Five Days

Five days ago, I learned that:
- The most painful thing to witness is your favorite person in the world doubled over in pain, whimpering and crying weakly.
- It is easy to ignore your own hunger and fatigue when your mommy is lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a respirator, heart rate monitor, and infusion pump.
- No matter how much time you spend researching medical procedures and learning the jargon, most everything the ER doctors tell you will be confusing and overwhelming.
- Mommy's cancer has spread to three regions of her spine and would have advanced to her spinal cord and paralyzed her if we waited any longer.
- Even if you are exhausted beyond belief, when your sick mommy calls, you'll jump up immediately to sooth her.

Four days ago, I learned that:
- Pain medicine works wonders but only for a few fleeting hours.
- Mommy is so fragile and so small. Her hair smells and feels just like a baby's.
- It's easy to care for someone as sweet and adorable as my little mommy.
- Mommy loves made-up, whimsical stories about me fishing out puppies and fire-breathing baby dinosaurs from a sparkling river and barbeque dinners courtesy of said dinosaur.
- Mommy's vision of heaven is of an immense, blue lake with colorful row boats, towering trees and vibrant green grass.
- Mommy and I have the most amazing and supportive friends who offer prayer, encouragement, and edible and non-edible gifts!

Three days ago, I learned that:
- The pain will be especially debilitating some days, even with the powerful pain meds.
- Mommy would be receiving radiation therapy on her spinal cord, specifically T9(the ninth thoracic vertebra).
- Good-looking male doctors are good-looking, smart, and aplenty in the UCSF hospital.
- Nurses are angels in disguise. Being in the hospital strengthened my desire to pursue a career in nursing.

Two days ago, I learned that;
- Doctors may want to completely stop chemo treatments. We would be transitioning into the pain control, quality of life stage.
- It's hard to tell your mommy that there's a possibility that nothing else can be done treament-wise. All I wanted to do was lie to protect her.
- Mommy's oxygen levels are low enough that she needs to keep a respirator by her bedside at home to help her breathe while she sleeps.
- Heaven is beyond beautiful. The patient we shared the room with died during surgery and described heaven as "more beautiful than you can ever imagine, with colors more vibrant and lively than we've ever seen. And the flowers, oh the flowers! They were each so uniquely and intricately painted." She was sad when they brought her back to life, and told my mom that she was jealous of her.
- Mommy can make everyone smile, even the grumpy nurses.

Yesterday, I learned that:
- I'm so sick of hospitals.
- Mommy is so sick of hospitals.
- Mommy would also need to receive radiation for two other parts of her spine, T2-4 (second to fourth thoracic vertebrae) and the sacral and lumbar regions.
- Mommy can wiggle her left ear.
- Even when she's in extreme pain, we can slowly dance our way to happiness and comfort.

Today, I learned that:
- There really are no more treatment options. Doctors can only make her days on earth more comfortable.
- Mommy is not scared of death. She's excited to go to Heaven.
- I'm scared of losing my precious mommy. I want her with me forever.
- It's hard for me to believe this sometimes, but God is still good.

It's Father's Day, but I'm thinking about my mommy

Mommy is asleep in her massage chair as usual. These two napping hours are the most peaceful of the night. She's been in extreme pain all day, coughing, wheezing, and aching in so many spots on her body that I can't even keep track anymore. This post-dinner nap serves as a tiny break before another agonizing bout. This is the window of time where I can be quiet and pretend that everything is normal. Or not. Tonight, I went on Runnersworld.com and read stories about cancer survivors who have won their battle and have gone on to run many more miles and achieve more personal records. I'd like to say that I found inspiration in these stories and gave thanks to God for giving those cancer patients new life, but this is not true. I am bitter because my mommy, love of my life, will never be fully cured. I am bitter because the cancer continues to take over more and more of her body. I am so bitter and heartbroken.

But I can't cry or scream like I want to, because I don't want to wake her. Once she's up, she'll have to endure the pain again, and my heart will hurt more.

We're ready for that miracle, God.

