And Then There Was the Flood

My mom got sick. And then, there was the flood...

Mom started showing signs that something was wrong, just before Christmas. Her body was rounding in the middle, she was tired, easily out of breath, and not very hungry. We weren’t sure what to do with the Christmas ham we cooked. It ended up in the freezer, made into many soup related dishes as months drew on.

In the new year, she became even rounder, stomach taught, her ribs migrating from their homes along the right side of her body. Her liver disrupted daily events, causing a spectacle of itself. Isolating herself in the basement, I took her meals. I really had no clue how sick she was becoming. Her laundry piled up and so did the days she spent mostly alone. When I was with her, I sat in a wooden rocking chair she used when she nursed me as a baby.

She was convinced to see a doctor, which was not an easy task as most doctor’s appointments are done over the phone now. Next, tests, the water that invaded abdominal cavities, ultrasounds, then bad news. Ascites. This condition is not curable, caused most often by cirrhosis of the liver. My mother had the non-alcoholic variety, possibly caused by fatty liver disease and maybe made worse by radiation for breast cancer on her right side, right above her liver. The liver is full of scar tissue now and not working to clear her body of fluid. The fluid makes a home in her belly and legs. Only a liver transplant can fix this problem and she most likely wouldn’t qualify due to age and other health concerns. I know this because my dad didn’t qualify ten years ago when he needed new lungs and the same medical conditions prevented the transplant.

I am her caregiver, her legs, meal delivery, and on bed-tucking-in duty. Gradually, the fluid crushes her organs, shrinks her capacity to breathe. Coughing becomes the vile soundtrack to our days.

She receives two paracentesis treatments. A hole is poked through the abdomen to the fluid and the fluid is drained. She feels better for 24 hours. The fluid returns again and again.

She goes to the emergency room one day when her skin is painted grey. Unable to walk up the stairs from her basement bedroom, she must be carried, in a chair, by the paramedics. She is in the hospital for five days with an infection. I'm relieved to have a break, if I’m honest. Knowing she is looked after by those who know what to do, is comforting. I’m not permitted to visit— Covid protocol, but we speak several times a day. The hospital is about a five minute drive from our house.

And then came the flood. Spring melt came rushing into the basement, spraying out of a crack, somewhere. The irony of water flooding my mother’s body and flooding our home is not lost. God has a cruel sense of humour.

My husband borrows a shop vac, uses every available towel and blanket to staunch the flow. The carpet is ruined. We phone the insurance company and they send emergency cleaners. The cleaners rescue the floor, where days before, paramedics rescued my mother. The floor is dried out by five industrial sized fans running for 72 hours straight. My husband does all the laundry. I pick up my mother from the hospital. She is still an island inside herself, surrounded by rough seas.

We make arrangements. Palliative care. Nurses, doctors, health care workers, equipment, visitors, phone calls, and deliveries from florists. We dismantle my office, make it a bedroom. Mom sleeps next door to us now. I listen for her to call out my name. In the basement, furniture is piled and life is on hold.

We do the best we can to love one another in the time we have left. How much time? How much love? We don’t know.

Many nights, I am awoken from dreams about tidal waves and the dry land we can see before the ocean returns.