We had SUCH a wonderful time in Carmel. We ended up staying at the Monte Verde Inn/Casa de Carmel which is just across Ocean Ave from the Lobos Lodge where Oma and Opa usually stay. It was a perfect little B&B that let us bring the little pooch along. She had a great time running on the beach--we even let her off leash for a while! We enjoyed the "free" wine and cheese every evening at the Inn and Luke definitely enjoyed the "free" sherry that was in the room. We ate dinner the first night at The Grill on Ocean--had the prix fixe menu that was $22.50 for 4 courses (when seated by 6pm)! It was awesome.
The next day we explored the mission, drove south a bit to see some more beaches, and had lunch at the Crossroads shopping center. After naptime, we went to Carmel Plaza to get a special little baby outfit as a souvenir (the first one I've bought for myself!) and to taste delicious cheese at the Cheese Shop, where coincidentally a football friend of Luke's works! So he hooked us up. Even the dog got some . After much pondering and menu hunting, we decided on Pepe's Little Napoli for dinner. We tasted some wine before (I even indulged a bit) and had a beautiful romantic dinner. Then out "on the town" to a dive bar and then a tapas bar for a nightcap and dessert with some excellent music.
The next morning we had one more stroll/hike down to the beach (with a few rests on the way back up, oy prenant lady gets tired fast!) and then off to Monterey for some fish and chips on the way home.
Overall, it was a fast trip but we had such a beautiful time. It was exactly the "baby-cation" we needed before this little one arrives. Can't wait to go back in a few years....
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
In Memoriam
About 20 years ago, I stood in this very spot and gave a speech about “My favorite character” for the annual speech contest. Naturally the speech was about my eccentric and genius father. But every step of the way, all the way to the district finals, there was my mom watching, smiling, modestly cheering me on as I ranted about my dad. Every step of my life, for 30 years, she was there watching, smiling, and waiting to see what I would do next.
Anyone who’s ever had contact with me knows that I have a good imagination. Until about 3 months ago, the one thing I could NOT even fathom or imagine was life without my mother. Couldn’t even comprehend the idea. Needless to say, the imagery of that very event has dominated my mind since then. Somewhat suddenly, we were confronted with the realism of mortality. We decided there is no rhyme or reason to any of it; if a woman like my mother could be touched by cancer, then none of us are safe. The lessons I have learned in this experience are that we have no choice but to live each day as if it is our last, enjoy the kindness of other people, and hug your mother every day.
One thing my mother didn’t want was for people to all sit in a room and cry about her. If we are crying, let it not be out of sadness from our loss, but out of joy for having been so blessed to have my mother in our lives at all. It is so rare that a person is so selfless, genuine, benevolent, and loving, and we must all reflect on what it means to have been influenced by her.
One of the many times she was in the hospital, my dad found random pieces of paper on the kitchen table where she planted herself when she didn’t feel well. One of them said, “I made a difference.” He has it on the fridge now to remind him that one person in the world really can affect the lives of many people in such a positive way. My mother taught over 900 kids in her lifetime, and even some of their kids. Though she’s not physically here to teach us anymore, the message of her life will make a difference in all of us forever.
Thank you for loving my mother.
Anyone who’s ever had contact with me knows that I have a good imagination. Until about 3 months ago, the one thing I could NOT even fathom or imagine was life without my mother. Couldn’t even comprehend the idea. Needless to say, the imagery of that very event has dominated my mind since then. Somewhat suddenly, we were confronted with the realism of mortality. We decided there is no rhyme or reason to any of it; if a woman like my mother could be touched by cancer, then none of us are safe. The lessons I have learned in this experience are that we have no choice but to live each day as if it is our last, enjoy the kindness of other people, and hug your mother every day.
One thing my mother didn’t want was for people to all sit in a room and cry about her. If we are crying, let it not be out of sadness from our loss, but out of joy for having been so blessed to have my mother in our lives at all. It is so rare that a person is so selfless, genuine, benevolent, and loving, and we must all reflect on what it means to have been influenced by her.
