To Remember
A Mother's Journal
by
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I couldn’t wait until I would have her home with me again and I would be able to take care of her. Monday, April 25, was the beginning of her second week of radiation treatments, and she was feeling pretty good when she got to my house. After we got home from the hospital, a Social Service worker visited and assured us that Terry would be entitled to benefits. Later in the afternoon, Terry took a shower and her hair started to fall off in clumps. I knew this was a heartbreaking experience for her, since she had such beautiful hair. I calmly said, "I guess it’s time we start looking for a wig. She tried to hide her despair by making light of it. "Is this what they mean when they say you feel lightheaded?" I just said, "You’re a nut," and left the room before she would see the tears in my eyes. When she got to my house the next day, she said she wished it were Friday so it would be the last day of radiation. It really was getting to her. While we were waiting for Terry to get her treatment, an elderly lady was brought down for radiation and was left in the hall, being ignored for quite a while. She looked so pitiful that my heart went out to her. I saw she was crying and frightened so I went over to comfort her. I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen to a loved one of mine. I told her about Terry and she cried for us and asked God to bless us. I also asked God to bless her too and told her not to cry, but to smile, because God loved her and would be with her. I held her hand and prayed that she would feel better. I left her smiling. The nurse came out and told us that Terry would have to go upstairs for a blood test before we went home today. We went up to the first floor lab, but it was mobbed with people waiting for tests. I called the Oncology Clinic on the fourth floor and they said I could bring Terry up there for her blood test. I was so relieved. She would never be able to sit for two or three hours in that wheel chair. After her blood test, we went to Social Services to get the papers for her disability claim. When we got home, she was hungry and enjoyed some French toast. After doing some paper work and filling out some forms, she slept all afternoon until George came to take her home. When she came the following morning, she looked and felt much better. The results of the blood tests she had taken yesterday were good and she exclaimed, "Wow, I’m human again!" The nurses were also happy for her. It was amazing; everyone who met her, loved her and wished her well. The elderly woman we had met yesterday was waiting in the hall again. She picked up her hand to wave at me, then turned to look at Terry, stared at her for a while and gave her a big smile. I said, "I wish I could just hold you tight and make you well. Why didn’t this happen to me instead of you. It’s not fair. You have your whole life ahead of you yet and two girls to raise." People were passing and staring at the two of us holding each other and sobbing, but I didn’t care. I had waited over five months to tell her these things. She kissed me on the cheek and said, "Don’t cry, Mom. It’s all right." I said, "No, it’s not all right and it’s not fair either. You have to let me cry now and let it out and you will never see me cry again. I am going to be with you every step of the way. No matter what it takes, I will help you in any way that I can." She was sobbing uncontrollably and trembling. We were hugging each other tightly and that’s the way Carl found us. He asked, "What happened?" "Nothing," I answered. " We’re okay now." I kept my promise to Terry and she never saw me cry again, no matter how bad things were. And there were many bad days. The next few days she continued to have pain in her abdomen. With the constant pain, she wasn’t able to eat or sleep much and seemed to be wasting away. On Monday, August fifteenth, her cousin Mary took her for her blood test and not even an hour after she was home, the doctor called to tell her she would have to go to the hospital on Tuesday. He said she would be getting a new type of treatment, which would take three days and a possible blood transfusion. She didn’t seem to mind going in to the hospital. She seemed to be resigned to accept whatever happened now, or was she just too sick to care? When we brought her to the hospital the next morning, she was spirited and full of fun. She was joking with the nurses, making faces and, in general, keeping things light and happy. What an actress! She hesitated putting on her pajamas and I asked her why. She looked at me and with a little smile said, "It just seems too final." We left her at suppertime and called her at the hospital a little later. She was very upset that a nurse had been trying to insert an intravenous line into her left arm rather than into the access in her port-a-cath. The first chemo treatment of the new series was started the next morning. She was groggy, tired and very depressed. She was having so much trouble with frequent urination that she couldn’t rest or get any sleep. "Mom, I don’t