And so it goes

No more treatments. Her body can't take anymore, and at this point they are no longer prolonging a viable standard of living.

She has developed vocal cord paralysis--could be the result of the two years of chemo, or radiation, or the combination of both, or rogue, cancerous cells too small for even the PET Scan to pick up on that are nestling on the nerves. Whatever the reason, she can't talk comfortably--when she is awake--and she can't eat solids anymore.

She has no appetite and the doctors seem reluctant to push her to eat. Pain management and gentle hydration they tell us, to support comfort.

***

Except that you cannot survive long on 'gentle hydration' even under fairly regular healthy conditions, let alone hers.

So I don't understand, and neither does P., why they seem to be advocating something that in theory and in logic does not sound like comfort to either of us. P. is tired and weary and at this point can't argue it tonight; she's been handling the minefield of tests and updates and everything mostly alone, the last couple of days, while I've been mostly playing chauffeur (to my aunt so she can relieve P. at nights, at least) and doing the food shopping and other errands for my dad and other aunt, in between trying to take care of a little boy who is starting to be a little bewildered by a mom who seems to come and go with no rhyme or reason lately, whose too bright voice and too upbeat manner probably isn't fooling him a bit.

Tomorrow, though, the two of us will do what those papers we drew up ten years ago said we could do--although we never dreamed it would be for this--and be the best advocate we can for our mom, together. Neither of us want to hurt or cause her more pain, but we also don't want to stop before one last good fight, because we know she has it in her for just one more. She may not have her voice anymore, but she has us and she raised us to always say the difficult things out loud, and not shy away from them. We owe her that much, at least.