One of the many times she was in the hospital, my dad found random pieces of paper on the kitchen table where she planted herself when she didn’t feel well. One of them said, “I made a difference.” He has it on the fridge now to remind him that one person in the world really can affect the lives of many people in such a positive way. My mother taught over 900 kids in her lifetime, and even some of their kids. Though she’s not physically here to teach us anymore, the message of her life will make a difference in all of us forever.
Thank you for loving my mother.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Country Style Ribs
So I decided to make these country style ribs in a crock pot for dinner tonite. They are the last thing I have that we got from my parents' freezer when my mom decided she wasn't going to cook anymore. As I cut off the fat from them, I started crying and haven't been able to stop yet. How stupid! What a weird thing to get upset over. I guess it's just going to be like that. I just felt like I wanted to call and tease her for buying such fatty meat. I miss her so much.
The last couple of days have really made me feel weird, because the last 5 months were so intensely built around spending time with her. Now I have all this time and it's freaking me out. I have time to make ribs in a crock pot, go to a movie with my friend Cat, take on another client for consultation, go to the gym. I just keep thinking how busy I'm going to be, but it will feel like vast empty space compared to how it was before... It's a ridiculous gaping hole. There was one time when mommy told me she was unhappy that people had to spend all this time and energy caring for her. She spent 60 years caring about everyone but herself and she's complaining about people spending 4 months caring for her! She actually felt guilty for that. It became such a MASSIVE part of how I spent my time that now I feel guilty for doing things that in the past made me happy. Somehow I'm not sure anything else will cut it anymore. But what else can I do? Occasionally, there is a sense of relief at having the time to worry about other things. I know she is happy I feel relief--she couldn't stand the thought of me missing out on anything because of her. But the relief is always accompanied by sadness.
I know one thing--that I have to keep living my life for her. The way she wanted me to. And I have to let myself feel sad sometimes and to let it come out however it needs to.
The last couple of days have really made me feel weird, because the last 5 months were so intensely built around spending time with her. Now I have all this time and it's freaking me out. I have time to make ribs in a crock pot, go to a movie with my friend Cat, take on another client for consultation, go to the gym. I just keep thinking how busy I'm going to be, but it will feel like vast empty space compared to how it was before... It's a ridiculous gaping hole. There was one time when mommy told me she was unhappy that people had to spend all this time and energy caring for her. She spent 60 years caring about everyone but herself and she's complaining about people spending 4 months caring for her! She actually felt guilty for that. It became such a MASSIVE part of how I spent my time that now I feel guilty for doing things that in the past made me happy. Somehow I'm not sure anything else will cut it anymore. But what else can I do? Occasionally, there is a sense of relief at having the time to worry about other things. I know she is happy I feel relief--she couldn't stand the thought of me missing out on anything because of her. But the relief is always accompanied by sadness.
I know one thing--that I have to keep living my life for her. The way she wanted me to. And I have to let myself feel sad sometimes and to let it come out however it needs to.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Things to Never Forget
1. The last movie I saw in the theater with my mom was "Time Traveler's Wife." She ate chocolate Nibs and Red Vines.
2. The people at Reyes who cared for my mother are named: Flor, Rosie, and Ling Ling.
3. The last thing my mother said to me was, "I love you."
4. I watched her breathe for 2 hours the evening she passed.
5. My mom painted her nails with lip gloss when she was so bored in bed (and used half a bottle of clear polish).
6. She passed at 12:25 AM on December 31, 2009.
7. When I got the call, I had just turned the last page of "Water for Elephants."
8. Jess came over at 12:45 AM and cried with me. Jess and Yogi spent the entire next day and night and day after that with me.
9. We kissed goodbye to 2009 (good riddance) and welcomed 2010, hoping for better things to come.
10. My mom said, "You are my angel so I'll be your mommy-angel."
11. I feel like my mom is sitting on my shoulder telling me what to do, helping answer questions, and reminding me that she's still here with me.
