It’s been a while. A few important things have transpired over the past several months, or longer; I can’t remember. Health, Mom’s house and belongings, Linda, and my peace of mind. Not necessarily in that order.
My colonoscopy = better than expected. No polyps or signs that things had worsened after finding almost a dozen polyps last year. I'll take it..
New findings = I have fibrosis of the liver, a cyst on my kidney, and one on my pancreas. This and these, I'm guessing, are what is meant by getting older sucks.
The liver doctor says I need to take a new drug that has been shown to prevent further deterioration of the liver scarring and may keep me from progressing to stage 4.
Great.
Then she said, "but the drug is extremely expensive.." Expensive, I thought, is a relative term, so I asked, "so how expensive?" Her response was something like, "thousands.." How many thousands are we talking about here I asked.. Turns out this drug is $4200 per month! OK, well, that actually IS expensive.
On the bright side, Medicare approved coverage for it, and a grant from a foundation that helps people who need seriously expensive medications covered the copay. Wow. I was shocked but pleased.
I've dropped 60 pounds since August 2024 when I began learning of my health problems. My BMI has gone from the obese range to normal today. I go to the gym almost every day now and do cardio and some strength exercises. Turns out at 70 you can't eat like you're 17 anymore. Who knew-
So, there’s that.
About four weeks ago, after seven years of holding on to Mom’s house and everything in it, I decided it was time to begin the process of letting go.
I think my various health issues finally kicked me into gear. After seven years of paying the taxes and insurance, keeping everything clean, mowing the yard, and maintaining the place, it was time.
I would say I am about 97 percent finished now. There are only a few remaining items to clear out, followed by the sale of the house.
That final 3 percent will not be any easier than the first 97 percent. Watching the things Mom loved leave the house and be rehomed has been tough, but she left it all for me to handle because she believed I could get it all done, and I am honoring her faith in me to do so.
Some of the rehoming has been surprisingly heartwarming. Several people have sent me photographs showing what they have done with the things they took and how they are now being used.
I have had to do all of this by myself and, considering the health concerns, the physical work, and the emotional toll it's taken, I think I have held up pretty well. (so far)
I did make the mistake of feeling proud enough of what I had accomplished that I wanted to share my progress with a family member, and true to form, I regret it.
Instead of encouragement to keep pushing through what has been the most difficult experience of my life since Mom passed away, I got "so why are you telling me this," and "you're upsetting me.." etc.
Every time that call crosses my mind, I ask myself: What was I even thinking? Then, headlong into the conversation I had with Mom one time where I was complaining about some of the people I was working with who didn't have the same high standards I did, and Mom explaining to me something I should have already known at that age: that the fastest path to disappointment is expecting others to work the way you do, carry the same standards and so on. 100% right and 100% hard to accept.
Why did I expect even a slight recognition, even from a family member, for managing to survive such a gut-wrenching time in my life? Why did it feel like a gut punch when I know how people are and had the luxury of a mother who had already explained that path to disappointment I was feeling yet again?
Maybe because my experience with almost everyone other than Mom has always been some version of the same discouragement:
"You can't do that. You aren't allowed to go there. You aren't qualified. You don't understand; there's a process. I can't let you. You’re going to fail. It isn't done like this, and what makes you think you can just walk in here and do this?"
I realized the mistake only after I hung up the phone. I was pissed off, but not at the one on the other end, at myself for even attempting to share.
Lesson learned, provided I never make the same mistake again during whatever time I have left.
Then there is my sweet sister, Linda.
I went to see her at the facility where she lives last week. The experience was both the same as usual and very different.
When I walked inside, I looked around and asked where she was. A worker I did not recognize, who must be new, asked, “Which Linda?”
I told her, but she did not seem to know who I was talking about. I finally just said I'll go look for her.
I walked past the large common room and continued down the hallway, and there she was, standing with her back against the wall beside another patient.
She did not seem to recognize me.
I told her that I was her brother, which appeared to confuse her a little. She did not know my name. After I told her, I asked whether we could go into the large room and find a place to sit.
We did.
Once we sat down, she became more talkative than I had ever seen her in that facility. I could see the Linda I've always known in her reactions and in the conversation we were having.
She looked at another patient and remarked that the woman was sweet and then added, "well she looks sweet anyway."
I was surprised and happy at the same time. Linda was still herself to a degree I had not seen in a very long time.
As we sat there, she leaned over and rested her head on my shoulder.
It was the sweetest thing.
She laughed several times. She even punched me on the shoulder after I made a sarcastic remark about a noise.
Her mind and thought process seemed more alive that day than I had seen in quite some time.
Eventually, it was time for me to begin the process of leaving—a process I find incredibly soul-crushing.
We had been sitting off to the side by ourselves. The rest of the group was gathered in front of the television, and an empty chair was available. I asked her if she wanted to sit in that chair and watch some of the show that was on.
She was reluctant.
I got her up and began walking with her toward the chair. When we reached it, she did not want to sit down.
Instead, she held tightly to my arm.
When I told her I had to go home, she said she wanted to go with me. She asked me to take her to her home.
She said she had not seen her husband and wanted to know where he was.
All I could think to do was redirect the conversation. I told her I had just come from a doctor’s appointment and had not spoken with anyone. She reluctantly sat down, and I held and kissed her, and told her I loved her and I would see her again soon.
Linda—the old Linda, the person she once was—was still in there.
I could see her.
I could hear her.
I did not sleep for one single minute that night because I could not stop thinking about her being in that place and what she said to me when I was leaving.
I pray for her regularly. I visit Bobby’s gravesite and tell him that she is being taken care of.
I pray for the people responsible for making decisions about her life, and I ask God to give them the guidance and light they need to change course if a change is necessary..
I have to keep faith and believe that Linda is all right and at peace.
But I fear she may not be at peace at all.
