After an agonizing weekend at the hospital—48 hours of scans, images, tests; meetings with oncologists and GI specialists; and hospice hovering in the wings—mom’s pancreatic cancer results are in.
The tumor, although inoperable, is benign.
Here’s the thing: even if it were cancer, or takes a nasty turn, no further treatment will be pursued.
Harsh? Maybe. But the cold reality of respecting my mother’s faith healing beliefs, in which medicine is not an option, sets in. Subjecting her to the frenzied hospital world of disinfectant and decay, of blood and needles, only added more confusion to her newly-disrupted life.
Mercifully, she has no recollection of last weekend, which began with hallucinations, evolved into an escape attempt and combative behavior, and ended in a sterile hospital room. She’s safe and comfortable now in her new memory care apartment. As suggested, I’m staying away for a few days to allow her to settle in to yet another new routine.
My prognosis: cautiously optimistic.