Let's get right to the point - my mother has been diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumor. The doctors are candid and direct in their analysis - she has less than six months to live. I am grieving - grieving because she is not prepared - she is frightened - her life is not complete - she has so much more she wanted to do.

And, I am not ready - I have stories to tell, questions to ask and generous gifts of love that have not yet been delivered and unwrapped for my mother to enjoy.

The cancer came quickly - or so it seems. However, I recall a doctor treating my mother for headaches and dizziness - oh, she only passed out a time or two they said. Was the cancer invading her then? Were the symptoms just too silent to call out their cause? There are too many questions and too few answers.

My Mothers Season of Life is Closing and I must help her deal with the curtains folding quietly around her shoulders. I am not alone as there are five brothers and sisters who are surrounding my mother with their energy. How delightful it would be if cancer could be fought with the energy of children who wish to protect their mother.

Over the next few months, I will write about the experience my mother is dealing with because I know she and I are not the first to travel this path and unfortunately, we won't be the last. I sincerely pray that the sharing of our experience helps others, but most importantly - my mother wants her journey shared. She wants her cancer to have purpose.

Let's begin today with a short poem my mother wrote over twenty years ago. It is on a small torn quarter size piece of typing paper. There were no computers twenty years ago so a good old fashion typewriter brought these words to me. The paper is ragged on one side where my mother tore it from a larger original.

For my mother, Phyllis Jane Marie Oliver Masterson - May 9, 2002

Your mother was once young, she laughed and she cried.
She bore her children and wondered why.

Life was a struggle and hard to bear,
But she had her daughters and sons so fair.

They grew up and left one by one.
They didn't seem to care
Her lovely daughters and sons so fair.

Mother's life held less and less and
Who would have remembered
Mother was once young
Maybe her lovely daughters and sons so fair.

It is now a week later and my sister called to say how much my mother enjoyed the Mother's Day gift package I had sent. I sent two sets of soft flowing pajamas, body bath gel, body lotion and a book to read. My mother is an avid reader - a trait I have repeated as her eldest daughter. My daughter, Beth is also an avid reader and now we have passed this generational characteristic on to my grandson, Kyle. The problem is - my Mother can no longer read - she cannot comprehend the words. She is hopeful this is a short-term side affect of her new bodyguard - cancer, but we don't know. It is one of her saddest losses.

There is so much we don't know, no matter how much we research and ask questions. It is after all, a level 4 cancer and it seems to take on a life (or take a life as it seems) of its own. We will persevere because we realize that knowledge and energy must help medicine in its work. We will supply the knowledge and energy as long as we are assured the medial profession does their part.

We have good, capable doctors, but they seem to be familiar with this routine and we are concerned we are being told "the same story" told all families facing such a journey. Not much we can do but we will do all we can. It seems rather fragile for the depth of our hopes, but we will be their encouragement, their prompters to "do their best."

It is now four weeks since the surgery and we have received our newest kick in the stomach - the tumor is active again.

My mother is weaker and able to do very little for herself as the cancer is striking her powers to operate - functioning is the term. She is headed for a nursing home in the next few days so that she can get prepared for the radiation treatments to begin.

I ask myself "how" can she go through the radiation when she does not have the strength to get out of bed - to hold a book - to squeeze a hand.

My sister just called to say that Mom walloped an Intern attempting to change an IV. Maybe she is choosing her battles and I am now even more confused. Why not use that energy to battle the disease not those that are on the sidelines - only looking to serve, to help.

I will see my Mother this weekend and I will peer over the edge of the bed and ask these questions. After all, she has asked me a few sensitive questions in her day. In fact, as I recall, some of the questions were none of her business but she asked anyway. Well, this cancer is my business so I will ask "why don't you get up and kick back?" "Why can't you get out of bed and take a walk?" Why don't you listen to motivational tapes or music to put something positive in your conscious mind? Is your mind unconscious? I will ask these questions on Saturday and I will repeat them on Sunday. I will ask and ask and ask.

The summer is coming along nicely this July 2002 - it is hot throughout the country with reported droughts, fires and in general, aggravated citizens. I find I really am not much in tune with the weather this year - my storm is my mother's health. We are five weeks into radiation and surprisingly, my mother is doing better. She still can't read or tell time, but she is speaking more clearly and able to sit up by herself. Actually, she has been taking long visits to my sisters several times a week and she relishes in the time with family. She not only can walk from the car to the house by herself, she can do her own bathroom routine. Everyone is relieved in this category, because this returns some dignity to her.

My mother has few wishes as this journey progresses. The most obvious wish is for her life to be extended and for it to be as joyful as possible.

