Tick Tock

Tick Tock, Tick Tock, How Can I Stop an Inevitable Clock?

“Angels with silver wings, Shouldn’t know suffering. I wish I could take the pain from you.” – Depeche Mode

My mom is dying. I can say that phrase a million times over and it will never seem real. Yet, it is her reality. It’s a countdown that is killing me. My rock is smoothing down into a pebble and then, a speck of dust lifted to blow into the wind.
We don’t know how she caught the disease. She was never promiscuous; she never played with needles, and has never had a tattoo. Yet Hepatitis C is attacking her liver very aggressively. Cirrhosis decided to tag team her liver as well. This complicates everything.
My mom had never experienced symptoms of the disease until April of 2003. Her doctors, however, said she probably contracted the disease about 30 years ago. Hepatitis C is like AIDS in a way that it can stay dormant for a long period of time. But it was in that April of 2003 that my mom’s world would start to spin out of control.
We went to Vegas for a soccer tournament that I participated in. We noticed that when we got home from the tournament that my mom’s legs we extremely swollen. My mom was kind of proud of this, because like most Mexicans, we tend to have skinny chicken legs. But, I was concerned. My mom scheduled a doctor’s appointment and a blood test was assigned.
The test showed the ugly truth. She was infected. She started seeing specialists and constant checkups with her primary care physician. She was seeing a specialist who must not have any family or a mom, because he was anything but sympathetic towards her condition. He told her that she would die in a year, or maybe tomorrow. If he had a heart or a mom, he wouldn’t have phrased it that way. Or he would have tried to keep things positive and provide her with other doctors who may be more qualified to help her. Lucky for me and my family, my mom is a fighter and she surpassed that year. She sought out more specialists and we even started to go to every Liver Transplant seminars available.
But in my mom’s case, the cirrhoses set limitations on crucial tests needed to be done. The cirrhosis eats her platelets and the platelets are what we need to help heal open wounds. Biopsies are needed to track the progress of the disease but she could bleed to death if they cut her open. So CAT Scans, MRIs, and Ultrasounds are the only tools that can be used to try and grasp a hold on what they are dealing with. It’s better than nothing, but it’s not enough.
In January of 2007 doctors discovered an ovarian cyst the size of a grapefruit. All risks aside they insisted that it be extracted. It was a big ordeal. Our family and friends were needed to donate platelets for her surgery. That was frustrating because I was differed since I am an insulin dependent diabetic. My older brother was differed due to his visit to Europe during the 80s when the Mad Cow disease broke out. I was proud of my twin brother. He is deathly afraid of needles but he stepped up to the plate and donated. Thankfully the surgery was a success; however, this is when things would start to go downhill.
Two weeks after the surgery my mom caught a Staph infection. She had to be re-hospitalized. The surgeon reopened her stitches and had to leave the wound open. A vacuum like machine was inserted in the wound to suck out any excess fluid that was leaking. She had to be plugged in 24 hours 7 days a week. It was like having a baby in the house. When she had use the restroom I had to get up and unplug her. She couldn’t do any lifting what so ever, so I carried the machine into which ever room she wanted to go. The wound needed to heal from the inside out and this took a month and a half. It was in March when we would encounter a new complication.
We all have ammonia in our bodies. As long as the levels stay normal, we won’t have any problems. When they rise, all hell breaks loose. My mom’s levels raised and she lost all motor skills. She couldn’t talk, eat by herself, dress herself, and you can imagine the rest. It was the worst thing that a daughter can witness. The worst, most heart wrenching part of it all was the way she would look at me. She was either trying to identify who I am, or trying not to forget me. I couldn’t stop crying. I would stay up all night for many nights. I would stretch my ear to try and hear if she had any movement. It usually meant that she needed to use the restroom. In the worse cases, she would sleep walk for about a week. She would get up and try and sleep on the coffee table, or go through kitchen knocking things over. I would try and talk to her. Sometimes I would get a response but most of the time she was empty. Luckily, this would only last for a week or two. And this has been going on at least once a month since January 2007.
This has tested me. I have learned so much about myself in the past couple of years. I am patient, and mature. I have to be. My mom is now permanently disabled. She can no longer drive, so I drive her everywhere. I schedule her doctor appointments. I do the grocery shopping. We joke that I am her financial advisor, but I am. I make sure the bills get paid and everything balances. I have had to set all emotions aside and be strong for her.
I can only be strong for so long. I know that as she approaches her final stages, which are becoming nearer; that I am going to become fragile. I am lucky though, I get to spend so much time with my mom. And I am thankful for every minute that she spends with me. My mom is strong. She has yet to break down in front of me, she doesn’t wear fear on her sleeve, and she is fighting to live for my brother and I. She found a liver specialist in Pasadena who is willing to fight with us. She is scheduled for a liver evaluation with UCLA Medical. They will more than likely place her on the transplant list due to her liver function level. If she doesn’t get matched with a donor in time, a family member or friend can donate half of their liver. Together they will grow the other half. She’ll need this to be done within the next year or two. I have to be realistic and acknowledge that there is a chance her body with reject the new liver.
That is where the invisible timer comes in. I can’t see it, or touch it, but it’s there. It’s ticking away at her precious life. My mom is dying, and at the same time I am dying to.