Mandy Baronowitz

Today my mother was cremated.

I really don’t have a spectacular cancer story. My mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lung Cancer that metasticized in her brain. Less than a month later, she died. It seems unreal, like something out of poorly produced soap opera. But it was very real and now I am here picking up the pieces.

This event was life changing, but at the same time, it hasn’t shaken my faith or made me question my maker. I have been there, done that after the death of a stillborn baby. And a divorce. And, well… I can deal with drama. God has high expectations for my limits. My faith is now a concrete foundation on which I can stand.

To be very honest, my mother’s death was beautiful. It just was. And I know in my heart that death is not an end, but only the beginning to something so beautiful that souls in this world can not even wrap their heads around it.

It seems I have moved on pass the five stages of grief to acceptance. I am a realist. Truth be told, I have a lot going for me in my life and I am not willing to ignore my blessings because of tragedy. Besides, my mother would be pissed if she thought for a second that I was boo hooing about her.

However, I do miss my mother’s laugh. She taught me to find joy in the little things. And I am quite unsettled with the thought of being a woman without a mother. My mother recently had said, “My children and grandchildren are my life.” It was true. I reconnected with my mother as an adult and she loved me fiercely. She always has, actually. It just took a lot of understanding before I could see that sometimes, she just had a different way of loving people. She trusted me with making her life decisions and in me and my children, she lives on.

My mother gave me many of her good qualities. If only she threw in that awesome metabolism too! I miss her and there are many tears to come. But I am okay. Truly, I am. I have fallen down & skinned my knee in this earthly life. I am back up and walking it off, but it will be some time before I can run again.

Last night with assistance, my mother called to say goodbye and I love you.

As my brother and I entered her room in the Neuro ICU in the morning, she immediately grabbed for our hands. She seemed to muster up the very last particles of energy, grabbing for our hands. In a weakened, hoarse voice she says, “Thank God, you’re here!”. They were the last words I heard my mother speak. And she laid still, gasping for air, no longer able to communicate.

I remained holding her hand. It was the first time I had held her hand like that since I was a little girl. My eyes gazed down at my purse. There was a book in there and I wanted to escape into that book. I wanted to get lost in someone else’s problems. But for now, I had to hold my mother’s hand.

The nurse tells me that neurology needs to speak with me in the hall. My brother, a rock for me in all this, follows. We are told that all options have been exhausted from their department. It was time to think about hospice and signing Do Not Resuscitate orders. She says at the very best- barring any complications which is unlikely- we may get a month, but that is extremely optimistic.

You know it’s coming, but hearing a doctor say it is equivalent to being punched in the stomach while your hands are tied behind your back. I just stare in horror at the fact that my mother could suffer for another month while the guy down the hall codes and nurses fly by me like leaves on a blustery autumn day.

Neurosurgery consults. They aren’t as optimistic. They say that even though her bleed has resolved itself, a couple weeks is optimistic. There are upward to 20 lesions expanding. Her reflex to swallow has become limited by the lesions, along with many other vital functions. She can’t eat or drink. And the brain continues to swell. As a matter of fact, they have ordered an MRI because they believe her brain has begun to sink into the area where they took out the cerebellum tumor.

Oncology. These are the folks I have talked with the most beyond the nurses. They were always, always, ALWAYS the most optimistic and honest. But this time, he does not give me a silver lining. He has come to explain after reviewing the reports from all departments that they can’t even predict weeks. They see her life ending in a matter of days. He compliments my decision to bring her home to die in arms that love her. He gives me a hug and says that he is ordering her heavier narcotics to keep her comfortable.

After some time, I tell my mother I love her and leave the room. I look closely at the hospital walls knowing that soon enough I will forget what they look like. But I would give anything to keep seeing them because it would mean my mother was alive and treatable. Instead I walk out with a cell phone in my pocket- something that has become a tumor of its own, as I fear getting “the call”.

At home, I quietly cry in the shower. The thought of Christmas without her. Not having her around at all. Ever again. Tears blend in with water drops, trying to wash away the sadness. It was the first long, hard, draining cry that I have had- and it was good.

But in the end, the very words that my mother was able to speak before her illness rendered her speechless, were words that told my brother and I that we were wanted. And if there were ever perfect words to end on, those would be it. So in the midst of an emotional rollercoaster of a day, those words are a beautiful something to hold onto.

I spent a good portion of the day pondering the songs that make me happy.

Anything But Mine
This is my favorite song in the whole wide world. It makes me feel a little country, a little surf girl, and very me.

Hey Ya by Outkast
I can’t explain it. Someone could shoot my puppy and I would still smile if this was playing in the background.

Dragostea Din Tea by O-ZONE
If you are a big enough internet resident, you know all about the Numa Numa dance and just how contagious it is.

Go Tell It On The Mountain performed by Little Big Town
Come on, you declare the birth of Jesus in a carefree country way!

Bellavia performed by Chuck Mangione
Perhaps lingerings from being a band nerd a lifetime ago, but it contains a great deal of beauty and peace.

Life In A Northern Town by performed by Sugarland
I love how country is putting a new spin on classics. This is one of my favorite songs to sing in the car where no one can hear my attempts to harmonize.

Doxology
In the church I grew up in, we sung this every week. Right after offering. I remember being so proud the first time I sung this with all the right words. I felt so grown up.

Made To Love by TobyMac
I was once a DC Talk fan. This songs brings me back to purpose. And it has a great rhythm.

…as written on a scrap sheet of paper while sitting on the floor of the ER.

August 22nd 2008. My mother’s 50th birthday. I spent the first half of her birthday getting her discharged. I spent the last portion getting her admitted again. Again.

It was to be a different kind of day. We wrapped presents and carefully displayed balloons. We purchased a beautiful cake with floral decoration. Her closest family members were there to give her one last birthday. There was to be hugs, pictures, and stories of old. We would smile and silently receive closure.

But instead she laid curled up on the hospital bed in her makeshift room, asking in a muted voice to return to the hospital. So I travel down Rt. 30. “Spirit in the Sky” is playing on the radio. We pass Stewart’s Rootbeer. Everyone looks so happy, as if they haven’t had a single worry in their lives. My last day of that kind of simplicity was on July 30th while spending time with a kindred spirit, Judy. That was one day before cancer.

The ER. The person I knew as my mother has all but faded away. I watch her heart rate gradually decline. Beeping begins and the numbers continue to fall. Oh, please don’t die on your birthday. We seem to be getting immediate assistance. It’s a strange fact of life that if you get timely service in the ER, you are in pretty bad shape.

Everyone stares. I look as if there has been an outbreak of the Ebola virus. My head covered with a scarf. My face covered with a protective mask. They are worried about her immune system. And being concerned doctors, they were also worried about mine. I have become a familiar face at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital, as I have only missed one day in the past couple weeks. That was to lick my wounds after an angry outburst from my mother. I don’t mind my new freakish head gear. It’s just for now, as when she gets back up into the Neuro ICU, these precautions are waived. Results come back. Hydrocephalus. Round Three.

If you followed me over from my previous blog, welcome! If you are new, glad to “see” you here and I hope you come back soon. Over the summer, I decided to move my blog (and pretty much everything else) into one cozy little space. Now making that happen is a completely different story. It’s been a project that kept taking the bottom of the priority list. But here we finally are-at least the blog portion!