think I can handle two more days of this treatment." I told her to hold on because maybe this treatment would do the trick. Deep down my heart was breaking for her. A few minutes later, my family doctor came in to see her and told her to relax and get better for all her loved ones. She said very weakly, "I’m trying my best, doctor." I took her temperature and it was a little high. As she was napping, I just sat and watched her. Her breathing was fast and shallow and her whole body was trembling. I didn’t know whether to wake her or not. I touched her arm lightly, but she seemed to be in a deep sleep and didn’t waken. I checked and she had a fast pulse rate of 120. She opened her eyes, looked at me, smiled and went back to sleep. Later, when she awakened, she teased me about taking her temperature and pulse rate. My daughter Joan came down to visit and we went to see Terry. There was none of the usual jokes and quips that day. Terry was barely able to smile as we tried to keep up a light conversation. I thought to myself, "How much thinner is she going to get?" When we left, Joan had tears in her eyes. As we walked to the car, she said, "Mom, she looks terrible." I answered, "Joan, Terry is not going to make it." She looked away and neither of us spoke on the way home. Terry was scheduled for radiation simulation on October seventeenth. It was getting almost impossible for her to get in and out of the wheel chair or car. We knew then that we would have to get her an ambulance to transport her to the hospital for her treatments. When she came out of the simulation room, she was completely exhausted. She was in a hospital gown and asked me to help her get dressed. She was almost limp. As I helped her, I don’t know how I was able to control myself and not cry out in horror. It was no wonder she was limp and unable to move. Her body looked as if a madman had decided to paint her with a purple marker. It was horrible. There didn’t seem to be a clear spot left anywhere on her body. I couldn’t believe this was happening. She was very uncomfortable and in a lot of pain most of the day. We brought her home and she went right to bed. I watched her sleeping and she moaned and twitched and was breathing spasmodically. Her face was beginning to take on a skeletal look and worse yet, when her eyes were open, they had a frightened, haunted look. All I could think was, "I’m watc
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About the Book
They were only eleven and fourteen years old when their mother died. My two granddaughters Tara and Jaime felt abandoned and were angry at my daughter, Terry, when she died of an inoperable tumor at age forty. It was important that I let them know every detail of how their lovely, vivacious mother endured seven long months of pain, and how her body became grotesquely swollen and filled with tumors from her neck down to her legs. They also had to know how hard she had fought during those seven months to survive, without ever losing her sense of humor or love for her family. She wanted so much to survive so she would be able to see her girls grow up into womanhood. The cancer, however, was very rare and ugly and she lost her battle. Since I was with her, every step of the way, I was the only one who could relate the details of the anguish and pain she endured those seven months and finally the agony of separating herself from her family to seek her peace. It tore me apart to put all the notes together into a book. Many nights I had to stop because I couldn’t see through the tears, but it had to be done so my granddaughters would know and remember. This book is my tribute to my brave, lovely daughter, Terry.
About the Author
Anna S. Ardizzone is a retired great-grandmother who has been happily married to her childhood sweetheart, Carl, for over fifty years. Getting married in the World War II years presented many problems and challenges. However, they managed to raise their three children together to adulthood. The early years of their marriage were spent in Brooklyn, N.Y. and then because of Carl’s job in the garment industry, they moved to New Jersey in the late "fifties."
While the children were young, Anna worked on and off at part-time jobs. As they were growing up, she took a full time job with Metropolitan Life Insurance Co. in New York City. After twenty-one years, she retired and they moved to an adult community in southern New Jersey. A year later, Carl retired and they both were active in volunteering in their community and the local hospital in many capacities. When there daughter, Theresa (Terry) got sick in early 1988, Anna resigned from all her volunteer activities and dedicated all her time to taking care of her daughter. Together, she and Carl lovingly supported each other to survive the tragic loss of a child.
Two years after Terry’s death, she decided to write a book about the illness and death of a child and she also returned to work on a part- time basis.
Today she is fully retired, still very happily married, and together with Carl, she enjoys their lovely family of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.