Mommy was scheduled to start the oral chemo, Tarceva, on the 27th, but we are still waiting to receive the drug. The delay is mainly due to our stupid insurance company taking over a week to approve the drug and then charging $3700 dollars each month for the prescription. These past few weeks, I've been in contact with various copayment assistance organizations and drug companies, and we were finally approved today to receive free Tarceva from Genentech. In the three weeks, mommy's cough has worsened and she has also developed back pain(a 9 out of 10 on the pain scale), either due to the pressure from coughing constantly or from the cancer occupying more area in her lungs. She's also complained of heavyness in her chest. When she coughs now, she bends over in pain with her left hand pressed to her back. I feel so useless seeing her this way, unable to soothe her or to make the pain go away. Two days before my graduation, I am worrying about what to do if my mom needs to go the ER during my ceremony. And what about chapter camp? How can I allow myself to be three hours away from her without phone reception for 6 days?

God, seriously, if you have a miracle planned for mommy, now is the time to reveal it to us.

Date juice

Mommy just walked into my room holding a thermos of hung jo soiy (date juice/water/soup?)which is supposed to fix my poor circulation. My heart nearly exploded with love at the sight of her in her polar bear pajamas with an oversized red hat on her fuzzy, round head. Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to faint or go into cardiac arrest from too much joy. When she smiles at me with her scrunched up, dimpled face, every molecule in my body feels so saturated with overwhelming love, joy, and goodness that I just want to scream or explode! This must be how it feels like to find true love! I am so, so in love with my mommy!

Happy Mother's Day!

From PostSecret

the waiting room is so sterile, so cold
while you nap, i flip through a magazine
hoping to distract myself
from this difficult life
from the devastating news we would be receiving
from your suppressed coughs
suddenly you look up
you place your freckled hands on mine
and say, with utmost confidence
"i'm actually not afraid,
i give it all up to God."

your faith is staggering

and now, as i sit at my kitchen table
trying to make sense of all the bad news we received
"cancer has grown"
"less than 10% chance of working"
"maybe less than 6 months"
i replay that declaration of faith in my head
and my heart aches just a little less

mommy, i want to be just like you.



-Please start praying for tarceva, our last resort. It's known to work miraculously in young, Asian, non-smoking women with adenocarcinoma lung cancer. Mommy fits 4 out of the 5 characteristics, but Dr. Jahan says that not meeting that last requirement (she has squamous cell carcinoma) lowers her chance of responding to this drug to 10 percent. Tarceva is a targeted-cell therapy, which means that it searches for cells with a specific genetic mutation called EGFR. Mommy is negative for this mutation, but there's still a slight possibility that she will respond. This is our last option. We are desperate. Please pray for a miracle. Please ask God to prepare the drug and my mom's body so that there will be a positive response, so that there will be healing. Please ask Him for a miracle. Thank you, thank you, thank you! We really are amazed and blessed by all your love, your support, your prayers! You all are wonderful, the best commmunity we could ask for! Please share your prayer requests with us too so we can pray for you!

Love,
Glenda

A bag of tissues

I woke up this morning in a cheerful mood because for the first time this week, I got a full night's rest. My mom already left the house for a full day of fun in Japantown with her support group buddies, so I allowed myself to imagine that if she were still at home, she would tell me that had gotten a full night of uninterrupted sleep and that her cough was not bothering her so much today. I spent the rest of the morning in a good mood, pretending that things would be better soon, but for some reason, in the middle of watching "Easy A," I decided to walk into her room. My mom always keeps a plastic bag at her bedside to hold the used tissues that she coughs her phlegm into. This was the first thing I set my eyes on, and seeing the bag full knocked me back to reality. I estimated that there were about 100 crumpled tissues in there, which means that she probably woke up 5 or 6 times throughout the night and spent half of her 8 hours in bed laboriously coughing up liquid buildup in her chest. Alone. No one to hold her hand, no one to comfort her. She wouldn't let me sleep beside her because she didn't want to disturb my rest. Now, my heart hurts because I remember that every additional tissue in the bag means that cancer cells have taken over and destroyed another centimeter of my mom's lungs. My heart hurts because there's nothing I can do to help her.

I hope mommy is having a good time in Japantown. I hope she will come home with a bright smile and good news that she did not cough so much today.

Please pray for our appointment with Dr. Jahan this Wednesday. We will be getting out CT scan results and discussing the next treatment option.