“She’s at peace now,” my Aunt Val consoled me on Tuesday. My mother had died just hours before this phone call. “Your mom fought a tough battle, and dealt with a lot of pain–way worse than any Ironman.”
I was at my mother’s bedside during her final hours. They were a challenge for her, and for my nephew and I, who were on-duty that night. While we knew her end was coming, no one in my family thought it would be that night. I was unprepared and shaken by what happened in those final moments.
My aunt was right: those moments were nothing like an Ironman.
An Ironman is a joyous celebration of what the body can accomplish. A body fighting for the final breaths is anything but joyous. It is violent, scary – and then still. Very, very still.
The endurance required for an Ironman is nothing at all compared to the suffering and pain my mom was forced to endure over the past year, as she fought and eventually lost her battle with pancreatic cancer. A bout with cancer is the ultimate test of the human body and spirit. Pancreatic cancer is an especially ugly version of this disease; it rarely–if ever–leaves survivors.
My mother’s fight with cancer was a testament to the human spirit, the human will to fight, to the human spirit’s ability to be brave, to sustain much before it finally gives in to a power that is stronger.
I cannot even begin to comprehend the level of endurance that my mother called upon, day after day for the past 7 months, as she grappled with the seemingly infinite amount of complications that pancreatic cancer brings with it.
I like to think that as she crossed her finish line in the wee hours of the morning on June 12, she was greeted by the sounds of heaven’s version of Mike Reilly, welcoming her to a place where there is no pain, no vomiting, no treatments, and most importantly no cancer.
The day before she died, I was at her house. The late stages of the disease made it challenging to have a comprehensible conversation with her, which led to some humorous interactions to be sure. But, there is one that is sticking with me now as I think about the events of the last few days.
She said to me, “I going run.”
I laughed. This was coming from a pack-a-day smoker, who had never run 50 meters in her life. I knew her mind was mixing events and ideas, and I figured she was trying to talk to me about my running.
“Yeah, mom,” I asked, “you’re going running?”
She looked at me, with her head cocked like I was asking an incredibly stupid question, and said, nodding her head, “Yeah. We’rerunning.”
At the time, I didn’t think much of this interchange. I figured it the product of a particularly intoxicating mix of fetanyl patches and sublingual morphine, with a side of metastasizing cancer that was clearly spreading into her brain.
Now, I think of it as her way of telling me she will always be with me. We’ll always be running together.
Eileen Simone – YOU are my ironman.
I’ll miss you, Mom.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
My mother’s battle is over, but we do not have to stop the fight. In her honor, I’m raising funds for Gilda’s Club of South Jersey, as I prepare for Ironman Mont Tremblant. If you’d like to donate, click here. My goal is to raise $5000 by August 19, 2012. Any amount is greatly appreciated. Thank you!
