Wednesday, February 6, 2008

My Dad and I didn't realize that Betty wasn't aware of the extent of her illness. They just came home from a day and a half at Kaiser in Redwood City, and she went to go stand on the deck by the creek. She's missing a small patch of hair where they performed the biopsy. I came to say hi to her, and she looked closely at me and said, "The news isn't good." I learned from my Dad a couple minutes later that no one had directly told her that her cancer was terminal until this afternoon. We went to sit on the couch to talk. I couldn't tell if her leaning on me was entirely due to her now complete lack of balance, or if it was some small attempt at displaying affection.

We went on to begin our discussion about what to do next. The analysis of the biopsy isn't complete yet, so it's hard to say anything positively, but the doctors project that any medical treatment will be useless. They were shocked at her rapid rate of decline. It usually doesn't happen so quickly; what's happened in the past two weeks typically spans over 6 months.

Today her balance is much worse. As we speak, my dad is helping her up from a fall she just took in the bathroom. (Up until just now, she was able to use the bathroom on her own). She naturally gears over to the left to the point where she falls. We are really beginning to need help. There's only so much the two of us can do.