but we can adjust the sails."
Author Unknown
It was a time of sunsets, flowers, and rainbows embroidered on denim shirts. I was working on a shirt and was having problems making the tiny balls. I drove to my mother's home to have her show me how to wrap the thread around the needle and pull it through to make the small seeds in my flowers.
At the age of fifty-four, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. In 1969 she had a mastectomy and from then on spent time in Lutheran Hospital and Colorado University Hospital. The operation left her deformed and lopsided. I did not know enough to suggest getting reconstruction surgery and I remember her putting on a bra and stuffing it with cotton to even out her chest.
"What made you suspect there was something wrong," I asked. She told me she looked in the mirror and one of her nipples had disappeared. "It was gone," she said sadly. That was all she said. In those days, people were private and did not discuss anything with their children, even if the children were adults. Or maybe she did not want to burden me with her problems. One day I received a call from my father that my mother was going to the hospital. They were going to remove a breast. My father and I sat in the waiting room for the doctor to come tell us the good or bad news. My guess is that we were both worried, but we kept up a steady chatter of bravery.
The doctor, still in his blue gown, came and said the operation was successful. I remember feeling relief but then he added, "You know, there is a 50-50 chance that we got it all and she will be all right." I felt a tightening in my throat because those odds did not sound good to me. The doctor continued, "If she makes it past five years, it is a good sign we got it all." There was no chemotherapy or radiation for my mother after her surgery and I now wonder why. Maybe she opted not to get further treatment but it was never discussed with me.
My mother came to stay with me during her convalescent time. I watched her as she diligently did the exercises to strengthen her arm but I would hear her moan in pain. One time, as I helped her put on her gown, I saw the scar. It went from her clavicle to her stomach and it was a dark, black scar. It took all my effort to keep from crying and running out of the room. It looked as if someone had butchered her.
When she was better she went home. My mother lived her life quietly. She never told me what she felt. She seemed to be all right. She and my father did everything together and I never heard her complain. Then, after about three years, she developed a cold that turned into a cough and she went to her doctor. His name was Dr. Rodriguez and because he spoke Spanish she could communicate with him. He treated her and it seemed as if she was getting better, but she continued having problems breathing.
Toward the end of summer, my parents decided to take their annual trip to New Mexico to see some of her relatives and then to continue to Juarez, Mexico to purchase my father's stash of Tequila. They left and about four hours later my father called. "Guess where we are now?" he asked. My answer was, "You must be around Walsenburg." "No," he replied, "we're home."
He told me that my mother could not breath and that she said she felt as if she was choking. He was taking her to Dr. Rodriguez. "No, Dad," I said, "that quack has done nothing to help mom. Let me call my doctor and see if he will see her."
My doctor made an appointment for her and immediately got her admitted into Lutheran Hospital where three or four quarts of fluid was removed from her lungs. He also said that he suspected the cancer was now in her lungs. My father would tell me every time he took my mother to get the fluid out of her lungs but what I remember is that my mother seemed fine. She continued fighting for about a year and half. Whether my mother was at home or in the hospital, I would visit her on my lunch hours and after work. To me, she looked fine. Sometimes, she would say she felt tired. "Estoy bien," was her usual response.
In June I took cupcakes and ice cream to the hospital to celebrate my daughter's ninth birthday. I took pictures and I believed we were all happy. The pictures tell a different story. My mother was released from the hospital and went home. This time a large canister of oxygen accompanied her.
On the day I drove over to have her help me with the embroidering of my shirt she picked up my shirt and showed me by doing two tiny seeds before she said, "Ya no puedo." I prepared lunch but she barely touched the food. I coaxed her to eat an ice cream bar but she took two tiny bites and said she didn't want anymore. I called a surgical supply company and ordered a hospital bed and a portable toilet. If she was to be at home, I wanted my mother to be comfortable.
My father, standing by the kitchen window said, "Come and see your flowers. They are beautiful and they are all over the yard." I knew my mother had loved flowers and even when we lived in Greeley, she was always trying to grow flowers. She said, "I'll get up later to see them." She closed her eyes to take a nap and I said, "I gotta go Mom, I'll see you tomorrow." She gave me a weak wave.
Around three in the morning my phone rang. My father was in a panic. "Your mother is not breathing, she is not breathing." I said, "Call 9-1-1 and I'm on my way." When I arrived I saw a gurney with a body being put into an ambulance. Through the ambulance window I could see someone leaning over my mother. I told my father to get in the car and we followed the ambulance. I parked and we ran to the emergency area. Two swinging doors opened, and I saw toes peeking from underneath the sheet. Before I could see the whole body, the gurney was immediately pulled back and the doors swung closed. Was there a tag on one of the toes, or have I seen too many movies? Later, I found out it was my mother but when the nurses saw us, they retreated back into the room so we would not see her. We were told she was DOA. I did not know what DOA meant and I was stunned to find out it meant, dead on arrival. My mother had died all alone.
As my father and I looked back on that night we were full of what if, could of and should of. It took me about five years to be able to talk about my mother without crying. I never finished embroidering the denim shirt.
"Oh, my friend, it's not what
they take away from you that
counts -- it's what you do with
what you have left."
Hubert Humphrey
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