My mom’s last words before she drifted off to sleep were haunting me. We’d been talking about things she wanted to do; get new blinds for the bedroom, go by and collect the rent, and buy a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. Just the ordinary stuff; a routine conversation between us.

My mom was a fighter, a 3x breast cancer survivor. She’d mentioned having some trouble breathing last night. As a precaution, I suggested we make a trip into town to the ER. She fussed, but in the end, we went; always better to be safe than sorry.

I wasn’t surprised when the nurse came in and said my mom was going to be admitted; after all, she was 97 years old and it was almost midnight. Her next comment rocked my world!

As she gently held my mom’s hand, I could sense her compassion; then she spoke. “You’re really a fighter, Margaret, considering -”

To be fair, the barrage of questions spewing from my mouth never gave the young nurse a chance to answer. After losing my father in the ER six months earlier, I was prepared for battle. No one, I mean, no one was going to miss anything when diagnosing mom. I wanted the details and I wanted them now.

Moving toward the end of mom’s bed, she looked like a lamb off to slaughter. She glanced at Mom and then at me, choosing her words carefully, I think, before speaking, “ Well. the cancer -”

“Yes, I know. We go to the cancer center twice a week. They say she’s doing fine.” Now, I was confused and impatient. Why were we discussing her cancer when we came because of her breathing?

“Margaret, are you feeling any pain?” Deflecting our conversation, she focused on Mom.

“No, nothing an aspirin wouldn’t take care of.” Mom pointed her finger, waving it at me, her favorite scolding tactic.  “She just got nervous and hauled me off to the hospital. Told her we could wait till morning.” Her voice was shallow, but she made her point.

I smiled at her. “You said you couldn’t breathe.”

“It’s better with this stuff.” Her thin fingers touched the oxygen piece in her nose.

I put us back on track, reminding her of our conversation, “You were going to say something about the cancer. Is there something new?”

Sorry, young lady, but my chain of thought doesn’t stop that easily. No brakes! Six months ago, this hospital, this ER, these people said my father had an infection. The plan was to give him antibiotics overnight. Thirty minutes later, his intestine ruptured. His last words to me were, "Something's not right."  He died of sepsis. I wasn’t pointing fingers, just being extremely cautious.

It was obvious she wasn't comfortable sharing information with us. She too was being cautious, but she did continue, “I’m sure you’re aware how it has metastasized.”

“You mean the left lymph node and both breasts?” My “I’m-on-top-of-this” mindset was letting her know I knew what was going on. At every office visit, I made notes of what they told us and asked questions. No surprises this time.

“When was the last time she saw her oncologist?”

“Three days ago. They did labs, gave her the usual chemo injection, and an appointment for next week. I did ask how we would know if the cancer was getting worse. Dr. Shipp said by the level of pain. Mom doesn’t have any, so I figured we were good for now.”

“Hmmm -”  She moved toward the door. “I’m going to see if the doctor can step in and talk with you.”

The 5-alarm blasting in my head was about to summon the entire fire department. What had I missed? I didn’t know, but something made me feel like it was something big.

Mom was sleeping. I was pacing!

Finally, the door opened. A stranger in green scrubs entered, followed by our nurse.

“This is Dr. Thompson. He’s the ER doctor. I explained the situation.”
 

Dr. Thompson shook my hand, clamminess and all. Fear was knocking at my body’s door and I wasn’t prepared to let it in. He looked at my Mom and then moved closer to me. He spoke in a low reassuring tone, I thought.

“I read the radiologist report and looked at the x-rays myself before coming in. Is it my understanding that you and your mother aren’t aware of any changes in her breast cancer?”

“She’s been feeling good. No new bumps or sores. Dr. Schipp said that when it spread, it would be painful and finally go to her brain. She hasn’t complained at all, not one word. No one told us anything had changed.”

“In my opinion, her cancer has metastasized to her spine and her organs.”

