fading

Over the past week, we've witnessed a perceptible decrease in Mom's responsiveness to us and to the world. Today in particular, Mom seems very detached from her surroundings. I placed her lunch in front of her and got no reaction, and even had to feed her the entire meal myself. She seemed more attentive while I was next to her and feeding her, but every time I walked away, she slipped back into her mental fog.

I also noticed a change in the color of Mom's right eye; the sclera appears to be darkening, possibly turning yellow. If it's yellow I'm seeing, this could indicate liver problems or even liver failure-- a distinct possibility given the terrible cocktail of meds that Mom ingests daily. We're leaving tomorrow to see the researchers in New York on Tuesday; we might be able to get Mom checked out right there. Maybe the docs will say I'm hallucinating, and that Mom's not having any liver problems. I hope I'm wrong about what's happening inside her.

We're puttering about the house, prepping for tomorrow's drive. Dad took the van out to get its interior cleaned; it's sparkling now, according to him. I'll be driving us partway up to NYC tomorrow, but my brother David will be driving the final section: I'm too much of a wimp to navigate in New York City. I did it years ago, and nearly got nailed by a car that blew by me. Once bitten, twice shy.

Mom's current Avastin-and-carboplatin regimen ends on December 17, when she gets her final dose of Avastin before her next MRI. I'm hoping that we have our consultation with Dr. Fine's team soon after that; it seems to me that the carboplatin hasn't done a thing for Mom, which in turns means that the third tumor has probably been growing freely all this time. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that the third mass had grown to the same size as the two previous masses. Eight weeks is all it takes.

It's not easy to watch Mom fading away like this. Not easy at all.


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