12. One time when I was visiting, she woke up, looked at me, and said, "Hello pretty girl."
13. The last time I saw her at Reyes, I walked out of the house, got in the car, and on the radio came the song, "Fire and Rain," by James Taylor. There's a line in the song, "I always thought that I'd see you again." I sat in the car and sobbed for a while because in my heart I knew the song was right.
14. When she first moved toe Reyes, I filled an MP3 player with all her favorite music. I put it on in the room, closed the door, and danced for her.
15. On Christmas, I played Somewhere Over the Rainbow on my ukelele. She said, "That's exactly what I wanted for Christmas."
2. The people at Reyes who cared for my mother are named: Flor, Rosie, and Ling Ling.
3. The last thing my mother said to me was, "I love you."
4. I watched her breathe for 2 hours the evening she passed.
5. My mom painted her nails with lip gloss when she was so bored in bed (and used half a bottle of clear polish).
6. She passed at 12:25 AM on December 31, 2009.
7. When I got the call, I had just turned the last page of "Water for Elephants."
8. Jess came over at 12:45 AM and cried with me. Jess and Yogi spent the entire next day and night and day after that with me.
9. We kissed goodbye to 2009 (good riddance) and welcomed 2010, hoping for better things to come.
10. My mom said, "You are my angel so I'll be your mommy-angel."
11. I feel like my mom is sitting on my shoulder telling me what to do, helping answer questions, and reminding me that she's still here with me.
12. One time when I was visiting, she woke up, looked at me, and said, "Hello pretty girl."
13. The last time I saw her at Reyes, I walked out of the house, got in the car, and on the radio came the song, "Fire and Rain," by James Taylor. There's a line in the song, "I always thought that I'd see you again." I sat in the car and sobbed for a while because in my heart I knew the song was right.
14. When she first moved toe Reyes, I filled an MP3 player with all her favorite music. I put it on in the room, closed the door, and danced for her.
15. On Christmas, I played Somewhere Over the Rainbow on my ukelele. She said, "That's exactly what I wanted for Christmas."
Monday, December 28, 2009
Email to Luke in Oz (same day)
I had an intense conversation with Auntie and Aaron yesterday at coffee while my mom was napping. We talked about religion and belief and what comes after death and what we each believe in that regard. Aaron definitely believes in heaven and even an abstract version of angels. Auntie said she is starting to believe there is something after death, hopefully a heaven. The closest I've ever been able to come to an afterlife is the philosophical perspective of Buddhism, which says that the more you suffer in this life, the better off you will be in your next life. Aaron brought it all together very nicely (my brilliant little cuz) in saying that whatever doctrine or title you give it, the message is that the spirit of a person never dies as long as other people remember them. I said, yes, but I'll miss the talking and hugging part. So then I went back to my mom and asked her what she believed. She said she believes in heaven in the same sense Oma Thea did which is that we have to believe there's something beautiful to come to us where we can be re-united. It's very Christian-sounding, but who cares. Then of course I had to talk to Laura about it because she and I believe the same things, which are less concrete and definable than a heaven or hell or nothing at all. We don't really have faith in anything. My question was, now that I know what my mother believes, should I try to believe it too? I wrote in our little notebook (Maggie gave us to ask each other questions or tell each other things we don't want to say outloud), "Do you believe in angels? Will you be my mommy angel?" I haven't seen yet if she responded. So that was intense yesterday. I'm still undecided about whether I should be trying to believe in something totally different than what I've always (not) believed in just to try to find a way to cope...
I've also been talking a lot with Laura about heavy intense stuff I haven't been able to talk about before. One thing was the fact that I can't image being there at the moment my mother goes. I actually had a terrible night's sleep last night because of the intense imagery I was seeing of my mother and death. When I told Laura I didn't want to be there when she actually goes because I have never seen a dead body and the idea freaks me out, she said that's the opposite of what she would think because she would think my mom would want to be surrounded with love in her last moments. She has a good point and my reply was just that it's a selfish sentiment mostly because it's just too damn hard to prepare for something like that. It wasn't a long conversation, but it was something I'd never said outloud. Since I've been alone for the past while, thinking about it more, if Reyes called and said I should come because this is it, of course I would come. I don't think it's a moment anyone can really be prepared for.