Another wish was to have her two sisters with her during radiation treatment. What a trio these three sisters are. They were raised in a catholic orphanage. Their mother married a man who really had no room for children. My grandfather had no interest in them either. Now, here we are with three women in their 70's who clung together as girls and who now gather as old women - drawing together in comfort.

Aunt Therese and Aunt Mary Ann. I remember both of them from my childhood days and I hold my tongue as I have a bone to pick with both of them. But, this is not the time to draw fire - it is a time to be gracious and forgiving.

Since I know both of them will read this story, let me mention that my "bone to pick with them" is only a childhood memory with no real founding. Aunt Therese kept my mother and her children intact one hot Oklahoma summer when my parents were separated. And, I recall hours in the Oklahoma sun. We weren't allowed in the house because quite frankly - we were a gang of rag muffins, disrupting her normalcy and wreaking havoc on her orderly life. I hold a grudge that she did not welcome us more openly and fix us cool aid and hot dogs. That is what I would do for children who had been caught up in a marital struggle that lasted 32 years.

Mary Ann married a man with a temper and I recall him knocking my cousin off of her chair to the kitchen floor because she had not responded to a question quickly enough. He had made it clear that I was next, until my Dad walked in the room and challenged the remark. I often wondered why Aunt MaryAnn did not defend her daughter. Now that I am a mother and have years of experiences behind me - I understand the battered woman syndrome. And, at 74, she seems to have found some grit, so I forgive her.

Actually, I am going to forgive them both - on behalf of my mother. MaryAnn and Therese are both obnoxious and outspoken, but filled with wit and humor. Oh, but we need the wit and humor with cancer as a newfound family member. It has no humor or dignity. It is a force of destruction to the mind, to the body and to the spirit.

As I look at my mother and her sisters, I reflect on my close relationship I have with my own two sisters - Bonnie and Vanessa. I know that we would shed tears, hold hands and rage with our anger if one of us was on for the fight for life. We are close. We relish the rights that go with being sisters - saying things you would that could not be expressed to anyone else. Asking, "how are you" with genuine concern. Laughing about something no one else can connect with. Sharing our children and grandchildren like rare and wonderful recipes.

Our childhood stories won't fill any fairy tale novels any more than the stories of Phyllis, Therese and Mary Ann, but we too are survivors. I think this has made the visit of Therese and Mary Ann even more joyful. What a good and gracious gift. One point for cancer.

Near death experiences, I am told, cause a person to reflect on their life and wonder where all the time went. In reflection, the last several years my mother led her own life. She made her own choices, choices that her children did not approve of - they involved a man of low character with a seedy life. Grime. She chose him over us in some instances and she is saddened by that today, as he cannot be in the picture now. We are. We are surrounding her with love, with care and devotion. We are the care givers.

But that bridge fell and the raging waters of cancer are here instead. This is a family issue. One that is private between mother, children and sisters.

There is a bit of good news today - my mother has completed her radiation treatment and she has been approved for chemotherapy. We have been warned that the chemotherapy may take up to a year and it will be "Hell". What's new. Cancer is hell. It is worse than a bad dream. A tornado. A raging river tearing down the doors of a family home. It is death. So, we await the opportunity for this new hell, because it gives us time. Time for more mother - daughter, sister - sister visits and that is enough for now.

It's 5:30 a.m. and I am in a hotel in Indianapolis, ready to head home after several days on a business trip. I am not rested, but instead find myself agitated and heavy of heart. I called for my mother last evening and she was already asleep at 8:30 p.m. - Cancer is not one to let you stay up to watch the late night shows or settle in with a good book. It is an exhausting partner - never leaving your side.

My sister shared with me that chemotherapy treatment did not start this week as planned. Another one of my no nonsense questions surfaces: why?

Because there are more tumors emerginging and Mom is not a good candidate for further treatment. There goes that "how do you like that feeling" in the pit of my stomach. Another disappointment. I often wonder how the Doctors feel on the yoyo ride of my mother's life since cancer arrived as a household visitor.

They must be delirious with confusion. One week they give encouraging news and the next they withdraw it in a disappointing "Mothers may I" game.

So, my night was restless as I tossed about in the hotel bed in a darkened room, trying to conjure up different endings to the story.

I have a morning routine - courtesy of my mother. I make a fresh cup of coffee and settle in a comfortable chair and dunk a gourmet cookie - savoring the morning sounds and the refreshment of a refined woman. This was my mother's routine from about age 21 to today - at age 72. Somewhere along the mother-daughter route, I began the same routine. It is a routine of pure joy and tranquility.

