This is a story that’s filled with fear and tears as well as strength and courage. It’s not a story with happy ending, but it’s reflecting truth, unfairness and unpredictability – that is life.
I hope it reminds you that time is limited.
My mum's health started deteriorating the summer of 2024.
This was the third summer in a row that began with devastating news that the cancer has returned.
Chemotherapy that began in April seemed to be doing more harm than good.
First - peripheral neuropathy. Her feet and hands were in constant sharp and burning pain - so much so that she had to crawl on her knees to go to the bathroom.
"Just a side effect"
Neurologist prescribed a handful of pills that helped to reduce the symptoms throughout May and June. Then the pain returned, ten-fold in one of her legs and her movement, her life was so limited. Unable to walk, sleep, eat, even to have conversation in the midst of the pain. Highest dose of tramadol (an opioid medication that may be used to treat sever chronic pain) is what got her through the days.
This last summer together, like any other summer before, we spent so much time together – cooking, walking, watching shows and talking.
We talked about everything (when I was travelling, we exchanged multiple voice messages daily). I just loved being together with my mum – her love was so captivating and contagious – I always wanted to be around it.
We had an unforgettable Birthday celebration for her – she really wanted to travel somewhere with both her children, but we did the best we could, and organized a getaway in Latvia.
My mum was tired, but she remained motivated for us.
Then, suddenly, on August 1st, emergency surgery had to be performed on her leg.
Doctor told us that he will do his best, but there is a possibility that she might lose her leg.. there has been no blood-flow there for a week.
I feel like I aged 10 years in that one day – receiving such news, awaiting the surgery, talking to her to calm her down and then collapsing in fear when our phone call was cut off because “they are taking me now”.
I prayed to God, to anyone, to someone. I begged for a positive result.
I felt so helpless.
My role in saving my mums health has been critical so many times; I pushed, I insisted, I convinced her that she needs, she deserves to be looked at by other specialists.
August 1st was one of those days when I saved her, this time from a leg amputation.
Doctors were able to remove blood-cloths successfully and expressed concerns that her oncologist didn’t give her blood-tinners during chemo.
To my surprise, turns out that it’s quite common for chemotherapy to increase the chance of blood-cloths.
When my mum complained about burning pain in her leg, the oncologist never suggested further examinations. Simply prescribed even stronger painkillers.
There is something to be said about this line of experts who deal with terminal patients daily for years.
I got an underwhelming sense that they become tired and careless.
They know the outcome is inevitable...
And perhaps there is a very dark but brutally honest thought that the sooner the patient goes, the less strain on their work schedule..
There was a big hope and excitement that after this “side effect” the pain as well as the uncomfortable swelling in the legs would reduce and my mum would be able to return to the battle in full strength.
Movement is life!!
And it had been devastating to see her lose that ability to move.
What once was an hour walk twice or three times a day, had turned into days of not leaving the house, and being too weak to even walk to a nearby park
without rest times.
Sadly, there was no significantly positive turn. The swelling in her legs didn't reduce.
Day by day, it increased gradually. The tumors were in my mums lower abdominal, stomach area. They didn't touch any of the vital organs, but they were on her abdominal wall, and they were affecting her lymphatic flow.
Gradually abdominal fluid started collecting in her stomach (medical term: ascites) and during the month of August her weight increased
from 70kg to almost 100kg..
My mum was unable to bend her knees because of the swelling - this affected basic things such as getting in and out of the bed, going to the bathroom..
Life became very uncomfortable.
I was there for it, in it every day, fighting and silently praying...
Early September, finally she was admitted to oncology hospital for further tests and our hope, our only hope was surgery.. the chemo is not working, and the tumors are living a life of their own, causing her body to blow up like a balloon.
At that point, I think my mum had to take about 15-20 pills daily… Our summer holiday budget was spent at the pharmacy.
Looking back at it now - I can't understand how we were able to stay so optimistic, how my mum was able to stay so strong. She really showed a whole new perspective on resilience and pain tolerance.
The scar on her upper limb from the recent surgery had come open because of the severe swelling, and she didn’t even feel that she had a hole in her leg…
We never stopped believing in a good outcome.
We were so determined to fight and to win!
And then - another bad news.
Tumors are too aggressive and there are so many small disseminates - it's impossible to take them out. There will be no surgery.
My mum begged to please take out the big tumor which at this point was 10 cm.
