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Cancer: a story of one
By Jenn LeBlanc
jkerriga@mscd.edu

Each year in the United States hundreds of thousands of people pass away from cancer-related deaths. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website, in 2004 alone, there were 550,270 cancer-related deaths. Cancer is the second leading cause of death in the United States, behind only heart disease.

Due to the ubiquitous nature of cancer it is easy to dismiss these statistics as just a number. But behind each of these deaths is a personal story of pain, suffering and often indescribable loss. In order to understand this effect of cancer, not just on the victim but on the people who surround them, it is helpful to experience one person’s account of this tragic disease.

Because of this, The Metropolitan offers the following photographic and written account of photographer Jenn LeBlanc’s own struggle with her mother’s tragic illness, and the sacrifices her family made.

Photo by Jenn LeBlanc • jkerriga@mscd.edu Auberry Lee was afraid to touch her grandma when she came to the hospice. I believe she thought if she felt it, touched it, it would then be real. She could not take her eyes off of her, but I had to help her hold her hand.

She was my mother, and this is her story.

We did everything we could to help her. I quit my job and made special arrangements for my daughters so I could stay in school and Mom would be able to rest. She said my 4-year-old daughter, Gabrielle, was her daily blood-pressure medication and that just watching her play made her feel better.

On Aug. 28, Mom collapsed and was rushed to the emergency room. After the doctors stabilized her, she was admitted to the hospital for dehydration.

It was strange visiting my mother at the hospital. It seemed every time I took her to the emergency room, three or four times during the summer of 2005, her room moved closer and closer to the nurses’ station and farther away from the elevators and the exits.

We had a meeting with her doctors and decided to place her in hospice care. She would no longer receive active treatment for her cancer; rather, a hospice team would visit her at home. Their only goal was to manage her pain. She also signed a “do not resuscitate” order, which was posted on the front door of her house like an evil warning to visitors. It all meant that there was truly nothing left to do to save my mom.

Photo by Jenn LeBlanc • jkerriga@mscd.edu Unlike Auberry, Gabrielle needed to be right next to Grandma the entire time we were there. She was in costant contact with her, sitting next to her, resting on her, holding her hand. But, Gabrielle would not look at her grandma. She was scared.

Every day I went to her home to help her, to hook up her IV so she wouldn’t become dehydrated, and to bring different foods to see if there was something she could eat. She had developed a blockage in her intestines, an effect of the cancer that prevented her from eating anything with fiber. Gabrielle and I spent a lot of time wandering through grocery stores trying to find things she might be able to eat. It didn’t help that nothing tasted good because the chemotherapy and the medications had destroyed her taste buds.

On one trip, Gabrielle happened upon some grape-flavored Elmo applesauce and decided it was worth a shot. Whether Mom ate it because it worked or because she desperately wanted Gabrielle to feel better I’ll never know, but because her grandchildren meant the world to her, my guess is the latter. Even on her worst days she did everything she could to be with them, talk to them and spend time with them. Even Gabrielle knew that something was very wrong with her grandma and tried to think up ways to help her.

Photo by Jenn LeBlanc • jkerriga@mscd.edu Mom always sat on her stoop to see us off in the morning, she loved to hear Gabrielle’s stories about her adventures as a “big girl.”

The reality of dealing with a loved one who has a terminal illness is unfathomable. My family was “prepared” for this. We all knew Mom was going to die. It was inevitable. We had even been given a deadline. But to say that you can prepare yourself for the loss of your mother is like saying you can prepare your home for a tsunami. Stay close to it, hold on and live through it. Not likely.

On Oct. 7, 2005, I dropped Gabe off at preschool and went straight to Mom’s as usual. There was a horrible smell. If death has a smell, this was it. Mom had me call her hospice nurse, and I could tell she was scared. When the nurse arrived, she told me that Mom was bleeding out. She held my mom’s hand and recommended we call for a transport to take my mom to the hospice.

The first thing to run through my mind was that it was only October. She had a year. She had until February. This wasn’t right and she couldn’t be going to the hospice already. This was wrong and somebody had made a terrible mistake.

I walked outside with the transport team and stood by Mom. She was so exhausted from being moved that they stopped to let her catch her breath. She leaned on me, and I put my arm around her. She said she was going to be all right, that everything would be all right. Then she lay down as they put her in the ambulance and drove away. She never spoke to me again.

The next morning when we arrived at the hospice, her face was tight and her entire body looked tense. The one time she came around she seemed to be begging for help, but the words just wouldn’t come out. Her expression was excruciating. I straightened her head on the pillow. I told her it was OK. I told her we were going to be OK. I lied. She did not regain consciousness again.

I went home that evening to pick up some things. As soon as I walked through the door my phone rang. It was my sister. She said I needed to get back. I left immediately, but by the time I reached the hospice she was already gone. I screamed, “No, Momma, no,” over and over again. But she couldn’t hear me.

Life is very different now. The feelings of abandonment and extreme loneliness have subsided but still remain. I imagine they always will. My mom was everything to me. She was the one person in the world I believe truly understood me, and now she is gone.