodies and flowers and stuffed animals that were donated by people from the office and warehouse. A few weeks later a bunch of them came over and presented her with thousands of dollars in donated money and also some money from the company itself to show their concern. We had planned on going on a trip with the money, but she just became too sick and the money was spent on necessities. It was the nicest thing I had ever seen a group of people do, though. My heart was warmed and it made me realise, finally, that good things can come out of the bad.

Eventually she lost so much of her hair that she just wanted to buzz the rest of it off because she was beginning to look like a middle-aged balding man. When her boyfriend was doing it, she said she wouldn't get a wig, she would wear her bald head proudly, but it only took a few days to buy a wig. It looked almost exactly like her real hair and the day she bought it she felt so good about herself that she actually went out during the day to play Bingo. It was the last time, though.

She only wore the wig when she was going out in public because it was really itchy and uncomfortable, the rest of the time she wore these little hats that were donated from the hospital and a "Survivor" bandana like the ones they have on the show from my cousin Michelle.

Before she went into the hospital she was taking over twenty pills each day, everything from painkillers to vitamins and minerals to pills that stopped the side effects of the painkillers and pills to stop the side effects of those pills. It was ridiculous. Most days she only ate one yogurt and half a banana, and maybe half a bottle of water. She couldn't stomach anything else. And she wouldn't tell you how much pain she was in ever, but you could see it when she would just stare blankly at the wall, concentrating really hard instead of watching the television. She also started having small facial seizures that would cause her upper lip and cheek to twitch for a few minutes every now and again. She was very embarrassed by this and would always cover her face with her hand and make everyone leave the room until it stopped. She was very stubborn about going into the hospital, and it took us weeks to finally get her there. She knew, like we all knew I guess, that if she went in she wouldn't be coming out.

On my 18th birthday my friends and I skipped school and they took me to Toronto for a fun day of manicures, shopping, and eating. When I got home that night, around 10:00pm, the house was empty. Only the light over the stove was on and there was a note on the kitchen table that said, "Took your mom to the hospital. Nick is at your dad's. Be home around 7:00. Love, Tim." He was still at the hospital. I called my dad and he said I could come over if I wanted, but I said no. That night I laid on the couch crying and watching movie after movie on satelite.

The next day, her doctor at the hospital told us she'd have two days to two weeks to live. (Keep in mind that it was only about three and a half months since she was diagnosed. It was May 8th.) All they could do for her was try and subdue the pain and wait. Tim didn't want to tell her, but it didn't take long for her to find out herself.

That afternoon Nick and I went to the mall to get her Mother's Day presents, we got her some comfortable pajamas to wear, a stuffed bear, a card, and some photobooth pictures of the two of us. Maybe some other things as well, I can't remember. The next day we gave them all to her in her hospital room. Every day for the next three weeks I was at the hospital. Tim lived there with her, only going home to shower and change clothes. I didn't go back to school on Monday.

There was always a steady flow of family and friends, especially on evenings and weekends. It took them about a week to get her pain under control, and after that she mostly just drifted in and out of consciousness. She had multiple IVs in her arms. She rarely ate, and soon her skin became bloated with the liquid from the saline solution they were giving her. She was tiny but puffy at the same time. It was hard to shift her, to help her up to go to the bathroom, to touch her. Any time we came or went, we told each other that we loved each other. There was always lots of crying, but everyone tried to hold it back so as not to upset everyone else, especially my mom. She was afraid to be alone, but rarely was, so when she had to be alone it was very upsetting for her. She couldn't tell you what day it was, whether it was night or day, whether she had gotten her shots yet or not, but she knew exactly how long you were gone if you left her alone. It was bizarre.

My prom was May 14th, and after my aunt and cousin helped me get ready and we picked up Keira and her date, we went to the hospital. Most of my family was there and it was very bittersweet. I took pictures with everyone in the hospital except my mom because she didn't want to be photographed as she was, and I guess it makes sense not to remember her that way, but I wanted to be in a picture with her more than anything. I'll always remember her that way despite the fact I don't have any photographs of her in that condition.

I still didn't go to school. Nick did, he hated being at the hospital. Not that he wasn't there for her, but it was harder for him to see her like that I think. He couldn't get used to it. Everyone understood and encouraged me to go to school, but I was always afraid she would die while I was at school. When I got up in the morning I would take the city bus to the hospital and just sit in her room, or in the family room, reading or doing homework or just staring at her.

One day when Nick and I showed up in the morning the fire alarm was going off in the hospital so we had to take the stairs up to the 5th floor and when we got to her room she was having a seizure, so we had to stay outside while they got her under control. She was like a vegetable for the rest of the day, and slept almost constantly after that until she died.

Ironically, for all my staying home from school, she died on a Sunday morning when I was at home sleeping. It was May 30th, my friends had slept over the night before, they were sleeping in the living room. I heard my bedroom door open and the floor creak and so I opened my eyes and it was my dad, and I knew. He had never come into my room to wake me up before, so I knew. It was 6:30am and she had died a little while before, peacefully. Tim said a nurse had come to give her some shots and she was alive then, but when she came back later to check on her she was gone. Tim had asked me when she went in the hospital if I wasn't there when she died did I want to come and say goodbye, and I told him no, and although I think I made the right choice sometimes I regret it. I wonder if a final goodbye, whether she was there or not, would make a difference in my grief.

We had already planned a brunch at the Holiday Inn for that morning with all the out-of-town family, so we went on with it. It was hard, everyone was very quiet which is unusual for my family and friends. We put on happy faces even though our eyes were swollen and our noses runny. Every once in a while a tear would slip out even though we tried to keep each other laughing.

We planned the memorial service, because she wanted to be cremated, for the next Saturday to give everyone a chance to come down and to give us a chance to organize it. I got to work making a set of two large picture frames with dozens of pictures of her inside arranged creatively with words like "mother", "sister", "friend", "teacher", etc. around the pictures. It was hard for me to do but it kept me busy so it was better than nothing. I felt like I was doing something for her.

It was sunny on the day of her memorial service, a beautiful summer day. She would have loved it. I tried to write something to say during the service, but I couldn't bring myself to actually say it in front of all those people. We just displayed the frames along with an enlarged picture of her and everyone hung out at the funeral home, talking and crying and laughing, remembering her. I think it was what she wanted, at least I hope it was. Afterwards we all went back to our house for a little party, which is really what she wanted. She told us she wanted everyone to have a good time and drink and celebrate her life rather than mourn her death, so we did. It wasn't exactly a raging party but it was good. There was food, friends, family, and alcohol.

It's been almost a year since she died, now. Everyone has gotten on with their lives. At first it kind of felt like she had gone away on vacation or something and any day she could knock on the door and say, "Surprise!" but as the days increase in number you realise that's not what's going to happen. She's really gone. But I know she loved me, and everyone, and that's all that matters to me. I still cry, I'm crying as I write this, and I'm still saddened by everything that she isn't here to experience with me and everyone she loved. I just hope that wherever she is, whether it's heaven or another part of earth, or nowhere, that she's happy and that she knows how much I love her, and will always love her. I think she's not really dead as long as I love her.

Š Cassie

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