He might as well have punched me in the gut. I pressed my back against the wall, trying not to collapse. The nurse moved a chair toward me.  I slumped down into it. My head was spinning.

“Are - Are you sure?”  I was in total disbelief!

“The Hospital Oncologist will see her in the morning, but I’m confident in my decision.”

“I don’t understand. No one told us. Why wouldn’t they have told us?”  Now I was angry!

“I can’t speak for her doctors as to why they didn’t tell you. I can only tell you what I see.”

“And that is?” My level of irritation was escalating at warp-speed. 

“Let’s step out into the hallway. Let your mom rest, okay?” The doctor opened the door and waited for my response.

“Sure.” I followed like an obedient puppy.

As we moved out of the room, two technicians were waiting to enter. They told me they were moving mom upstairs to ICU Room 232 in the Heart Hospital. Dr. Thompson moved to the nurses’ station to retrieve some papers. I watched my mom disappear down the hall and through the ER doors.

The Matador had defeated the raging bull.  I leaned against the wall, deflated.

Dr. Thompson rejoined me outside the now empty room. “Let’s step back inside for a moment.”

I did as he suggested and he closed the door behind us. He snapped an x-ray into the lighted box on the wall. I could tell I was looking at a spine, my mother’s spine and neck.

“About six inches of her spinal cord is exposed.” He tapped the area with his pen.

“Exposed?” From raging bull to the mockingbird. Dumbfounded, I kept repeating everything. I couldn’t wrap my head around what he was telling me. You can’t go from breast cancer to full-blown stage 4 cancer in days, can you?

“In layman's terms, the cancer has eaten away the bone, leaving the nerves and spinal cord exposed.”

“Oh my God, I don’t understand. She says she has no pain. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Why don’t you get some rest and talk with the doctors tomorrow.” He opened the door to leave, “ Take as much time as you need.” He closed the door behind him, leaving me to wrestle with his findings.

Now I stood staring out the window, resisting the thought that I’d probably just lied to my mom; not a little white lie, but a monstrous lie. Mom’s a smart cookie; she might be elderly, but her brain functioned better than most. Cancer or not, she was aware of everything.

A chill ran up my spine. She’d looked directly at me and asked, “Did you bring me here to die?”

Of course, my response, my only possible response, was - “No, of course not. You couldn’t breathe. Remember? You said you couldn’t breathe.”

“You brought your father here. He died. So tell me, did you bring me here to die?”

It didn’t matter even if I was damning my soul to hell; there was only one answer I would give my mother.

 “That was different. It happened so fast. I didn’t bring him here to die. Something happened. They couldn’t fix it.” I needed my mother to understand. “You feel better with the oxygen and antibiotics, right? That’s why we came to the hospital. I certainly didn’t bring you here to die.”

She stared at me for a moment before gently scolding me, “You wouldn’t tell me anyhow.” She paused and then did the greatest motherly thing ever; she let me off the hook by saying, “It’s okay.”

The nurse interrupted my agonizing thoughts. She said the Hospital Doctor and two other people would speak with me in the nearby atrium. The next ten minutes were a blur. I remember the doctor introducing himself and the two ladies with him. He probably was courteous and professional, but that’s not how I remember it. He was blunt and cold; maybe it came with the job.

As soon as we sat down, he started to talk, “It’s my understanding that you need me to clarify your mother’s condition. You’ve been aware of her breast cancer, correct?”

I vaguely remember nodding yes before he continued, “Unfortunately, the cancer has spread throughout her body, including her spine. Due to severe osteoporosis and metastasized tumors, the spinal cord is exposed. Her organs and vital functions are shutting down. At this point, there is nothing we can do, but keep her comfortable. These ladies will explain Hospice to you and help you get started.”

He stood and walked away. Not even a goodbye that I remember. If I hadn’t been so stunned, I might have ran after him, but the word hospice was bouncing around in my head, blocking me from hearing anything else.

