Tag Archives: 2017

Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

Dying is for the Young

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I’m not sure how I feel about that title, but we’re going to go with it.

It occurred to me the other day how lucky we are (????) that Brock and I are only 38 and 37 years old, as we deal with his having terminal cancer. Specifically: those of us who will someday die a gradual death, due to aging or a progressive disease, will naturally get weaker and weaker as our bodies slowly fail. For someone as sick as Brock is, even having a conversation or sitting tires him out.

Sometimes he doesn’t have enough energy to swallow water.

Take a moment and think about how tired you’d have to be, to not be able to swallow.

Normally, someone at this stage in their life is in their eighties or older. Their spouse (if they have one) and friends are around the same age, with their own health challenges. Their parents are deceased. Maybe they have some children, or even grandchildren, who aren’t estranged, who live nearby or who are able/willing to relocate, and who have the work/life freedom to be able to take on the role of caregiver.

Brock, being 38, has a healthy, able-bodied wife of 37 to support him all day, every day. He has healthy, able-bodied parents, in-laws, a brother and sister-in-law. His friends are generally between 25-60 years old.

So when Brock needs help getting up from his Lazy Boy, I’m there — either to pull him up, or to carry over the walker that will lever him vertical. I can move his oxygen tanks up and down the stairs, no problem. I can carry a comfortable folding chair for him to use at the farmers’ market, or when we go to the park with Isaac, along with his bag of supplies.

If we need reinforcements, we have our family and friends on stand-by. Easy peasy.

Now consider the 87-year-old childless widower who is in the final stage of his life, who is sometimes too weak to swallow and who lives alone. Who does he have to keep him company? Who will switch over his oxygen source when there’s a power outage in the middle of the night? Who will help him up from his Lazy Boy recliner?

Hooray for Hospice

We did an on-camera interview with local filmmaker Nick Versteeg and Shelley from Cowichan Hospice on Friday. The video will be part of a fundraising campaign to build a proper hospice house with seven rooms for people who are dying and who (for whatever reason) can’t or don’t want to die at home or in the hospital. People and their caregivers will be able to stay there through the dying process, getting  the professional health care and support they need without having to be in an institutional, loud, chaotic hospital. Currently, there is only one full-service bed like this in Cowichan.

Victoria has a hospice house. I’ve heard only good things from the families in my support group that have used Victoria Hospice. Brock and I would love to see a similar resource in Cowichan, which is why we agreed to be part of their video project.

Because not everyone has a 37-year-old spouse to take care of them.

I see Brock losing his strength and mobility, and I suspect I’ll only really understand what he’s going through when I’m at that stage myself: with luck, at eighty-something. With luck, Isaac or a grandchild will be there to care for me at home, or I’ll have a hospice house to go to.

And sometimes I feel lucky that, even though I won’t be able to have Brock with me for the next fifty years, I’m able to watch him grow old now. It’s like we’re living one of those magic-realism Hollywood stories, Benjamin Button-style, and his life has been fast-forwarded while mine has stayed real-time. I am grateful that I’m able to help take care of the man I love when he needs me.

(For more information on the Cowichan Hospice House project, click here.)

A Year of Re-Skilling

Post-Partum Depression is (Sometimes) Bullshit

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Post-partum depression is (sometimes) bullshit. I believe this so much that I’m repeating the headline.

I included the “(sometimes)” part because I’m sure that some women really do get clinically depressed after having a baby. I don’t want to devalue their experience: I’m sure it’s legit and very tough, and I’m glad there are resources out there to help these mamas.

That said, I know lots of women who are unhappy after having a baby — downright sad, miserable and gloomy, who might even regret getting knocked up in the first place, and these mamas don’t necessarily have clinical depression. They’re just HUMAN BEINGS who have experienced something traumatic, their life has changed irrevocably, and they continue to be tortured by sleep deprivation, physical trials and natural hormonal imbalances.

Having a baby can be a super shitty experience, from the pregnancy experience to the birth and right on through the child-rearing stages.

I was downright miserable for at least 18 months after Isaac was born. It’s not his fault: he was/is a great kid. I just hated being responsible for a baby.

Actual conversation from 2014:

WELL-MEANING FEMALE COUSIN: “Aw, look at him! You must be loving every minute.”

HEATHER: “Actually, no, this is hell and I’m living a nightmare. The only reason I’m laughing right now is because I’m exhausted.”

I’m naturally a positive, optimistic person and so I thought to myself, “don’t be so gloomy. Focus on the happy moments.” So I designated a “Happiness Jar” and told myself I’d write down every happy moment and put the slip of paper into the jar. I found that jar when we moved two years later: there were three slips of paper inside it. Three happy moments in one year. Yep, that sounds about right.

I was not, at any time, depressed. I’ve been depressed before. I ate Prozac for eight years in my twenties. I understand the kind of depression that motivates self-harm and suicide and self-medication. I was never depressed as a new mom, and so “post-partum depression” does not describe what I felt.

Any human being, even trained soldiers, can crack when sleep deprived. That is why it’s a method of torture.

And yet we tell new mamas they are “sick,” they’re not “normal” new moms, if they aren’t happy caring for their babies. They are labeled with “post-partum depression,” when many of these struggling moms (most of them?) are just human beings in new, very trying circumstances.

I didn’t realize how angry this all made me until my very good friend was told by her doctor that she had post-partum depression. I know depression, and I’ve even seen this friend clinically depressed, and PPD was not the right diagnosis.

This doctor had never had children, so maybe she can be sorta forgiven for her ignorance, but still.

New mamas are vulnerable to judgement. Maybe we’ve never changed a diaper before, or held a newborn, or are just figuring out how to breastfeed. It seems unforgivably cruel to me to then tell this vulnerable new mama that she is not “normal” or healthy because she’s struggling emotionally. That she’s mentally ill with depression.

The one good thing about my friend being “diagnosed” with PPD is that she started to see a counsellor, which I think is almost always a good thing because it helps to talk about stuff. AND, because she had counsellor’s appointments, she got a little break from taking care of her baby. Awesome. About time.

There aren’t many issues in this world that get me angry. But I’m often tempted to take on post-partum depression.

I want a world where it’s okay to say: “Wow, this is really tough. I’m having a hard time with this new mom thing. Babies are so goddamn needy and I’d love to have a shower, drink a hot tea and read a book like a normal person,” and then your doctor would hook you up with a great respite program and book you into the spa. They wouldn’t respond with: “There’s something wrong with you. You’re sick. Most moms don’t feel this way.”

I call bullshit.

Isaac eats cotton candy for the first time.

[Note: Isaac is about to turn four years old. The older he gets, the more I like and LOVE him. I’m finally experiencing that “whole heart” ache of love that some baby moms describe. Motherhood got infinitely better for me after about 18 months, and I hope all mamas who struggle with the baby years find their own groove eventually too.]