Which brings me to my last piece. I had a very strange a disturbing but relevant dream in my last 2 hours of sleep this morning (after letting the dog out). I was in a show as a dancer but the setting was unfamiliar, there were no familiar people there, and I had absolutly no idea what I was supposed to be doing. It felt like I'd had rehearsals or at least I remembered some faint rehearsals but could not for the life of me remember the staging or the choreography. These strangers, these other people in the show kept comforting me and telling me I could handle it and that I'd be fine, but all I could do was feel anxiety and nervousness. Do you see the metaphor? Not that I'm into dream interpretation, but this one sure made sense to me given the more prevalent thought's I've had lately. The fact is, there is no dress rehearsal for death. No amount of practice or rehearsal could tell me how and where to be when it happens. The only message I could take of optimism was that there were an abundance of people who surrounded me with the confidence that I would find a way to make it work (my motto this year--thanks Tim Gunn). I woke up feeling sad and depressed, but the dog licked my face and I found a message in the dream. If I get the chance, I think I'll tell my mother about the dream.
Without work, all I can think about is my mother and it's driving me nuts. I'm glad Laura's been here because I've had something to do every day but she leaves on Wednesday. I'm still going to try to plan something to do each day so I don't get stuck on the couch with my sadness.
I've also felt relatively sick to my stomach, even beyond that worst hangover of my life day. I think it's the stress of thinking of going to Australia. I found out that there is a flight back to SF on the 10, 11, 12. I'm going to have a conversation with my mom about the strength of her will and that she does have some say in when she is done in that regard (Maggie and Laura both think so too). Mommy was so tired today but in good spirits. I just don't know how much more of this I can put her through by asking her to wait. I already feel guilt for just thinking about that. If I'm afraid of not being here when it happens, why am I telling myself I don't want to be there when it happens? It doesn't make sense. I still don't know if I should go...
I've also been talking a lot with Laura about heavy intense stuff I haven't been able to talk about before. One thing was the fact that I can't image being there at the moment my mother goes. I actually had a terrible night's sleep last night because of the intense imagery I was seeing of my mother and death. When I told Laura I didn't want to be there when she actually goes because I have never seen a dead body and the idea freaks me out, she said that's the opposite of what she would think because she would think my mom would want to be surrounded with love in her last moments. She has a good point and my reply was just that it's a selfish sentiment mostly because it's just too damn hard to prepare for something like that. It wasn't a long conversation, but it was something I'd never said outloud. Since I've been alone for the past while, thinking about it more, if Reyes called and said I should come because this is it, of course I would come. I don't think it's a moment anyone can really be prepared for.
Which brings me to my last piece. I had a very strange a disturbing but relevant dream in my last 2 hours of sleep this morning (after letting the dog out). I was in a show as a dancer but the setting was unfamiliar, there were no familiar people there, and I had absolutly no idea what I was supposed to be doing. It felt like I'd had rehearsals or at least I remembered some faint rehearsals but could not for the life of me remember the staging or the choreography. These strangers, these other people in the show kept comforting me and telling me I could handle it and that I'd be fine, but all I could do was feel anxiety and nervousness. Do you see the metaphor? Not that I'm into dream interpretation, but this one sure made sense to me given the more prevalent thought's I've had lately. The fact is, there is no dress rehearsal for death. No amount of practice or rehearsal could tell me how and where to be when it happens. The only message I could take of optimism was that there were an abundance of people who surrounded me with the confidence that I would find a way to make it work (my motto this year--thanks Tim Gunn). I woke up feeling sad and depressed, but the dog licked my face and I found a message in the dream. If I get the chance, I think I'll tell my mother about the dream.
