Searching for Answers

 

Once Mom’s motley combination of khaki-colored duffle bags and hard-backed Samsonite luggage landed in our second floor guest room, it felt like we had upended her life completely.  Coming to live with us meant her accepting a lot of “No!”: No living in her own house. No enjoying a relaxed retirement. No tending to flowers in her beautiful garden.  And no regular visits with relatives and friends. Instead, in just the first month of her arrival, a nonstop schedule of appointments had dominated most of Mom’s mornings and afternoons.  And those appointments meant she had to endure a barrage of doctor-authorized poking and proddings:

X-rays, CT scans, surgeon appointment, mammogram, lab tests, internist visit, physical exam; pre-surgery fast; surgery; cancelled surgery; Vitamin K injection; second round of pre-surgery testing, pre-surgery fast, regular phone consults with doctors and finally surgery.

A growth that couldn’t be ignored, a grapefruit-sized mass inside Mom’s abdomen made all the jabbing, jostling and frenetic pace of those early weeks necessary.  She had to endure relentless, throbbing and occasionally spasmotic pain. It meant that even small, reflexive movements—pulling a shirt over her head, sliding into her elastic-waist slacks, or the back and forth motions of soap and a wash cloth—hurt like hell.  To complete any one of those seemingly ordinary movements of everyday life, required that Mom first steel herself against sharp, bone-crushing pain.  And the medicine prescribed to relieve it?  Tylenol with codeine: as effective as an aspirin for a root canal.

And then there was the surgery itself. Plucking the tumor from Mom’s abdomen would mean additional stress on her heart, stress that compromised her heart’s viability. She’d already experienced a massive heart attack four years earlier.  How could going under the knife a second time be anything but folly? Just how touch and go her life had been back then was evident in an 11th hour phone call from the hospital.  I was staying near the hospital in downtown Charlotte, North Carolina.

“M’am, your mother’s vital signs aren’t good,” was the understatement I heard from a hospital staffer.  “We think you should come right away.”  “I’m leaving right now,” I told her simply, too stunned to say anything else.

I paused a moment, trying to comprehend the news, but panic had begun to set in.  Would the hospital try to reach me moments after I left the hotel room? Gathering up our four month old baby and a diaper bag, I raced out of the hotel room. Was I going to have time to say goodbye?

The Mom of Resourcefulness

         My mother not only used resourcefulness to sew my wardrobe, she applied it to our modest living space.  Early on, creating a homey, comfortable environment for her family became a high priority.  Given our scarcity of living space—just six small rooms and a bath for a family of seven--and limited finances, trying to transform our home into something special must have posed considerable challenges, but Mom seemed undaunted.  She found a store that had deeply discounted drapery fabric so she could make curtains for the windows in the living room, dining room and den.  When she discovered a curio cabinet that looked irredeemable at a used furniture store, she got to work refurbishing it, scraping off the shabby, worn finish and replacing it with a new coat of varnish.  Seemingly undeterred by a limited budget, Mom even convinced our landlord to forgo our rent for a few months.  In exchange, we agreed to perform minor renovation of the second floor.  Mom, my brothers, my father and I all pitched in, clearing off wallpaper and plastering joints.  The bright, newly sewn multicolored fabric curtains hung in majestic brilliance.

         Just being with Mom back then felt special and being included in her projects magnified my admiration of her creativity and energy.  I never knew what to expect from her creativity. On one occasion, she spied an abandoned steamer trunk on a neighbor’s tree lawn.

         “Children, I want that trunk,” she told us, "because I’ve got an idea.”  My brothers and I soon hoisted it up the staircase to the second floor.  We then proceeded to clean it out, scraping the paper thin lining away wherever we could.  Before long, under Mom’s direction, we were cutting pictures from magazines and creating a beautiful decoupaged storage container for books and my father’s back issues of National Geographic magazine.

            On other occasions, I’d simply assist her, standing or sitting beside her in the kitchen, making a pound cake from scratch, preparing layer after layer of baked macaroni and cheese, creating neat stitches in a newly sewn garment, or mixing up a batch of cookie cutter Christmas tree decorations (straight from directions on the side of the Arm & Hammer baking soda box.)  And during these times, it felt like only the two of us existed.  I had what every girl probably wants from the mother she loves—approval and a chance to have her all to myself.

