Chester was a Wild Horse--Remembering Repetition

When I was a pre-schooler, I very clearly remember the "I Can Read" book about Chester, the Wild Horse.  I loved that story and pretty much learned to read just by learning it by rote. Forty-five years late, I can still tell you that the beginning of the story is "Chester was a wild horse. He lived out west with the other wild horses."  How many times did my mother have to read me that story? Countless, I'm certain. She can still recite those opening lines as well. So as she struggles with the exhaustion born of the cancer and the mild confusion that comes from her dosage of pain killers and anti-anxiety medication, she easily becomes confused by recalling such mundane details as the day of the week. My response has been consistent--today is Sunday. Today I went to church because today is Sunday. Today there was no mail delivery because today is Sunday. Today is Sunday. Tomorrow her hospice nurse will be here because he always comes on Monday, the day after Sunday. Tomorrow I will be going to work in the morning, because I always go to work on Monday morning. I will go because the day after Sunday (which is today, today is Sunday) is Monday and I go to work the day after Sunday.

Living with my mother is bittersweet. Cleaning her home--doing the things she no longer is able--reminds me of all the times I was a teenager not wanting to clean my room or pick up my clothes. Being fully responsible for the meal planning, purchasing, preparation and clean-up is a far cry from helping her with these chores...whether as a teenager because she was a working mother or at holiday times because she was such a gracious hostess. The weight of responsibility is different than when I was raising my children. They were healthy, thank God, and meals were taken for granted. Now I watch my mom and wonder how much of what I have prepared is being gobbled by the  menacing cancer cells and not feeding healthy tissue. That her appetite is back and she is no longer losing weight at a phenomenal rate is a blessed relief, but for how long will this be the case?

She apologizes for her lapses in judgement, her confusion, her tendency to lash out at those who would offer assistance when all she wants is to be healthy and whole. All she wants is to be able to get up off the couch as easily and without thought or effort as any other adult. All she wants to do is to be able to open a bottle of wine and pour herself a glass without threat of falling or someone asking if she can have the wine or if it interferes with her medication. My response is repetitious. This is not you, Mom. This is the cancer. I love you. I will always love you. I hate the cancer. I hate what it is doing. You are NOT the cancer. How many times will say this in the future? Probably infinity amount, as many small children like to say.

Tomorrow is Monday. Tomorrow the hospice nurse will be here. Tomorrow Debbie, the home companion will be here. I will be at work. I will come back to my mother's home, and I will remind my mother that it is Monday and Debbie is not her enemy. I will remind myself that the enemy is cancer, but I will not allow the cancer to destroy my relationship with my mother.