Without work, all I can think about is my mother and it's driving me nuts. I'm glad Laura's been here because I've had something to do every day but she leaves on Wednesday. I'm still going to try to plan something to do each day so I don't get stuck on the couch with my sadness.
I've also felt relatively sick to my stomach, even beyond that worst hangover of my life day. I think it's the stress of thinking of going to Australia. I found out that there is a flight back to SF on the 10, 11, 12. I'm going to have a conversation with my mom about the strength of her will and that she does have some say in when she is done in that regard (Maggie and Laura both think so too). Mommy was so tired today but in good spirits. I just don't know how much more of this I can put her through by asking her to wait. I already feel guilt for just thinking about that. If I'm afraid of not being here when it happens, why am I telling myself I don't want to be there when it happens? It doesn't make sense. I still don't know if I should go...
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Even older email...
From 10/19/09...
I wanted to just let you know a little more about our visit with my mom from yesterday because it was so positive. My dad and I went in there honestly just hoping for her to be peaceful and comfortable. When we went in, she was waking from sleep and was so peaceful and comfortable--so we were happy already! (Compared to the agonizing night she went into the hospital when she was just not Judy AT ALL.) From there, things only got better. She showed definite signs of recognition of both me and my dad. Any time my dad leaned over her, she puckered her lips for a kiss from him. She reached to my face and touched it and pulled it to her. She reached out to hold our hands. She was still also doing weird stuff like playing with the sheets and trying to pull off the wires attached to her (including an IV she pulled out before we came). I had a little beanie baby and she played with it. She opened her eyes really wide like she always does and smiled really big at us while making eye contact. Her verbalizations were minimal (as opposed to the day before where anytime her eyes were open she was babbling nonsensical statements) but they were mostly meaningful. She responded when the doc asked How are you? With Fine how are you? Responded to I love you with I love you too (she was doing that the day before too but with no eye contact or sign of meaning it). She even added a "Honey" now and then. Apparently frontal lobe injuries affect peoples' personalities so to see this glimmer of Judy was amazing. She also ate 1/3 of a cup of applesauce with no sign of nausea. We are thinking (hoping?) that her frontal lobe injury has also affected her nausea reflex--at least temporarily so maybe she can eat a bunch during this weird time. The amazing part of that was that one thing the doc said might be affected by her injury is her ability to swallow. She chewed and swallowed independently which was more than anyone expected at that point. So all this was good and then the doc came in and gave my dad and me the little boost of hope that we had pretty much lost.
He focused on the fact that a drug they gave her the night before appeared to have stopped the bleeding in the brain (they tested again the night before and found the bleeding/bruise had gotten worse so they gave her this emergency drug--we didn't know about this until we got there and I'm happy about that). They were also giving her plasma to thicken the blood. The scan they did in the morning showed that the bleeding was controlled at that point. Of course they were going to continue monitoring, but we were happy even for a snippet of good news. They are also monitoring for clots in the legs and will install a "filter" if they find any. This doc (an oncologist with John Muir) also emphasized the importance of getting her back on chemo! He told us about some other chemo drugs we might bring up that are easier to absorb because they don't need to be processed by the liver like the Xeloda she had been taking. He seemed actually OPTIMISTIC that chemo treatment for colon cancer can be effective, even after seeing my mother's state. And the last cool thing was that her legs looked like her legs again. Almost no swelling left. She has been peeing like a racehorse for the past week and yesterday she had knees, calves, ankles, and toes that looked like my mother's again. Also, her abdomen is not distended nearly as much. Still a bit, but no longer looking "pregnant" like she did before. We brought this up to the doc and asked if it meant anything good besides the obvious relief from the discomfort she experienced from being so swollen. He explained that it was possible that the chemo she has had has already decreased the tumor on the liver to a point where it is producing the protein that keeps fluid in the veins instead of floating around her legs. It makes sense to us that this is the case given the decrease in edema. She was independently lifting her legs and sitting up in bed (even though she wasn't supposed to, we couldn't help but see it as a good thing!). He told us a number that is a measure of how much cancer is in her and advised us to ask at Kaiser what the original number was. The number was 151 and he said if the original number was 400 or 500 it would indicate the chemo has been "quite effective" so that is something we will definitely be doing. Apparently, even without completing a full cycle, the amount she did have (especially the infusions) could have decreased the liver issue by a lot. Hearing a doc speak optimistically (and based on fact not our wishes) about my mother was refreshing a new to us. My dad and I felt so content, because whatever else comes, at least we had that visit.