“How can I live like this?”
Doctors could only offer palliative care, but she refused – it felt like giving up and awaiting death.
Mum had so much fight left in her.
And so did I. The idea of giving up, of losing her was unimaginable. It just can’t happen.
We are fighters!
I was laser focused and determined - continuing to research supplements, resuming her on vitamin D,C, Turmeric, Black Seed oil, Amla etc.. making fresh juice every day and spending hours in hospital with her to keep positive conversations going. She said to me "if someone tells me I have 3-6 months to live then I want to go traveling".
But mum, I said, You can't even walk across the street within the green light time limit - where can we go?
Cancer is not as cinematic as they show it in the Hollywood movies.. we can't go on around the world trip with so much pain and discomfort. Unless it’s a sudden collapse (in which case a person doesn’t even realize they are sick and are probably going on about their everyday mundane life), cancer patients will become significantly more fragile and weak as the final weeks and days approach..
I remember that moment, that conversation so vividly.
Just like everything else before and after that.
My mum moved in with me on September 9 –
the hospital had to stop all the IV drips as well as the treatment that helped reducing abdominal fluid and send her home - she tested positive for covid. (Just when you think you have had it all..!)
She couldn't walk up the stairs to her place, so elevator in my house was the only option.
I became her nurse, and I would do it a thousand times over and over again.
I cleaned, cooked, showered her.
She hated to feel so helpless and everyday she gathered her strength to cook something for me too.. She wanted to make me happy, do something for me – that is how she was her whole life, until the very last days..
During the 9 days she stayed with me, we went for a walk twice.. but I noticed how she gradually started getting weaker even around the house. Not in the mindset.
The resilient fighter in her never lost its strength.
I don’t remember ever feeling defeated – it seemed like a phase that will pass.
The good turn is coming..
I, too, refused to believe in death ...
We were going to look for another Doctor, see how and what we can do.
On September 18 we were assigned palliative care at home.
It felt like a great solution – to have medical care.
That night, before the nurses would come in, I read that Hospiss gets assigned to anyone who has less than 6 months to live..I didn't tell her. I didn't want to believe it.
She cooked dinner for us (while sitting down, because she was too weak to stand) and we so much enjoyed the meal together… We never talked about death or the fear of it. Never!
I now wonder if she felt like it was coming... but not wanting to disappoint me, kept it to herself.
I was saying to her: “as long as you fight - we will keep going..”
And so, she continued fighting..
None of the Doctors told us that there is little time remaining…
My mum told me several times that she will keep fighting and she will win, because nobody has told her otherwise.
What the Doctor did say was that surgery is not possible.
And chemo is not working. At that point they can only offer palliative care.
I didn’t hear it then but looking back at it now – it’s like going to a restaurant where they say that there is electricity outage and they can’t cook anything, but you still sit down and wait for the menu.
Nobody had the courage to tell my mum “you are dying very soon” because I think they recognized that she would have not accepted it.
The hope and fight was stronger than anything else.
We went to bed around midnight and at 6am she woke me up to ask if I can call the Hospiss now because she feels like suffocating.
I was tired, I got angry about her irrational demands and begged if we can please sleep for another hour because nobody will come at 6am.. So we laid down together, my hand on her back, feeling her body move up and down, radiating so much warmth.
We slept for 3 hours..
That was the last time I laid asleep next to my loving mum.
Thursday morning, 9am, Hospiss nurse arrived at my house, but she immediately said that mum needs to be taken to hospital first, so they can puncture her stomach to reduce the fluid, before she can return home and continue being treated by a nurse.
We called the ambulance, and soon after, two women with big bags and heavy steps marched into my house. My mum was sitting peacefully on the edge of the bed, looking out at the sky. They attached wires to her, did some measurements and said that they will take her to the hospital. It was all very quick, like a nightmare.
I wanted to save her from the emergency staff who were inpatient, sharp and demanded so many answers from her.
My mum was so fragile and tired. They used a wheelchair to take her to the ambulance car and there was a moment, a pause where just before they shut the door - she looked at me and through heavy coughing shouted as loud as she could - I will live, I will live.
Is it possible that my mum was fighting for me, more than for herself ?!
Cancer didn't kill my mum. She never ever gave up, she never lost hope or awaited her death like many, like most patients with this diagnosis do.
She believed that with the power of thought we can win!
