Making It Through

A week or so before my mom’s kidney removal surgery she confided one of her fears with me. It’s something that I think about now often as I lay down to sleep, when thoughts you can push away by daily distractions come rushing forward.

“I don’t want to die with my family hating me.”

The surgery itself frightened us. My mom experienced kidney failure back in December 2017. Then, I noticed a decline in her already sedentary lifestyle; movement in general caused her additional pain, with rest offering no relief. Infections occurred more often too, all raising red flags for us to monitor. Surprisingly enough, it was a common lung screening, that she undergoes for her severe COPD (a lung disease that makes breathing very difficult), that caught something wrong with her kidney. After further blood work and other tests, it was determined that her right kidney was nearly gone — only about 5% of it was functioning. In typical cases, the most obvious solution would be to just have it removed. For my mom, with her lung disease, it was seen as the last resort. Her pulmonary doctor told us several times that surgery, of any kind, would only be approved in life or death situations. Surviving surgery gave us increasingly unfavorable odds, ranking at a 50-50% chance of getting off life support. Finally, we had to face that possibility. 

During the middle of April, my mom got significantly worse. She couldn’t stand or walk on her own; she lost her appetite, or in some instances, couldn’t really keep anything down; using the bathroom was painful. As her state part-time caregiver, I help her with a variety of tasks (including cooking, cleaning, organizing medications, shopping, transportation); during this time, however, I had to step up to help her with everything. Her appearance shriveled and pallored; discomfort stripped much of the life out of her. When I locked eyes with her, I swam in an ocean struck with a thunderous clash of hurt, fear, agony. After a bit of time, I developed anxiety towards being away from her while at my other job, to the point where I asked my boss permission to keep my phone on me. No longer could we ignore the signs. I took my mom to an urgent care close to home. The staff there was friendly enough but didn’t do much for us except recommend that we schedule a follow-up appointment with her primary doctor the next day. Mom looked the worst she ever had that morning; she didn’t want to go, but I persuaded her it was the best thing to do. Once there, everything happened so fast. The doctor on call admitted her to the hospital and ran tests that revealed another bad kidney infection. She was squeezed in for an emergency stent procedure — the third one in such a short time-span. We had to wait several hours for the surgeon to return to the hospital, for he had just ended his shift and was heading home. 

I waited for her in the family lobby, trying to piece together all the events leading to this. Such a haze of emotions. It took longer than expected, however the procedure went very well. Once she recovered and was in a room, the doctor informed us that her kidney was about 10-20 times larger than it should, close to erupting with infection, and if we had simply waited another day — as my mom asked me to do that very morning — she wouldn’t have made it.

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To this day, I’m haunted by that news. My mom is someone who will downplay her troubles in order to be seen as less of a burden. What she must have felt in all that duration is unimaginable to me, and yet, she put on a brave face and hid the pain, almost until it was too late. All because she didn’t want to cause me or anyone else problems. We could have lost her. How am I supposed to process that information? How could she? Shortly after the doctor left the hospital room, I lost the last bit of control I had, breaking down in tears. My already claustrophobic walls drew even closer around me, the tunnel at the end of my road dimming. 

Following this, the head surgeon informed my mom that he didn’t want to risk her life. Rather, he’d prefer her to continue with what we had been doing: just endure infection after infection, needing stent after stent, until, as we later discovered, leading to the damage and failure of her other organs. My mom is a fighter. Having to suffer in that manner, with imminent death, wasn’t an option for her. Quickly we decided on going through with the high-risk surgery, while embarking on the task of getting every legal aspect in order, should the worst happen.

A lot of bumps occurred. In fact, the night before her initial surgery date, a freak accident with one of our cats resulted in an infection from cat bites, postponing her surgery for another six weeks. Her possible death seemed both so close yet so far away for me. Preceding the surgery, I’d find myself experiencing moments of distractions and happiness, and others of crippling anxiety and depression. My own self-care, already at the bottom of my priority list, fell completely off my radar. Any focus on me was buried. I went through most of the motions every single day, not totally present. Honestly, I became more of an empty shell, with zero motivation or desire to fill it. Not much brought joy to my days; I could function, barely, if there weren’t too many periods of silence.