So Kaiser is of course trying to get her back there because it is soooooo expensive to them for her to be there. It is up to the neuro-surgeon and no one else as to whether she is ready to go to Kaiser. The oncologist thought it might be today so we are waiting to hear. I will try to let everyone know if that is the case. It will still be a while before she is ready to talk to people, especially if they keep her in the ICU (which is amazing--the nurses are amazing there). In fact, the nurse was so grateful we came because she got to actually meet Judy.
So in all of this, whatever else comes, as it always does, at least we got to see mommy a bit in there and hear a doc speak with optimism about the cancer. We are not out of these woods yet (not for a long time) but maybe we have found a sunny meadow to rest in...
I wanted to just let you know a little more about our visit with my mom from yesterday because it was so positive. My dad and I went in there honestly just hoping for her to be peaceful and comfortable. When we went in, she was waking from sleep and was so peaceful and comfortable--so we were happy already! (Compared to the agonizing night she went into the hospital when she was just not Judy AT ALL.) From there, things only got better. She showed definite signs of recognition of both me and my dad. Any time my dad leaned over her, she puckered her lips for a kiss from him. She reached to my face and touched it and pulled it to her. She reached out to hold our hands. She was still also doing weird stuff like playing with the sheets and trying to pull off the wires attached to her (including an IV she pulled out before we came). I had a little beanie baby and she played with it. She opened her eyes really wide like she always does and smiled really big at us while making eye contact. Her verbalizations were minimal (as opposed to the day before where anytime her eyes were open she was babbling nonsensical statements) but they were mostly meaningful. She responded when the doc asked How are you? With Fine how are you? Responded to I love you with I love you too (she was doing that the day before too but with no eye contact or sign of meaning it). She even added a "Honey" now and then. Apparently frontal lobe injuries affect peoples' personalities so to see this glimmer of Judy was amazing. She also ate 1/3 of a cup of applesauce with no sign of nausea. We are thinking (hoping?) that her frontal lobe injury has also affected her nausea reflex--at least temporarily so maybe she can eat a bunch during this weird time. The amazing part of that was that one thing the doc said might be affected by her injury is her ability to swallow. She chewed and swallowed independently which was more than anyone expected at that point. So all this was good and then the doc came in and gave my dad and me the little boost of hope that we had pretty much lost.
He focused on the fact that a drug they gave her the night before appeared to have stopped the bleeding in the brain (they tested again the night before and found the bleeding/bruise had gotten worse so they gave her this emergency drug--we didn't know about this until we got there and I'm happy about that). They were also giving her plasma to thicken the blood. The scan they did in the morning showed that the bleeding was controlled at that point. Of course they were going to continue monitoring, but we were happy even for a snippet of good news. They are also monitoring for clots in the legs and will install a "filter" if they find any. This doc (an oncologist with John Muir) also emphasized the importance of getting her back on chemo! He told us about some other chemo drugs we might bring up that are easier to absorb because they don't need to be processed by the liver like the Xeloda she had been taking. He seemed actually OPTIMISTIC that chemo treatment for colon cancer can be effective, even after seeing my mother's state. And the last cool thing was that her legs looked like her legs again. Almost no swelling left. She has been peeing like a racehorse for the past week and yesterday she had knees, calves, ankles, and toes that looked like my mother's again. Also, her abdomen is not distended nearly as much. Still a bit, but no longer looking "pregnant" like she did before. We brought this up to the doc and asked if it meant anything good besides the obvious relief from the discomfort she experienced from being so swollen. He explained that it was possible that the chemo she has had has already decreased the tumor on the liver to a point where it is producing the protein that keeps fluid in the veins instead of floating around her legs. It makes sense to us that this is the case given the decrease in edema. She was independently lifting her legs and sitting up in bed (even though she wasn't supposed to, we couldn't help but see it as a good thing!). He told us a number that is a measure of how much cancer is in her and advised us to ask at Kaiser what the original number was. The number was 151 and he said if the original number was 400 or 500 it would indicate the chemo has been "quite effective" so that is something we will definitely be doing. Apparently, even without completing a full cycle, the amount she did have (especially the infusions) could have decreased the liver issue by a lot. Hearing a doc speak optimistically (and based on fact not our wishes) about my mother was refreshing a new to us. My dad and I felt so content, because whatever else comes, at least we had that visit.
