Abstract
In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:"A Mother's Love"Katie L. GholsonWho is going to teach my daughter about becoming a woman?" S said to me. S was 38 and diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She and her husband were high school sweethearts, and she had a young son and a daughter. She had been told that there was no cure for her cancer, and at the point of meeting her, very little was able to be done to manage her symptoms.As a mother of a young daughter, I was humbled by the question she asked me. Her daughter was 12 and was just beginning to learn about becoming a woman. The anticipatory grief of not having the opportunities to care for one's own children in the crucial moments of their development was devastating to S. Her ability to name what she grieves the most was profoundly sad to me and the other team members who witnessed it.As a palliative care chaplain, I am used to sad and tragic cases, but this one felt different. S and I had [End Page 80] a lot in common. I am also 38, married to my high school sweetheart, and I have a son and a daughter. Of course, it was not just these reasons that I felt a connection to S. It was also the tangible despair I felt when I was with her. As a chaplain, I am trained to meet people where they are and not to hurry them from a place of despair and anguish. I visited with S nine different times and watched the progression of her existential distress. Her distress was not always linear. Some days, it took a backseat and other days, it was front and center, but I was there to be a witness to whatever she was thinking and feeling, and a lot of times, it was inexpressible grief.S did not want to meet with "palliative care" initially. She was terrified of her diagnosis and believed that there were treatments that would give her back the life she desired. She was fierce and determined. S was also religious and believed that there was a miraculous cure for her that would allow her the time she desired to spend with her children and her husband. S was a softball mom and loved to watch her daughter play. While in the hospital, she missed many games, and this weighed on her.Along with being an athlete, S's daughter was very artistic and made S a bouquet of paper flowers. Each flower contained an encouraging phrase. S opened one while I was in her room. She had lost her hair, much of her body weight, and was wearing a hospital gown, but when she opened the flower, her daughter had written, "You are beautiful, Mom." In that moment, two 38-year-old women understood that beauty transcends outward appearances. S was beautiful: her story, her life, and her courage.S loved to walk around the hallway of her unit. I think she felt if she could keep moving, she could stay alive. She was able to take a walk outside a few times while she was inpatient and getting fresh air was very positive to her. These walks not only gave her the ability to widen her environmental space, but they also gave her space to think and consider the difficult situation she was faced with. I accompanied her on one of her walks. It was while we walked next to each other that she was able to finally share with me that she was afraid. She told me that the fear of not getting home, and the fear of death was overwhelming. I find that sometimes people can be vulnerable when they are not feeling interrogated by a medical team staring at them as they lay in a hospital bed. The "normal" activity of taking a walk and being side-by-side humanized the experience and I think S felt that at that moment, she could talk to me human-to-human—like friend-to-friend.When S finally decided to go home on hospice, I collected some legacy project supplies. I went to the hospital...