But, I forgot to pack my cookies and I am in a panic. I need this routine this morning - I am honoring my mother no matter the obstacle. A quick call to the front desk indicates there is a vending machine on the 9th floor. I tug on a pair of blue jeans and my nightshirt and slip on my aerobic shoes and amble to the 9th floor. There is a devil on the 9th floor - a blinking light indicating the machine is out of service. My life is out of service with this unacceptable situation. Back to my room and pounding zero on the phone. The clerk on the desk answers and I share my story. No cookie with my coffee. Silence. I know she is trying to relate to the temper tantrum of a female business guest and wondering what else in life must I control.

The pause gnaws at me and I fill the silence with "I always have a cookie every morning with my coffee - it is a part of my heritage. My mother began this when she was a young mother and she passed it on to me and I must honor my mother." Is there another machine in the building? Negative. Another pause and then a soft and caring voice - "I will be right up with a cookie." "Are you sure?" I ask…. "Of course, responds the angel.

In less than five minutes comes a knock on my door and an understanding, compassionate face with a hand extended to me in offering. There is a cellophane bag, tied with a long red ribbon containing three macadamia nut cookies. How would this young lady know that is my mothers and my favorite cookie?

Is God looking down on me and showering me with a small kindness so that I will buckle up my seat belt for the ride that remains? I don't know. I don't care. I simply prepared my coffee, my space and my soul to receive the gift. I am tranquil. My mind clears and my rapid heart beats slowly to a normal, rhythmic pace.

When I call my mother in the morning, we will share my story and she will smile and say "good girl." Don't take no for an answer - a girl must have her cookie. Such a little thing. It's only a cookie…it's really much more. It is a tradition I must carry on so that my mother will live as long as I live. I will pass the tradition on to my daughter (no coffee for her, but I can talk her into a cookie dunk in her Sprite - I am a convincing sort!) I will encourage my granddaughter when she is older. This will live on for generations.

But, we won't pass the cancer on. I won't let it touch my daughter or granddaughter. Oh, if only I were so powerful. If I were, my mother would be living in a modular on the beach dying her hair blue and painting her toe nails red.

I am not strong enough. My powers don't run deep enough. But, I can control tradition and the cookie will be a mainstay. Name your flavor Mom.

The chemotherapy treatments are at work and the statement we hear from my Mother's doctors are "Your Mother is strong… her body is incredibly strong." This statement is bandied about like the words of a former lover saying - "we will always be together." The words are comforting; they drape themselves around us like the mist after a spring rain. They are comforting, yet hollow. And we ask ourselves: " What does it all mean? Will our Mother beat the cancer? Will she give it an unusually long run for it's money? Will she live longer than we had originally hoped?"

When we ask the doctors, well intentioned and all, they simply say, "we don't know - it's up to her." Well, ladies and gentlemen, if it is up to my Mother, she is no longer interested in the cancer research - she withdraws from the vicious cycle of death she has entered into. We cry uncle - we quit!

No such luck. We are in this for whatever amount of time we are given - really there are very few choices. Level 4 Glioblastoma is highly aggressive and leaves no survivors.

We have had a few weeks of moderately good visits with my Mother. I say moderately good in that my two sisters are carrying the load. My Mother lives with my middle sister, Vanessa in a spare bedroom that has been made over to suit my Mother. She has seemingly lost interest in all she ever owned, so the room is fresh with no past memories or archives of her former life. All of her clothes are new - only recently purchased by her daughters. The quilt is new and fresh - never yet tousled in the washer or dryer. The pillows are plump and down filled. A long body pillow, encased in a soft warm coverlet helps my Mother rest with her body formed to restrain the after affects of chemotherapy. What a lovely room with such a dire purpose.

I recall very few shopping trips with my Mother since I was a teenager, but since her illness we have had two good mall jaunts - complete with lunch and dessert. I have learned a lot about my Mothers new preferences in color. I only remember black in her former wardrobe. Now she is drawn by brilliant magenta and wine - even a periwinkle blue nightie made it to the shopping bag. She shows no interest in the matronly version of nightclothes one might expect to see on a 72 year old. She selects "teddies" and see-though chiffon gowns. My sister makes my Mother promise that she will wear a robe while in her home. I hear a weakened "OK." I don't expect she will comply with my Sister's wishes. She did very little of that in our earlier, pre-cancer lives.

Maybe that is why we struggle so much with the "Your Mother is quite strong." We are trying to prepare for death and yet, my Mother shows that she has enough strength to linger. This "lingering time" gives us time… time to talk and ask questions about our mother-daughter lives. But, the longer she lingers, the guiltier we feel for holding on to her - postponing her gentle rest, exchanging it for a hard journey of pain.