And she put up an incredible fight.
This was the 5th time it came back ... with each time she gained more and more strength, unbreakable spirit.
It was a devastating reality; one that showed me what it means to be an inspiring woman.
Kind, loving, optimistic, always with a smile and deep empathy towards others, even when dealt the most frightful and painful cards in life..
Anyone who knew the details of her illness could not believe her positivity and resilience, how she could stay so strong through all the suffering.
That same day, September 19, a doctor called. The kindest, most empathetic voice on the phone line told me that my mums condition is very, very bad.
She has water in her lungs, blood flow is interrupted in both her legs and they are not able to reduce the fluid in the stomach because she has gas in there.
“Her body is already taking from the reserves..”
They will put her on medication as well as morphine to help with her breathing and pain and see how she handles it all over the weekend.
The sinking reality came over me slowly... or perhaps I should say it hit me.
I collapsed and cried hysterically before and after the hospital visit.
The fear of losing her was so painful and overwhelming.
But I still hoped for a turn, for improvement, for a miracle over the weekend.
I sat by her bedside from 9am until 8/9pm every day.
She asked me: “please tell me what the Doctor is saying - what are you not telling me”?!
I tried to change the subject.
She wanted to return home, where we had organized Hospiss nurses, and I told her if she drinks and eats a little bit, then we can go home next week.
She never found out she will be dying..
as the days went on, the morphine made her more and more drowsy.
First, it was conversations, then a few sentences, eventually words and then mostly silence...
The Doctor said that she can hear and feel us, and the only thing we can do for her is give our love and kindness. Telling her that death is near will make her confused and panicked.
And we still kept holding on to a hope that a good turn is coming..
until Tuesday morning, September 24th,
when the Doctor told me that last meters are upon her...
It was only then, 4 days before her death, when all hope was ripped away.
There was nothing left except the anticipation for my mother’s last breath ….
I will always remember this as the most painful and the most beautiful time of our
(me and my brothers) lives.
Lying by our mum’s bedside, surrounded by death.
A reality, a subject, an idea that we avoid discussing,
despite it being the only guarantee in life.
We all will end up here - weak, helpless, medicated.
I guess we’ll be lucky if our life fades out like that..
My mum always believed she was lucky, even with uterus sarcoma diagnosis – she was lucky it was caught early.
And every single time since summer 2019 when it all begun, there was a guardian angel that protected her.
She would have much rather stayed at home than hospital, but I felt like we got lucky again. Her bed was just by the window, looking out at a sea of long pine trees moving in the wind.
Blue clear sky and sun was shining everyday, unusually warm for late September.
It was so peaceful and calm.
Apart from the occasional screams of patients in pain,
the palliative care unit with 26 oncology patients waiting for their final act, was the most quiet and peaceful place I have ever been to.
I noticed how only few of the patients were frequently visited by family and friends.
Along the harsh truth of death, came realization that end of the life can be extremely lonely, if lived self-centered. How much time do we invest in and prioritize others?
My mum lived a selfless life.
We had to keep a schedule for her visitors, especially her closest friends who all came to see her multiple times. Through tears, we shared stories and mum would occasionally open her eyes and say something.
It seemed like she was asleep, but she heard and understood it all.
She expressed confusion when someone was crying.
She smiled every time she opened her eyes and saw me.
She would listen to her friends talk and say “I love you”.
Quietly, peacefully me and my little brother sat on both sides of the bed, holding our mother’s hand, and whispering in her ear countless times how proud we are, how much we love her, and through tears told her that it’s time for her to go on, onto a new adventure. Some place warm…
It was impossible to let her go, and there would have never been enough time..
Holding her hand and kissing her forehead, as if I could capture enough of her warmth for the rest of my life…
Looking at her chest move up&down and smiling at her every time she opened her eyes.
I just wanted to be by her side at all times, I wanted her to feel safe.
With each day I was growing increasingly more tired, but every night when saying goodbye, I said to my mum – please wait for me, I will back here early tomorrow.
I prayed for another day. Another moment of her warmth.
Friday, September 27 was the last day we spent together.
My mum did not say a word, unlike the days before. She didn’t even react to me or my brother’s presence. She didn’t drink, we only had to wet her lips and drop a little bit of water in her mouth to ensure it doesn’t dry out.
I had been so nervous for leaving her bedside, for not to miss her last breath, that could happen any moment..
