Trial...

I got three, perhaps three and a half hours of sleep yesterday. I was furiously writing, writing down my emotions and about events in the day till one or so.

When I lay down to sleep, I could not. My stomach felt very acidy, and there was a lot of pain that made me feel like vomiting (but I could not, and I did not vomit...). Mum too had a rough night, and was sort of half asleep till three-ish when she asked the nurse to take off her IV drip, for her hand was getting red and swollen.

I could not sleep much, lay awake thinking, or having thoughts run through my head...

Morning rolled around, and unusually it was a beautiful, bright day (to start with at least...) The doctor came in with a consent form, one that is still unsigned and still lying on the table. Consent form for the insertion of the NJ tube, which can be expected to be done either today or wednesday.

Mum still has some questions, about whether it will hurt, about the discomfort and pain. The doctor admitted he had it installed once, and it was uncomfortable to start with, but you'll get used to it.

"Is this the only option?" mum asked.

"It's the best option..." the doctor said it is the only way mum can get any possible nutrients, for her vomiting has again intensified. Yesterday, she threw up four times no less, whereas a few days ago she could still drink soup and liquids without much vomiting. Even last night, when she lay down to sleep around eleven or so, she suddenly called me and said she needed to vomit. And she did, a big bag of brownish liquid. When the nurse gave her some medicine to stop vomiting, within a few minutes, she vomited yet again...

"There may be a chance the [nose] tube may not go through, if it has grown too big..." "It" meaning the tumour, the ugly, ugly tumour that is growing stronger as mum grows ever weaker. "Then it would be more complicated, as we's have to get the team together to see what to do..." The doctor looked uneasy, and hesitated to say what other options there are, if indeed there are any.

As the doctor left, I spoke to him quietly outside mum's room. "If you have a minute later, I'd like to see mum's scans..."

I want to know, I have the right to know, as does mum, though perhaps she does not want to know.

I have this sordid obsession of wanting to see the tumour, see the extent of the "damage" inside. For my sake, perhaps, just to make sure that what I have been imagining, what I have been thinking and the ideas I have been proposing are not too far fetched.

Because we only have a chance at life, we only have a chance at living. We only have a chance at getting it "right" in preparation for the end of life. If there are options we have not looked at, facts mum (and I) do not yet know about, we need to know, and we need to know now.