Memory #12 -- Hello Pittsburgh

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I hope you had a good one and the opportunity to spend time with your mother, grandmother, mothers-to be, or maybe away from one of your mother-trucking neighbors whose dog will simply NOT stop barking.

It was not an easy Mother's Day here, as this was the first that we spent without Deb. Excuse me while I wipe dry the tears that have pooled up around the right side of my keyboard: O, P, {, : and L.

Since December I've been consumed with my own grief. And told by therapists that it is important to take time for myself. Self-care is the technical term they like to use. Along with the analogy that when you watch the anodyne safety instruction video on a plane, the corporate banality always starts with the command, 

"In the event of loss of pressure or oxygen in the cabin, always put your mask on first, then you can assist your children with theirs." 

It's a little counter-intuitive, because a mother's (and a father's) first inclination is to protect the children. However, the truth is you can't do that if you're passed out in your seat. 

Yesterday was not about this odd notion of self-care. I've never been easy on myself or nor failed to beat myself up over some regret or mistake. I don't think I can start doing that now. 

Yesterday was about my daughters, Rachel and Abby. It was time to put on their figurative oxygen masks. So I took my wife's two bicycles, that had been hanging on rafter hooks in the garage and had them restored. It was my Mother's Day gift to my now motherless children.

Which brings us to today's memory.

A year ago today, when it became apparent Deb's chemo therapy had stopped working, we were contacted by the lead surgeon on her Oncology team. He told us about the country's only live liver transplant program performed at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, one of the finest and largest in the country. How large?

It seems every barber shop, pizzeria and hardware store in the city of Pittsburgh is somehow connected to UPMC. They are that ubiquitous.

"Large pepperoni pie, did you want a CT scan for gallstones with that?"

Without getting into all the anatomical details, the idea was to remove Deb's cancerous liver and replace it with a 1/3 or 1/2 half a live liver from a living, breathing donor. Being old and sodden with years of bourbon-sipping, my liver was out of the question. But my two beautiful daughters, who loved their mother with all their heart, jumped at the opportunity to go under the knife and donate part of their livers. 

"Take mine, I was the first born."

"No, take mine, Rachel is lactose intolerant. And she eats all those spicy Salami nuggets."

"Well I signed up for the gym at the YMCA."

"So what, I do yoga classes, my liver is better."

"My liver is better."

And so it went.

Technical aside: it should be noted that the liver is one of the few organs in the human body that can regenerate itself. And so it was hoped that in a year of rehab and careful monitoring, Deb would have a brand new healthy liver, because each of my kids has a heart of gold. 

When told about the yearlong recuperative process which included massive bedrest, much of it in Pittsburgh, Deb's first words were, "Rich, I can't put you through that, what are we gonna do?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Don't worry."

Sadly, we never reached that bridge. Our 48 hour excursion to Pittsburgh, which included all kinds of blood tests, scans, even a psychological examination, resulted in the disappointing news that because Debbie's tumor was so tied into her vascular system, she would not be a suitable candidate for the operation. 

So, instead of one of my girls sporting a scar and a hole where a full healthy liver once resided, we found ourselves 7 months later, each of us wounded, with a gaping hole that will never be filled.

#FUCKCANCER