Turbo Cancer: Day 166 - November 24, 2022
The Patch
On this day, last year, I wrote:
They started my mom on the Fentanyl patch yesterday. It takes 24 to 48 hours to kick in. Maybe today, there will be some relief.
My mom has turbo cancer. It is moving and changing too fast. The doctors haven’t been able to keep up. This cancer had been unbearable since day one, and it grows bigger and becomes more painful every day.
It is wildfire.
I pray that this drug, which is an evil in our society, also has the potential for good. I pray that it will provide peace.
My mom had been administered her first Fentanyl patch. I was surprised by how small it was. It was a tiny, clear plastic rectangle that adhered to the skin. In tiny, barely readable letter, the word Fentanyl was printed on the plastic, along with the dose. The drug would soak through the skin and into my mom’s bloodstream. It would then travel to her brain. We were told that, within forty-eight hours, the drug would become effective, and my mom’s brain would forget all about her pain.
We were waiting for it to start working.
Because she had been started on the Fentanyl patch, my mom was forced to stay at the hospital for an additional twenty-four hours. We were told that this was necessary, because there was the potential for an adverse reaction to the medicine. Some of the known side effects were hallucinations, severe nausea, dizziness, diarrhea, agitation, restlessness, respiratory depression, and death.
For the hospital staff, monitoring meant hooking my mom up to a machine that would beep if her heart or her breathing slowed down. We were told that, if she were in distress, the machine would alert a staff member, who would then revive her, using Narcan.
To me, monitoring my mom meant being in the room with her, anxiously watching her chest rise and fall.
As I sat, wondering what this drug might do to my mom, I thought about Steven, alone in a bathroom, with nobody coming to help. I wondered if he had been scared or if he had been at peace.
I worried about what might happen at night, after I was sent home. If my mom’s machine started to beep, would anybody come? Would they help her, or would they just leave her alone?
It was Thanksgiving day.
The hospital was allowing only two visitors at a time. We took turns.
Throughout the day, pairs of grandkids stopped by. While they were there, I wandered the halls of the hospital. When they left, I returned to my mom.
My mom got bursts of energy when the kids came in. Between visits, she was tired.
I was terrified of that tiny patch. I asked God if it had been the right choice. I prayed that, for my mom, it would be a source of relief. I didn’t want her to suffer any more.
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Your smile there is beautiful, like hers.
Your bravery is admired, Thanksgiving Day, how Satan has affected this one family on such a beautiful day.