It Started in Cleveland, Part 1

           I must have been eleven or twelve years old living with my parents and four brothers at home in Cleveland, when I first remember Mom at a sewing machine. She was hunched over an ancient Singer, that sat atop our chestnut colored cherrywood dining room table. The machine, painted black had bright floral designs of red and blue scattered along its sides. Mom would be there for hours, her eyes deep in concentration, as she pressed a black foot pedal, which sent it whirring at laser speed. Mom sewed a lot for me then in the late sixties, when sensible A-line and Empire-waisted dresses were in fashion. She seemed to approach her projects with an artisan’s zeal, making certain that each garment had uniform, even stitching.  Whenever Mom compared the quality of store-bought clothing to the ones made at home, the store-bought items usually came up short.

           "Humph!," she'd sniff after rifling through racks of clothing in the children's department at the local Sears and Roebuck. "The plaids don't even match!"
           Most of the time, she waited until evening, after my brothers and I had headed off to bed to begin her projects.  Listening to the radio as she sewed well into the wee hours of the morning, Mom's handiwork was always extraordinary.

           One particularly successful creation made my six year old self sparkle on my first day of kindergarten. It demonstrated a masterful stroke of the sewing needle.  The two-piece outfit consisted of a white cotton dress with puffed sleeves and a deep collar, while a blue and white gingham pinafore served as an overlay. I felt like a princess. But the real tour de force was the hand-embroidered bumblebee practically buzzing on the front pocket. Then in 6^th grade, when she learned that I’d won a school essay contest, Mom quickly constructed an elegant gray double knit Empire waist dress with a white lace collar and antique buttons. Sewing inspired her creativity, but it also ended up offering a way to teach me money-saving ideas. 

            “If you learn to sew, Heather,” she’d say, “if you do that, you can create a one-of-a-kind outfit, and you’ll save lots of money.”  Her eyes brightened with excitement at the possibilities.  “Then with the money you’ve saved, you can go ahead and use it for something else you want.”

            With five children, and Dad’s meager salary as a self-employed cement contractor in summer, and a Yellow Cab driver in winter, Mom recognized the benefits of thrift and smart budgeting early in their marriage.  And she tried to pass along each insight.  She knew about the value of recycling, long before it became a household word. After I returned home from junior high school one fall afternoon, the recycling notion became clear to me, too.

            “Look at this!,” Mom said excitedly, as her hand reached into a plain brown shopping bag, and pulled out a simple garment.  The black velveteen dress had a look of elegance about it, though it was much too big for either of us.  She’d just been to a local thrift shop.

            “We can take this and make something for you to wear,” she added.   She looked pleased with the purchase, her face beaming.  I wanted to understand, but I didn’t really get it.  I didn’t know what she wanted me to see.  It was just an old dress, wasn’t it?

            Apparently recognizing just how dense a 13 year old could be, she demonstrated.  Her arms extended the length of the dress as she spoke.  “Let’s take one of your jumper patterns and place the front and back pieces on the largest sections of this outfit,” she said.  We’ll have to make a seam in front, but that can be covered with a colorful braid trim.”  She was incredible.  Devouring ideas from thrift store back issues of magazines like Woman’s Day and Family Circle, columns in either The Cleveland Press or The Plain Dealer, one of our two daily newspapers, and her own imagination, Mom made magic. 

In Search of Spring

              
       

            Nearly two weeks after Mom agreed to come to live with us, Washington, DC did its best impression of a spring day.  The sun’s strong rays seemed desperate to erase reminders of unwelcome winter frost.  But it was still March, so even by afternoon the air still felt cold and windy.

            With Baby Heather, 22 months and four year old Taylor in tow, as well as the ubiquitous child travel paraphernalia (bottles, diapers, Uneeda biscuits, wipes, snacks), the three of us left home in our green Taurus wagon headed to National airport, about 7 miles south of the city. We'd made our way through a serpentine concourse leading to the US Airways terminal, when the children finally spotted Mom. Clad in a teal blue, patch pocket winter coat we’d given her for Christmas, Mom looked haggard as she stood stiffly on a cement platform in front of the airline doorway.  By then, the children's gleeful shrieks of excitement burst forth as I rolled down the windows halfway.  They couldn’t wait to get to their Grandma, the woman who would soon smother them in hugs and kisses and offer a rainbow of fruit flavored lollipops and Hershey miniatures.

            After their joyous reunion, hugging, laughter, and more shrieking, I headed to the passenger side of the car to help Mom in.  I kissed her on the cheek, and clicked her strap, recognizing that she flinched in discomfort as the safety belt applied pressure to her stomach where the tumor lived. Sitting next to her, part of me I relaxed.  Finally she was here! Now we could get her the medical treatment she needed. But relaxed wasn't all I felt.  Apprehension was there, too.  How would our family adjust to living together as five, instead of four? 

The last time I lived with Mom, I was just a shy teenager, eager to please my parents and feeling torn when they played out their marital friction.  I glanced at my watch.  Less than an hour from now, Mom had a scheduled appointment with my gynecologist.  We were short on time. No time to fret about what might happen.

