by Nellie Curtiss …
The Mayo Clinic’s website defines Emphysema as “a lung condition that causes shortness of breath. In people with emphysema, the air sacs in the lungs (alveoli) are damaged.” For Mom, Emphysema was diagnosed in 1995. It is a chronic obstructive pulmonary disease or COPD. Later her diagnosis included lung cancer which took her life at only 76.
Emphysema impacts families. For example, my sisters exchanged weekends to care for Mom. Like so many others in our country, five family members have suffered with Emphysema, COPD and lung cancer—all tied to smoking, chewing, vaping. One uncle lost a lung. Contrary to a smokers’ feelings that the cigarette is a buddy, Emphysema is no friend and in my Mom’s case was a direct result of her fifty-year Pall-Mall cigarette habit. At that time, there was no such thing as Quitline or other easy access quitting resources.
In my family, my sisters continued to spell each other as they watched and interacted with mom. From Colorado, I made regular and daily calls to give mom the clues for her latest crossword puzzles. She soon became the champ, and I became resourceful. I could look up words in the online dictionary, pull up the online thesaurus and I really lucked out when I found the New York Times online puzzle source. Dialing her up on Saturdays at noon, we’d enjoy a PB&J sandwich with one another—1700 miles apart. We talked about words, about plays on words, about sentences, about birds, movie stars, aerospace, medicine, and asthma. We didn’t talk much about emphysema.
On the Galveston side of the connection, my siblings were bath aids for Mom; they shared the duties of scheduling her for her routine doctor appointments and for her oncologist appointments. They would conjure up fresh stew, barbecue, lasagna, or meatballs with spaghetti for Mom. My sisters arranged their lives around caring for Mom—much like Mom cared for all of us for so long. A doorbell stood in the living room with a matching button in her room. Mom didn’t have to yell anymore; she merely pushed the button.
Mom would sit in her red chair with coffee cup (and Folgers or Taster’s Choice in the cup) on one side and phone on the other. My sisters taped their work numbers to the wall beside her chair, too. Beside mom’s feet, crossword puzzle books, dictionary and other helps were stacked. Her handy remote controlled the afternoon soaps and HBO specials. Across the living room, Mom enjoyed looking at her sister’s big as life, framed and painted portrait in oils. (Aunt Leona died several years earlier due to Alzheimer’s.)
The Christmas that Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer, my son and I drove to the island. When we came through the door, Mom was in her chair; when she ambled about the house her oxygen tube dragged behind. Standing at the kitchen counter, she garnished her own sandwiches at lunchtime, and later she relished our family meals. She ripped off the packaging on Christmas presents as quickly as any of us. Thanks to the digital camera that my son operated, we still enjoy those family closeups.
Mom’s daily treatments included albuterol through a nebulizer, pain medicine under the tongue when needed and inhaler puffs at the count of three. Her lung capacity was well below 10 percent.
This gift of time to laugh and talk with Mom was precious and priceless; but if it hadn’t been for the Pall-Mall cigarettes in the first puff, her early demise via emphysema and lung cancer would never have had to be at all.
Nelda Curtiss is a retired college educator and long-time local columnist. Reach her at http://www.columnsbynellie.com or email her at columnsbynellie@gmail.com
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