In August, I was hospitalised for a stomach infection.Three days after my admittance, the oncologist came to the ward to share the results of the CT scan. My husband, as well as our youngest and his girlfriend—who had come to the hospital to say goodbye to me before my husband would drop them off at the airport—listened with growing unease to the words of the doctor.
“A 6 cm tumour in your lower abdomen, ascites, metastasis in the lymph nodes, and several tumours in other places,” she stated.
“No, you’re not entering the palliative stage yet,” she answered when I asked. “We will first need to see how your body reacts to the new chemo treatment. We’ll do our best to extend your life,” she promised.
It was a hard pill to swallow: resistant, meaning six chemo treatments and four months completely wasted. Why did no one pick up on the increasing tumour markers?
The new chemo regime started on the 22nd of August and consisted of Caelyx (Doxorubicin), a new cytostatic. Because of its colour, it looks like strawberry lemonade, and because of its potentially serious side effects, it’s known among patients as red devil chemo.
The moment the fiendish extract entered my bloodstream, I could say farewell to my old routines—rock bottom, transition and glorious week—as well as my knowledge of cytostatic side effects.
This chemo, administered in a 4-week cycle, is different. I’m completely lost about the causes of my nausea, stomach pain, cold shivers, lack of appetite, diarrhoea, incontinence, tingling in my hands and feet, and back pain. Are these inconveniences caused by the tumours, the infection, the stress, the low haemoglobin levels, or are they side effects of the cytostatic? Whatever it is, I’ve never felt so listless and exhausted.
*
Mitra dropped by shortly after my release from the hospital. It hit us both when I told her that I wouldn’t be able to join her at the gym ever again. The whole summer, I had kept that option open; my sports gear, washed and folded, was waiting on the shelves, but the latest updates were clear: the cancer will eventually lead to my death. I instinctively know that I won’t return there.
Sorrow also set in when I resigned from my voluntary work. Before summer, I had still hoped to return to Pönkkä, the place that had become so dear to me. I now know that even if the new chemo shows good results, I won’t be able to make it back.
Little by little, I’m giving up on the idea of living a reasonably normal life ever again. This process had already started earlier, I think from the moment the colostomy was inserted in September last year. However, back then, wired to believe that better times would come, I didn’t give it much thought.
The chemo-resistance, the growing tumours, my deteriorating condition, and the knowledge that my stoma is permanent force me to reassess my dysfunctional body, my activities, and my outlook on life. They compel me to bid adieu to the “I can do it” mentality that has always accompanied me. It also strikes me that saying farewell doesn’t only apply to people; it is bigger than that. Saying goodbye to activities, routines, pets, habits, food, properties (like our wee yellow house in Ii) are equally hard. Sometimes just thinking about giving up all the things that made my life pleasant makes me burst into tears.
Farewells are painful
It was during our years in Calgary that I noticed how hard it was for me to say goodbye. Every summer, European family, friends, and colleagues flooded our house, and every time we dropped the party poopers off at the airport, I was overwhelmed with sadness and longing. Even today, the smell of kerosene, reminding me of the goodbyes at Calgary airport, makes me feel feeble and tense.
To make those farewells a bit easier for the children, we built a ritual. On the way back home from the airport, we would stop by at Tim Hortons. Thirteen donuts for the price of a dozen was, according to our preschoolers, a “cool” deal. Hazelnut buttercream, strawberry snow, chocolate glazed, sprinkled with silky chocolate ganache, blueberry fritter—the boys would carefully select their favourites. Back home, with coffee, juice and colourful pastries on the table, we would “celebrate” being on our own again.
Years later, after our young adult sons had moved out for their studies, they insisted their father drop them off at Oulu airport after the summer break. “No drama, Mum,” they said, hugging me farewell at the doorstep of our house.
*
 |
| Sept 2024/ Nursing friends visiting me. |
Of course, I love seeing them too and look forward to reminiscing about past events, but living abroad also means that guests never stay for just a weekend. Sadly, I can’t host them any longer. Cleaning the guest room, the bathroom, making the beds, planning the meals, getting groceries, cooking, socialising, let alone entertaining and accompanying them on trips in the area, are simply too much. Though it feels unwelcoming and goes against my nature to tell our guests to find accommodation elsewhere, I need to learn to put my own priorities first.
Moreover, my visitors have only one goodbye to deal with, but I’m constantly reminded of the fact that there’s going to be an end to all my relationships and activities. The current pace and accumulation of farewells, along with the processes of letting go, are overwhelming. Despite my sadness, I also realise these moments should not be avoided. On the contrary, I believe that farewells have a purpose, so I’m trying to process my feelings while at the same time redefining the resources I still have. For example, if the doctor says that I should avoid long walks, I can still use my bike to go around the lake. Even better, I can bring my camera and lens in my pannier too.
Apart from organising a high tea for the friends who’ve been supportive, I have no definitive plan for the goodbyes that are ahead. What are meaningful words? Should I buy presents? Donuts? Come up with a ritual? Should we keep it light and celebrate life, or write notes to each other? Is there a way to conclude friendships and activities that is satisfactory, effective and compassionate? I certainly don’t want anyone to feel traumatised, confused, ignored, or guilty after my passing.
*
I’m not good at farewells, but this August, I realised how deep conversations can provide a wonderful sense of closure. After I was released from the hospital, I had meaningful conversations with my middle son. Triggered by the negative CT scan results, the fact that we’re facing my inevitable death, and knowing we only had two weeks before he would return to the Netherlands, we talked for hours about our fears, our future, our feelings of guilt, our mother and son relationship, our vulnerabilities, our upbringing and our memories. Those conversations were powerful, heartbreaking, joyous, and painful at times, but they also allowed us to express our love and gratitude toward each other.
Of course, I hope to see him and his brothers at Christmas, but if not, we’ve said all that needed to be said. Those discussions were the most wonderful gift we could have given to each other at this stage of our lives.