Hospice? Hospice? They helped when people were dying. My mother wasn’t dying! What did he mean there was nothing we could do? 

An avalanche of emotions crashed into me and I started sobbing. I recall someone handing me a box of tissues. Someone else attempted to explain about hospice and what to expect next. Next? I couldn’t even get past the word hospice. Did they really expect me to walk back into my mother’s room and tell her I had lied? My mother was dying!

I remember the ladies leaving numerous brochures and papers with me. I remember a nurse bringing me a bottle of water and a package of snack crackers. I remember using tissue after tissue. I remember being angry, sad, afraid and lost. I remember realizing I would be the one to tell the family. I remember sitting for hours wondering how I was going to face my mom. I remember a nice lady coming to sit with me. She tried to comfort me and asked if I might have any questions.

Questions? Sure, I had a million questions, but I doubted she had any of the answers. Why hadn’t we been told how bad the cancer had gotten? Why had they continued giving my mom those $28,000 chemo injections twice a week? Didn’t they know nothing would help? I was thankful, but why hadn’t my mom felt any pain? I was about to lose my best friend, how was I supposed to live without her?  Who was I going to lean on?

Finally, I asked the one question I dreaded. “How long does she have?”

She answered, “It’s difficult to say. It might be several months or maybe a few weeks.”

Her hesitation forced me to ask again, “You’ve been through this with a lot of families, so I don’t want you to hold back. I need to know the truth. What do you think?” I waited for her answer; an answer I really didn’t want  to hear.

“I’m so sorry, but I’d say she probably only has a week. You can take her home tomorrow, and her family and friends can visit. We’ll make her comfortable and be there when you need us.”

The floodgates opened and I sobbed until I couldn’t shed another tear. I hated it, but I had work to do, starting with telling my mom we were going home  -  for the last time.














Margaret A. Ebens 1920 - 2017

Margaret Anna Ebens, 97, closed her eyes and drifted off to Heaven in the Arms of Angels on Friday, Oct. 27, 2017 at home with her family by her side. She fought a valiant fight against breast cancer on three separate occasions, never ceasing to amaze us all with her resiliency. Unfortunately, the cancer metastasized and took a stronger hold than even Margaret could battle. Born April 1, 1920 in Rockford, Illinois, she was the eldest daughter of the late Fred Two and Anna (Anderson) Two. She married and celebrated 70 years of marriage with Ralph L. Ebens. She graduated in 1938 from Central High School, one of the last graduating classes before the city voted to build Rockford East and Rockford West High School. She worked briefly at National Lock doing piece work during World War II. Having lived through the Great Depression, Margaret knew the value of the dollar and hard work. Working hand in hand with Ralph, she became homemaker, secretary, bookkeeper, financial wizard, and handyman as they built a fuel and heating business, remodeled and reconstructed 30 plus apartment buildings, built their lifetime home and cared for their growing family. Ralph and Margaret enjoyed traveling. From the Hot Air Balloons in New Mexico, The Grand Canyon, Yosemite Park, Branson, Mt. Rushmore and the ultimate adventure to Alaska in their motorhome. Many memories were made and shared. Margaret thrived as a "snowbird", spending 40 years wintering in Fort Myers, Florida. She was a butterfly escaping her cocoon when she joined the ladies group and sang in the choir at nursing homes for the "elderly". So many life changing events from donning slacks instead of dresses, to joining craft clubs and going to theaters and dinner shows with her lady friends. She enjoyed riding her three wheeler around the park, stopping to talk to this neighbor or that one along the way. She loved to crochet afghans and pillows and shared so many with friends and family. Even at 97, she proved that cancer couldn't take her sharp mind as she completed cryptograms and sudoku puzzles every day. She kept a precise log of expenditures and still did her own taxes. Her greatest pride, will always be, her five generation family. She was happiest when spending time with them. Her spontaneous smile and generous hugs were shared by all.

Rest In Peace my sweet Mom