The thoughts and photography of Susan L Stevenson
Lisa didn’t go home. The seizures are constant now, and she has to be closely monitored so the medication can be administered properly. My brother is disappointed, but is also relieved that she’s being well-cared for. Tonight, the hospital room overflowed with family and friends - offering support to Mike and saying their goodbyes to Lisa, who is - as Mike says - “comfortably numb”. I don’t think it will be too long before God releases her from her pain.
Thank you for your prayers.
I spoke to my brother Mike tonight for quite some time. It was a very emotional conversation at times, and I could feel tears welling up in me throughout our conversation. I am so sorry for what he is facing right now, and I wish I could do something to make things better. It so hard to hear sadness and grief in a loved one’s voice.
As we were ending our phone call, he asked me for the link to my journal. I know that Lisa used to read my journal and keep up with what was going on here in Alaska, as she would email me from time to time. I gave him the link, and a few moments ago he left a comment on the entry I posted on July 15th - when I first asked for prayers for Lisa. Because he left a public comment to that entry, I don’t think he’d mind me sharing it here for all of you who have been praying for Lisa, Mike and their sons.
Sue… Enjoyed our talk at 11:11 tonight. You know what I mean. I don’t want to go to sleep tonight, because when I wake up, I’ll be taking my honey home to die. It hurts just to write it. She fought the good fight for 8 long years, and never gave in. It was, in fact, the doctor who gave in this time, telling us there is nothing more that he can do. Never once did she shy away from any treatments, as devastating and brutal they were. Cancer treatments are still so prehistoric.
The cancer has now spread from her breast to her liver, lungs, brain, bone, and adrenal gland, not to mention whatever other parts of her body that have not been CT scanned, MRIed, poked, or prodded. I’ve been with her at the hospital for the time that she’s spent here this time around, so when I get home, I’ll be sleeping in our bed for the first time, without her.
I remember as a kid, hearing the adults talk about what a “heartache” it was to lose a loved one. I now realize that the heartache is actually a tangible and very real sensation. My heart is actually breaking, and it literally hurts. Thankfully, St. Mary medical center is an awesome hospital, and had a social worker take care of the logistics involved in moving my Honey to our house, to live out her final days. They told me on Sunday that she has a “few weeks” left, but, by the looks of things, and her rapid deterioration, I’d be surprised if she’s still with us this time next week.
Three days ago she was sitting up, eating and laughing with her two nieces from Ocean City, who came up to see her. Now, she can’t eat, has had 2 seizures, and is completely without feeling down her entire right side of her body. The most devastating effect of the brain metastasis though, is that she can no longer communicate her thoughts, because one of the tumors is in her speech center. She can hear and understand, and can think complete thoughts, but can’t put into words what is on her mind. So very frustrating for both of us.
Tonight, the Hospital Clergy came and anointed her with oil, reading her her last rights. I cried like a baby. Its those moments that remind me that this is all too real, and not just a bad dream.I guess her strength, and putting on a good face through all that she’s been through, lulled me into a false sense of normalcy. Her latest condition is a real reality check.
To this point, as late as 5:00 tonight, she was able to drink from a straw, to take the meds in pill form, that weren’t flowing through her chest port(which she’s had to live with for the past 8 years). Now, even that simple ability is gone…No response to the straw being laid against her lips; the same lips that gave tender kisses last week.
Well, its 12:20 AM here, and the big move is tomorrow. Katie and Maggie, our two dogs, haven’t seen “Mommy” in over two weeks. I’m sure there’s going to be lots of licking going on. Katie, our Yorkie, found Lisa’s cancer 8 years ago, sniffing incessantly at her underarm, until she forced Lisa to take a look at the area that Katie found so interesting. That’s when she found the lump.
Katie was also there with Lisa, every second of every day that she was bedridden, after the first round of Adriomycen and Cytoxen, the 2 chemo agents were administered…Chemo agents that are so caustic that the nurses wear two sets of gloves, for fear of getting chemical burns on their skin, from mere contact…so primitive. It literally causes the patient’s eyes to cross, when first administered, like something out of nazi Germany prison camp “medical tests”…There’s got to be a better way. Well, I’ve rambled long enough. Sue, I’ll be looking for that Dove tomorrow, I’m going to need him, Love Brother Mike
My heart is breaking for my brother. I am so sad that Lisa is leaving us. I am so sad that he has to say goodbye to the love of his life. I am so sad that my nephews are losing their mother. It’s just not fair that such a vibrant and young life has been cut short!
11:11 and The Dove:
When Mike mentions 11:11, it’s a reference to the fact that since our mother passed away, and always when I’m missing her the most, I’ll glance at the clock and it will be 11:11 or 1:11. I know it sounds silly, but it happens to me at the strangest times - and always when I’m silently talking to our mother, or wishing I could talk to her. I mentioned this 11:11 thing to Mike tonight. It’s the first time I ever told him about it. That’s when he told me about the dove. It seems that Mike has the same ‘manifestation’ when he’s feeling our dad around him - but in his case, it’s a dove. Spirits? Angels? Perhaps it’s God’s way of providing us comfort? I don’t know why it occurs, but I do know that seeing those numbers brings comfort to my heart. Likewise the dove, to Mike.