But on that Friday afternoon, reflecting on the days we had had, I knew how it will happen – gradually, slowly..
Just like a candle flame fades out when you cover it with a glass-cupola.
There was very little light left in my mum..
What is human life? And why it ends the way it does?
Why was my mum - the kindest, most positive, loving, selfless, light person the victim of cancer ?
Why did she have to suffer ? And why, despite such strong will to live and fight, the tumors kept growing..?
We cleaned her face in the evening, we sang her a goodnight song and I held her head in my shaking hands. Kissing her warm forehead, little soft baby hair that had started growing back. My brother placed his hands on her belly and “talked to the tumors” he said: “you will die very soon, you picked the wrong person. You took her body, but you never took her soul and mind. She never gave up.”
Tears were rolling down my cheeks, quietly crying, I felt like this was our last goodbye.
As much as I would want to have another day, I felt like I must let her go.
She is ready to go..
I felt her heartbeat, I felt her warmth, I told her goodnight, sweet dreams my angel..
“čuči saldi many eńgelīti”
What are the last words you say to your closest person, to the love of your life, to your mother, when you say goodbye for the last time?
The same “I love you” over and over again..
We went to bed late and I woke up at 6am to turn my phone off from sleep-mode.
I felt it was coming.
My phone rang at 8:13 am on Saturday morning.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, the same place where my mum sat when the ambulance arrived just 9 days ago.
The sky was crying, it was the first very dark and gloomy autumn day.
It was a very quick:
“Your mother, Kaiva Dobele, died at 4am last night. Please come in on Monday to pick up her belongings and death certificate”.
Silence, trembling, shock, tears.
First thing I felt? A relief.
I had been devastated for over a week now. I was told that my mum was dying, and I was living through the days of waiting. What they told would happen, had now happened.
Saturday morning.
I think she wanted to be alone, in silence.
I think she wanted us to have this weekend of reflection, before Monday comes with all the overwhelming tasks related to handling one’s death …
I felt numb and in disbelief. It is unfathomable reality to grasp – that someone has died.
For the first time in my life,
I started reading about what happens to a human body after death.
Organizing a funeral, picking a coffin, calling people, talking to social services about my mums death felt like living in a parallel universe. I am doing this, but this is not me, talking about my mum.
The weather shift was remarkable.
As if she could feel the autumn is soon arriving, she left us the day before it did.
She hated end of summer, but she loved our walks, always the two of us.
Now I found myself, all by myself, leaves crunching under my footsteps, thinking about this impermanence of life and how autumn teaches us to let go..
To me, this is always the saddest season.
I was alone, but in the way I would be, if I went for a walk while my mum was at work.
I didn’t yet understand what it means.
And then, on the day of the funeral, I saw her, lying motionless in a coffin, wearing the clothes that me and my brother picked out for her.
So beautiful, so peaceful, so cold.
Where are you mum ?
I looked up, through the narrow window of crematorium, a sunlight shined on my face, and I felt immediate warmth. It was the first time I felt her spirit, with me.
She wasn’t there anymore, just a frame of a body.
The hands that had lovingly stroked my hair, the voice that always reassured me, the warm hug and care – it was all her souls doing.
She was here, with me.
I was humbled to see more than 100 people come and say their last goodbyes.
A testament to how she touched anyone who crossed her path in life. Always with a smile and kindness. Always.
I took all my courage to be able to read the letter I wrote to her
and to all of those who had come.
I wanted my mum to hear me, I wanted my mum to see how strong I am,
I wanted her to be proud.
I will always think of this as the most empowering moment of my life, reminding myself – if I can do this, there is nothing I can’t do.
It’s been less than two months since my mothers passing and I still can’t say the death word in the same sentence with her name.
People tell me she is in a better place now, because she is not In pain,
But I know that me and my brother was her favorite place.
I still have to learn how to accept one’s death.
Now, I have to face life with this strength and confidence she showed and thought me.
Step by step. Slowly, I will have to learn how to move ahead with grief.. how to live with this vast emptiness, how to experience joy that immediately is accompanied by sadness, how to accept life’s path as dark and painful as it might be.
How to live well, how to live.
All I can hope for is that she will be here with me, that I can feel her the way I did feel her on the day of her funeral.
Mammīt,
Es tevi mīlu vairāk par visu pasauli.
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