So Kaiser is of course trying to get her back there because it is soooooo expensive to them for her to be there. It is up to the neuro-surgeon and no one else as to whether she is ready to go to Kaiser. The oncologist thought it might be today so we are waiting to hear. I will try to let everyone know if that is the case. It will still be a while before she is ready to talk to people, especially if they keep her in the ICU (which is amazing--the nurses are amazing there). In fact, the nurse was so grateful we came because she got to actually meet Judy.
So in all of this, whatever else comes, as it always does, at least we got to see mommy a bit in there and hear a doc speak with optimism about the cancer. We are not out of these woods yet (not for a long time) but maybe we have found a sunny meadow to rest in...
Older email...
From 10/20/09...
After a brief stay at John Muir and a scare of fluid in the lungs, my mom is safe and sound at Kaiser Antioch (they were the nearest Kaiser with a room available). She is in the cardiac monitoring unit because of her lungs but she is comfortable and well cared-for. She will not have calls or visitors for a while but know she loves you all and appreciates all your prayers and love!
I'm not sure how much you all know about how she ended up back in the hospital, so in a nutshell, she fell and hit her head on Friday and has a contusion on her brain (frontal lobe). The fluid in the lungs is a serious complication (and side-effect of the brain issue and its treatment) but she has begun breathing much better now and is increasingly responsive. The contusion is on her frontal lobe which controls her personality, but it is definitely my mother looking at and communicating with us, just not a lot of talking at the moment. For a "normal" person, a contusion would heal and typical mental functioning would be restored. Given my mother's obvious multiple issues, it's difficult to say what her "recovery" will be like at this point. We are grateful she is comfortable and cared-for and take each moment of improvement as just that, a moment of happiness. I will try to keep everyone posted--please forgive me if there have been holes--I'm not sure who I send things to sometimes...it's sort of like walking around in a swimming pool right now.
After a brief stay at John Muir and a scare of fluid in the lungs, my mom is safe and sound at Kaiser Antioch (they were the nearest Kaiser with a room available). She is in the cardiac monitoring unit because of her lungs but she is comfortable and well cared-for. She will not have calls or visitors for a while but know she loves you all and appreciates all your prayers and love!
I'm not sure how much you all know about how she ended up back in the hospital, so in a nutshell, she fell and hit her head on Friday and has a contusion on her brain (frontal lobe). The fluid in the lungs is a serious complication (and side-effect of the brain issue and its treatment) but she has begun breathing much better now and is increasingly responsive. The contusion is on her frontal lobe which controls her personality, but it is definitely my mother looking at and communicating with us, just not a lot of talking at the moment. For a "normal" person, a contusion would heal and typical mental functioning would be restored. Given my mother's obvious multiple issues, it's difficult to say what her "recovery" will be like at this point. We are grateful she is comfortable and cared-for and take each moment of improvement as just that, a moment of happiness. I will try to keep everyone posted--please forgive me if there have been holes--I'm not sure who I send things to sometimes...it's sort of like walking around in a swimming pool right now.
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