growth

We had an MRI scheduled for this past Tuesday, and on Wednesday the images confirmed my suspicion, that mom's cancer had grown. The images showed growth by a few millimeters at several nodes, or whatever they're called, as well as a new area of growth. Certainly explains her behavior. She took the news surprisingly well, though I think a lot of that might have been her confusion. So we'll begin Temodar again, which she stopped when she was hospitalized for pneumonitis. Since March her only cancer treatment has been Avastin.

She is still confused about cars, houses, and me. While I was still asleep this morning she left the house. She's gone on a few walks before, which we've told her aren't safe. She could get lost, hit by a car, mugged, etc. I woke up to a phone call from my grandmother, whose golf friends had seen my mom wander across the course nearby. I drove up and down the streets. The sheriff sent a car out to help look. I got her on the phone a few times, but she has so little focus that she couldn't tell me where she was. About forty minutes after she left the house I found her. She was wearing black wool--it was 95 degrees outside. She was covered in grass clippings. I took her inside and she passed out on the sofa.

In an ideal world we'd find a great assisted living place nearby that magically paid for itself. I'd pack up the house and sell. I'd get a cheap apartment near downtown and return to some sense of independence. I could work part-time again and spend the rest of my time with mom at the facility. Maybe I'd start writing my thesis and finish my MA. Yeah, that'd be nice.

Instead, we're increasing the Risperdal, hoping it helps with her confusion and delusions. At night I take all the keys out of the deadbolts so that she can't open any exterior doors while I'm asleep. Last night I slept for nine hours and it was glorious; I only woke up twice to check and make sure she was still in the house.



Image: Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World," 1948.

drugs and food

I was not wowed. Then again, I'm not really sure what he could have said to wow me. My mother's psychiatrist did tell us, however, that this impostor paranoia is actually rather common for brain tumor patients. When I asked for a diagnosis, he gave us "psychotic disorder due to a general medical condition." Or medication.

He gave us 3 likely causes:
1) The methylphenidate (Ritalin) prescribed to increase mom's attention and concentration. Rare.
2) Stopping the risperidone (Risperdal) which was prescribed a few months back when mom was in the hospital with pneumonia. I wasn't present when this was prescribed, and I'm still not sure why it was given to her. It's a mood stabilizer, but her psychiatrist was never consulted. He suggested we discontinue as he saw no need. Rare-ish.
3) The cancer. He was, I assume, intentionally vague about this, not wanting to suggest that it may have spread and could be affecting new areas of her brain. Makes sense.

So we're cutting the Ritalin and restarting the Risperdal. Regardless, we have an MRI scheduled in two weeks, so all his bases should be covered by the end of the month.



What's with the picture? For the last few weeks I've had no desire for food. That isn't to say I'm not hungry--I am! But there isn't a thing that sounds the least bit appetizing. I stock the fridge and cabinets with high-calorie snack foods to try to keep mom's weight up. Six months ago a house full of cookies and chips would have been a dangerous place for me. I can snack like nobody's business. Not anymore apparently. I drink a lot of sparkling water, but usually around 8 or 9 at night I'm too hungry to focus on anything. I force myself to eat a frozen lasagna dinner and then I have a couple beers. Thank you, Lean Cuisine and Brooklyn Brewery, for your sustenance.

Image: Vincenzo Campi's "Christ in the House of Mary and Martha," c. 1575, link.