           As we traveled to the doctor's office, I could already tell that Mom's condition had worsened in the six weeks since we’d last seen her.  She looked exhausted, the stress lines in her face very pronounced.  Even more troubling though, was the way she carried herself.  To ease the discomfort she felt (severe pressure and pain on her abdomen), Mom was bending forward from the waist.  Although the movement itself was quite small, I could tell that each one prompted bouts of deep, agonizing pain.

            This stark change in her physical appearance, especially overt signs of distress, triggered my own unease.  Reminded of the facile reassurances offered by the walk-in clinic doctor, I felt a sudden, intense surge of anger, too.  “Your mother’s tumor is benign.  She has nothing to worry about…”  Benign?  Was there anything benign about persistent, throbbing abdominal pain?

            Bustling early Friday afternoon traffic near the doctor’s office temporarily distracted me and I began an intense search for parking.  Finding no available (legal) spaces on 19^th Street, I opted for a parking lot just two doors down from the doctor’s office.

            After unloading an oversized double stroller from the trunk of the Taurus wagon, I bundled the children into their snug winter gear.  A pale pink, fleecy hooded snowsuit for Baby Heather, and  bright royal blue coat and striped cap for Taylor. My multi-pocketed shoulder strapped diaper bag slid over my left shoulder, while I plunked ziplock bags of the children's snacks into baskets underneath the stroller.  I tossed in Thomas the Tank Engine Stories and The Little Red Hen books for good measure. Once I lifted each child into the front and back seats of the oversized buggy and strapped them in, I pressed my foot to engage the stroller’s break pedals.  That would keep the children stationary while I assisted Mom.

            At the front passenger side of the car, I offered my arm to help her get out of the car.  The abdominal pain added to the rigidity of her already stiff extremities—extremities stiffened by age and infirmity, so it turned out that easing her out of the car was totally out of the question.  In the end, Mom gasped in pain as I hoisted her out in a clumsy, unwieldy fashion.

            Handing the car keys to an impatient garage attendant (our final departure from the car must have taken at least ten minutes—nine minutes longer than he was probably used to waiting), we began our slow, uneven path to our destination.  As we neared the entrance door at the doctor’s office, I began to feel deep relief again.  Today we might get what we all wanted:  reassurances that Mom would be okay.

            Ascending the wheelchair ramp, I stepped with surefooted confidence.  And when we reached the entrance, I felt even more hopeful.  I pressed a black button in the elevator and waited for it to reach our floor.

            But then, once I opened the office door, absorbed a whiff of rubbing alcohol, detected the canned, emotionless sound of Muzak, and looked into the faces of strangers in the waiting room, I was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding. Every bit of the confidence I’d had only moments before slipped away.

 

            

Telephone

A few days after the conversation with Tom,  about how to deal with the news about Mom, I was on our bed, lying down on top of the maroon, beige and brown log cabin quilt that I’d found on a visit to see Tom’s Aunt Marie. Aunt Marie was one of the smartest and warmest of Tom's relatives and she lived in Pennsylvania Dutch country. I was admiring the handiwork of the Amish craftswomen who sewed the quilt, because they produced neat, uniform stitches around each square and rectangular piece of fabric.  The stitches reminded me of the early sewing lessons I got from Mom. It was slow going, but after awhile I got pretty good at it, making simple dresses and pants for years, until I was out of college. I held the phone in my left hand, while I tried tucking my feet underneath a few throw pillows. Mom was on the other end, giving me an update on her health. Midway through the call, Tom who had been putting the kids to bed for a nap heard my voice. He opened the bedroom door and came in, motioning to me.

“Let me speak to her, okay?” he whispered, sliding onto the bed beside me.

I nodded. “Mom, Tom wants to talk to you, okay?” I said, and then handed him the receiver.

“Hi, Doris,” he said warmly. “How are you feeling?”

“Not so good today, Tom,” Mom told him. She was still experiencing painful symptoms from the tumor.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom responded.  He paused for a second or two as if to prepare himself for the second part of the call.

“Listen, Doris. Heather and I have thought a lot about this. We want you to come here to Washington to find out what’s causing the pain you’re experiencing. That way, you can meet with some doctors we know and stay with us during any treatments you might need to have.”

I couldn’t hear what she was saying, so a few seconds later, I tapped his arm.

“What did she say?,” I whispered.

Tom just looked at me and shrugged. The two of us pressed our backs into the pillows against the solid wood headboard.

“Oh, okay Tom,” she said finally, in a small, quiet voice. “If you and Heather think that’s best…”

“We think it is.”

