copyright 2017 Chris Smith All rights reserved.
"My love for you...was never a chain."
First thing on the schedule was getting up and getting ready for a visit to the Doc's. It would be the three of us again, finally.
I peeked my head in the bathroom.
"How was it?"
"I was up a lot with Mom almost all night. She kept throwing up," Dad said.
"How awful," I said.
"Yeah. I'm exhausted," Dad said.
"And poor Mom. Well, hopefully the Doc can figure out what's going on," I said.
"I hope so," Dad said.
But first, it was time to get the juice going. We were condemned to a Groundhog Day movie at the rate we were going. I was tired of it. I was tired of all of it.
Once juice was down, clean-up, and everyone dressed we were off. We pulled up to the Doc's and Dad went inside to find out what the timing for us was getting into an exam room and to get the wheelchair for Mom. I stayed in the car keeping Mom company and making sure she was okay. Dad came back out and we loaded up Mom into the wheelchair and rolled into an exam room.
The Doc went through and tested Mom first. He used Dad as a surrogate tester because Mom was too weak to be energy tested directly. He said Mom's liver was throwing off toxins and that was coming out through the bile. He also picked up viral in her gallbladder, liver, stomach, spleen and maybe even her pancreas. He told us to do a special juice for her, with pineapple, apples, carrots, celery, papaya, and avocado. But no greens. She couldn't have any kale, collard greens, cabbage, or lettuce right now. Then he showed me what points on her body needed be tapped to help the energy flow better through her meridians.
He went through and checked me out and my kidneys came up with fear.
"When you think of fear and your Mom, happening now, what comes up?" the Doc asked.
"That she's gonna fucking die on me," I said.
Then the tears came. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop what was coming for us. She didn't love us enough to stay. She wasn't strong enough to want to fight anymore. And what scared me most of all, was maybe she had no fight left in her. I stood there, completely unraveled. It was too much to hold in.
The Doc was in front of me, watching. He grabbed some tissues and handed them over.
What could he say?
There was nothing to say. We weren't living in some fairy tale where everyone rides off into the sunset and lives happily ever after. And we both knew it.
"Okay. Hold your forehead and put your hand here. Turn around and think of that," he said while he moved the roller up and down my spine.
"Think of it," he said.
So I did.
"Think of it. And breathe," he said.
So I breathed and bawled my fucking eyes out. There was no where else to go but stand in it and feel all there was to feel. And then let it go with each exhale.
My stomach came up next and then my adrenals with different emotions. I repeated the process for each emotion, thinking of it, holding my forehead and the corresponding organ, while the Doc moved the roller up and down my spine.
He was going to do everything he could for us, come what may. I think he knew what was coming. I think he already sensed it. But he didn't say it. None of us did. Because there was still hope. There would always be hope until she was six feet under.
After the Doc's we came back home to meet Mom's Hospice nurse, Lucy. The woman was a tank commander, to be sure. She was five feet two inches, on a good day. She sized us up, and found our program for Mom, wanting.
"What medication is she taking," Lucy asked.
Here we go. We should hand out fucking cards, explaining to all the pharmaceutical medicine fanatics, that going "ALL IN" on the meds available was not the way to go.
I wanted to tell her, "Look lady. We know you know more than us in certain areas. But you don't know it all. And this ain't our first rodeo. Okay?"
But I kept my mouth shut and watched her. I treated most medical people these days with the sixty foot rule. You stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine. Also, WE AIN'T SHOVING A BUNCH OF MEDS INTO MY MOM SO YOU CAN FEEL BETTER AND CHECK IT OFF YOUR MOTHERFUCKING LIST. K.
We didn't have a lot of lines. But we had a few that were hard rules. We drew them on behalf of Mom since she couldn't speak for herself. We drew them in the name of love and we weren't budging.
"She's not taking any medication," Dad replied.
"Well, I brought the emergency prescriptions you can take down your pharmacy and have filled. These are the things to always on hand in case you need them," Lucy said.
It was probably going to be a billion to one before we used any of those. But, whatever you need to do to feel better, by all means.
"Okay," Dad said.
Lucy went through and checked Mom's vitals and then took a look at her body and her skin, checking for sores or wounds. Mom had a few bruises from the recent hospital. But all and all she was doing good. Well, she was now much more underweight since she came home from the Hospital and throwing up a lot.
Lucy left after a few hours with us. I'm sure she was thorough in her assessment of us and our lacking. I have no doubts there were quite a few notes to put in our file. But whatever. She was only coming once or twice a week or so. She wasn't the one here on the front lines dealing with the old battle axe, day in and day out.
Dad opened up a letter from the state's medical program.
"They say they'll pay all Mom's expenses since August 1!" Dad said.
"Really? Wow! How fucking awesome is that," I said.
"Do you know what a weight that takes off my shoulders?!" Dad asked.
"Yeah, I do. That's wonderful they're doing that for us," I said.
It was a great victory since none of us were generating any income, and Mom's health issues had added more expenses to our normal living costs. The reality was we were barely squeaking by financially these days. It was amazing we were able to keep the lights on.
Blood Pressure 118/78
Juice Day 76 (morning)
3 leaves collard greens
4 leaves napa cabbage
3 leaves red leaf lettuce
Mom's New Juice (evening)
1 ½ stalks celery
YOU ARE READING
A HARD RUN INTO HELL Book 4 (EDITING) is the juice worth the squeeze seriesNon-Fiction
I was standing in Hell, burning. I looked over to see my Dad, standing right next to me. He was burning too. We had brought my Mom home from the hospital and care facility, after being diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer and decided not to do chemo, ag...