We plan picnic gatherings… cake baking Saturday's… donut dunking Sundays and trips to the mall and grocery story and manicurist. It is an almost normal life except it is sprinkled with radiation treatments, visits to the Doctor for more disparaging news and sleepless, pain drugged nights.

Things are progressing in an unkind way. My Mother's personality changes are harsh… she is cutting and shows very little tenderness to her caregivers. She is demanding and tireless in her requests "for"… for everything… for anything.

Finally, we are given no choices, but my Mother must return to the nursing home. She requires 24-hour care and none of us can afford to quit our jobs and finish the journey round the clock. And, quite frankly, even if we tried, my Mother requires medical care to keep the seizures under control - she has a kidney infection… a bladder infection… a laundry list of unpleasantries that are the side affects of cancer and chemotherapy.

My Mother cries out all of the time… she thrashes and tosses with feverish abandonment. She is listless and restless all in one body. The brain tumors are growing… the cancer is active and thriving. The medicine for pain is increased and while the doctor says, "most people would give in", my mother continues her thrashing and crying out. We are tortured with our inability to do anything. We call and visit daily. The nursing home staff say "they have never seen such a constant flow of love and attention from a group of siblings." We turn away from the compliments - we feel as if we are not doing enough. We hold no real value in this final stage. It appears my Mother does not know we are in the room with her. She cries out for us by name - we respond and she looks away and cries out again. We have no identities. Cancer is the only one with a recognizable name.

On my last visit to my Mother, she is feverish and constantly moving - tossing one leg to the left, the other to the right. Hands at her neck… pressing her abdomen… wringing one hand over the other. I climbed in the bed with her to hold her… to soothe her. My tears cooled her feverish forehead. My heartbeats matched hers… rapid, frantic.

I called the nurse in to the room asking for an explanation. We exchanged looks. Hers was one of " please understand where we are in this process." Mine was, "What can you do?" I took one small victory because when the nurse took my Mother's temperature, it was dangerously high and two Tylenols gave her near immediate relief. Further exploration showed my Mother's kidneys had stopped working and she had over 700 cc's of urine backed up into her abdomen. The nurse catheterized my Mother and she stopped thrashing. I internalized my anger that this had not been checked earlier.

I climbed in the recliner next to my Mother's bed and cried. I kept asking myself how we could "fix it" so that someone was always with my Mother to catch the little things that were slipping through the cracks. My sister, Vanessa provided the fix. She visited the nursing home administrator and asked why a family member had to nudge a staff member to search
resolutions to our Mother's discomfort. We figured it out fairly quickly ourselves.

Nursing home staff deal with these life and death issues every day and they know that sooner than later, the resolution comes - death shuts the door. So unfortunately, short staffed that they are, they simply cannot attend to every small detail when it "really won't matter in the long run." I could not even be angry at their feedback, because it is true. But the short run is where I put my money for loved ones who are facing the death journey from a terminal illness! Hospice joined the picture and the page turned down on our journey to rest.

I returned to Maryland and the next two weeks saw a rapid decline for my Mother. I was on the phone or e-mail to my Sisters daily. While I was on a business trip in Wichita, Kansas, a Priest visited my Mother and gave her the last rites. How funny, since my Mother had not been in a Roman Catholic Church since she walked out of the Catholic orphanage as a teen-age girl. But, it seemed to give her peace and she settled into a sleep free of crying and thrashing. It was October 18, 2002 and my Mother slipped away and I cried out while in an airport, unable to make it to her side in time for her to hear my voice, feel my arms around her and my tears on her face. My daughter, Beth sat in for me, and shed our Mother-daughter tears for us both.

The door was closed and the sounds reverberate in my soul and heart today. As I look back on the telling of my Mother's journey, I recall some memorable moments when my Mother showed incredible humor and strength. I recall other moments where she showed anger and fear and I have taken all of this as my lesson on death.

My Mother had never been with anyone when their life came to an end and it is one of the reasons she feared her own death. I was with my Father when he died of Cancer in a hospital room. It is ironic, that my daughter, Beth was there as well. We took that journey together and can today, share quiet moments about that night.

So, in a sad but humble way - I owe two life lessons to my parents and I feel confident I will be able to face my own last journey with less fear and with some humor and humble caring for others.

So, Mom here is your story as you asked it to be told. It is my honor to have been your "story teller" and I hope that as you look down on me from Heaven, that you approve and that I did not get too many details "out of order."