“Okay, I’ll get myself ready then,” she said. And that was that.

The stars must have all been in alignment because when I called the next morning, to my gynecologist agreed to schedule Mom for an appointment.

The only task left to do was transportation: getting Mom from Charlotte to DC. I couldn’t figure out the timing for a return airline ticket. My mind raced. What treatments would Mom need? How long would the treatments last? We didn’t know anything and so finally I quit trying and simply booked a return ticket for two months down the road.

Meeting the Doc-in-A-Box

            Over the next few weeks, Mom met with her new clinic doctor, a thirty something transplant whose soft midwestern twang set him apart from the North Carolinians I'd met, most of them in my mother's family. New bits of information we received from him had me feeling optimistic.

            “Your mother’s condition isn’t serious,” he told me confidently.  “The reason she’s been experiencing the bleeding is because of a tumor.”

            I gasped quietly, but he must have heard me anyway, because he hurried to add, “but the tests show that it’s benign.”

            I exhaled. And perspiration that had been forming on my forehead soon evaporated.  This strange doctor was okay. I was starting to like this guy! But before I could uncork any champagne in celebration, I could feel my suspicions growing. Did this stranger who's just met Mom really know what he was talking about? Wasn’t he more accustomed to broken ankles and minor injuries? What did he know about tumors?

As I took off my jacket and slid into my clogs, I began debriefing my husband Tom about the conversation I'd had with the clinic doctor. He sat patiently in the rust colored overstuffed chair in the den as I gave a play-by-play.   He’d already lost both his parents to cancer and tuberculosis before his 35^th birthday and I wanted his take on the situation. I trusted him because he'd had experience with his parents, who had cancer and tuberculosis. Whenever he talked about them, I could tell the experience of loss, more than ten years later, still felt fresh, like open wounds just below the surface. His face became taut and serious, as his eyebrows bunched together.

            “I think you should get a second opinion—maybe Dr. Dowdy?,” Tom suggested. 

            “Good idea,” I said. Dr. Dowdy had been Mom’s cardiologist for four years.  And we were both convinced that Dowdy had single-handedly saved Mom's life.  A massive heart attack had destroyed two-thirds of her heart and almost no one had expected her to survive. Instead, Mom had led a relatively normal life, free of pain.  At least until now.

            When I called him, Dr. Dowdy sounded happy to hear from me and was as gracious as I’d remembered.  A tall, smart, handsome guy with freshly trimmed hair and a smooth Carolinian drawl, Dr. Dowdy had always been kind and forthcoming. And comforting. But when I told him about Mom’s symptoms, his easygoing mood abruptly shifted. 

            “What do I think is going on, given a woman of your mother’s age and condition?” he asked in an ominous-sounding voice.

            “Yes.” 

            “Well, Heather. The truth is, that tumor’s probably not benign,” he answered.  His tone was sober.  “I think we’ve got something to worry about.” 

            Perspiration immediately seeped out of my pores.

            "Then what was that doc-in-a-box talking about? ” Tom said. His deep voice hung heavy with disdain and contempt for the clinic physician whose cheery report had given me hope.

“Dr. Dowdy probably knows your mother’s condition better than anyone,” he added, Glancing over at him, I could see his brain working overtime. He paused before he offered a second suggestion.

            “Why don’t you call Dr. Johnson and ask her whether she’ll take your mother on as a new patient?” he asked.  Dr. Johnson had been my gynecologist for more than ten years.

“We need to get somebody we trust to check out your mother’s condition and find out what to do.”

            I looked at Tom and smiled. Just talking with him calmed me. I shuddered at the thought of life without him. We'd been together for ten years.  Yet, with each passing year, I grew more amazed at my luck in having found him.  He was smart, funny and kind and always willing to talk about the things I felt mattered.

            Often I thought that the most romantic words he’d ever spoken to me weren’t, “I love you, Heather” (although that was certainly high on the list).  Instead, they were what he said when we disagreed:  “Come on, Heather,” he’d coax.  “Let’s talk about it. Tell me what you want.”  The words felt like smooth caresses against my skin. 

Okay, Heather.  Let’s figure out how we can come together on this.  Tell me what you want.

            And now, while Mom’s situation frightened and befuddled me, Tom easily sized up the situation and clarified things in a way I couldn’t manage.  He made sense.  Having Mom in DC, assigned to a doctor we trusted, had the makings of a manageable scenario.  But was Tom really suggesting what I though he was suggesting?  Our family of four now becoming a family of five?  The two of us spent the next 24 hours talking through what it all might mean for all of us. But while we had plenty of questions, there were too few answers.