I couldn’t mourn. I couldn’t freak out. I had to be collected and strong. Whatever I felt, I had to attempt pushing down inside of me, all so I could be there for my mom. Being a caregiver requires that. An efficient one, however, learns to create a balanced life, where self-care is just as important, if not more, than your client’s needs and wants. With my own personal issues, balance is something I’m forever striving for and seeking to achieve, despite multiple failures.

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To learn of my mom’s fear hurt my very soul. In the midst of such stress and scares, the last thing I wanted her to be concerned about was her relationship with her family. Most of them live a state away, and due to her past involving drugs, there’s a constant concern of rejection or judgement. Whether it was on purpose or not (I’d like to hope for the latter), my mom and I have felt like the black sheep. It was like no matter how hard we tried, we didn’t quite fit in with them. Mom especially harbored this affliction. Countless days I’d hold her as she cried, expressing wishes of belonging, acceptance, forgiveness, and a chance to prove how much she's changed over the years. Watching her become clean, attempt to regain her life, and then face many hardships — breast cancer, minor stroke, and now kidney failure — it crushed me to witness them turn their backs on her, chiefly emotionally. They couldn’t grasp why she acted the way she did, the habits she developed, the coping mechanisms she utilized. For as long as I can remember, I’ve placed myself in the role of her protector and defender. Whenever she needed a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, someone to stand up for her, I was there. That’s what children do - support our parents when the time comes.

Mommy and I shortly after her surgery

I love her with my whole heart. For all of my loved ones, I do my utmost to always be there as a light for them, endeavoring to be a confidant when life erupts and explodes in lava. It’s funny, really. Those who struggle the most internally are the very ones who work the hardest to lift the load for others. Personally, I lack the foresight to realize my own problems until I’m about to drown. I’d rather spend my time helping them than turn the critical eye upon myself, analyzing and planning steps to save me. My internal voice says I don’t deserve improvement and growth. The twisted lies of depression trick me into believing that I should just accept this all as my truth. It’s easier sometimes to fall into old habits; depression has always been there for me.  Overlooking my family’s history, including my mother’s personal one, battles with darkness have been quite common. I’m left wondering if my trial against it was meant to be, a trait passed on down to me.

Throughout my mom’s term in the hospital and rehab facility, lasting a total of three weeks, I sank deeper and deeper into my depression. I faked strength in the hopes of keeping my mom afloat, her courage crumbling. Pretending takes all of your energy though; I had nothing left for myself. Even when my mom returned home, I just couldn’t find joy in her presence. I felt trapped in the hospital waiting room, nervously awaiting the news of whether or not she made it – suspended in uncertainty. I allowed myself to sink low, feel helpless, with thoughts that dying is the only solution. Everyone would be better off without me; my pain would effortlessly go away. However, in the same train of thought, I realized that I couldn’t do this. If I was gone, who’d be there for my mom? Who’d make sure she had groceries, clean clothes to wear, company when no one else dared to visit her? I know I have people in my life who care, who love me, who’d be hurt by my absence in their lives. Depression simply wants me to believe otherwise.

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As I write this, I am still on that journey of recovery. I want to be happy. I want to be better. I want to help others. I don’t want to die. My horrid monster may always be a part of my life, but I will not let it take away everything from me, as well as those who truly appreciate me. Anyone who is reading this, who’s felt similarly to me — please do not fear speaking out, for seeking assistance, for sharing your story. Your perspective can have such a higher impact than you can ever anticipate. Your light, whether big or small, adds a glow to the earth. I am constantly learning to see that within myself, and it is okay for you to face conflict in the same battle. 

Everything on this gigantic odyssey has served to show me that things really do happen for a reason, often working out in the end. Even if they don’t, they add to your character, somehow making you stronger, wiser, and hopefully still receptive to love and eager to toss it back out into the universe. 

Love is forever the answer to our adversities in life.