In January 2015, the husband of a friend was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The diagnosis for this man who was in great health came so suddenly and shockingly to everyone, but even more appalling was that it took his life just two months later. No hope was ever offered, except that of a miracle. But one never came.
That Friday night, April 24th, 2015, I sat at my leadership conference with friends as we enjoyed the speakers sharing from the stage. Six months pregnant and already uneasy from my shattered tumbler at the airport, I was attentive to my phone for texts from my husband about how things were going at home. I wasn’t prepared for the text that did arrive as I sat there in the crowd—a group text from my Uncle Richard, my Dad’s brother, sent to me and to my brother Tony. I had been told that my uncle was supposed to take Dad for an evaluation for a kidney transplant, which he had already been turned down for once. They were hoping for a second chance. The text I received from my uncle first reminded us of that plan, but it ended in a very different way than expected. While doing routine testing, doctors had found a mass…in his pancreas…and further testing was needed. My gut already knew what this meant. A death sentence.
Sitting there I began to cry. The night’s activities were ending, and friends began to gather around me to inquire about my tears. I shared with them my instinctual interpretation of events, also explaining that my uncle’s text indicated that my father refused to be treated or tested further at the hospital that day, instead opting to return to his own familiar doctors to take the issue from there. Stubborn, to say the least, and hardly taking an aggressive approach to a seemingly awful possibility. There was no comforting me or convincing me of any positive outcome. So I did the one thing I could do. I called Dad.
Dad was at home taking the situation in and planning ahead to see his doctors come Monday. I told him I wasn’t happy with his decision not to get further testing done immediately. He understood, but he wanted his way. So it wasn’t till almost a week later when he was finally scheduled to have an MRI done. Immediately following the exam, he was so weak that he fell and needed assistance getting back up. Unfortunately, that scan was not helpful in determining whether the mass was cancer or not. He was then scheduled for a biopsy, but not for yet another week. Before that test could be done, he fell again outside his home and needed assistance getting up. Finally, now two full weeks after the mass was found, Dad fell a third time inside his home, this time cutting his elbow on some furniture; he was alone and could not get back up. Convinced of his own weakness, Dad called Uncle Richard to come take him to the hospital. Friday, May 8th, was the last time he would see his home.
That afternoon I called Dad after I heard about his third fall. I scolded him, suddenly feeling a sense of urgency and disgust at how out of hand the situation had become. He admitted his need for help. I know that was not easy for him to do. Hurting and distraught, he said he would finally go to the hospital. I made sure he heard my dis-ease about his state. But I also told him I loved him. “I love you too, sweetheart,” he said, like always.
My next call was to my husband Alex. We discussed Dad’s condition and that he really needed someone to be with him especially that coming week. I knew neither my brother nor my uncle could really be with Dad at every turn. If I went, I’d have to take our girls out of their last week of school and bring them with me to Massachusetts, as difficult as traveling with the kids without Alex would be. Ultimately, we concluded it would be best for Alex to fly up there because he could work remotely while caring for Dad. Alex left the next day.
On Saturday Dad had the biopsy taken of the mass in his pancreas. He was extremely weak, jaundice now and mentally groggy. My mother, brother and husband together visited him Sunday morning while Dad was still in the same state. Dad had some trouble communicating clearly but smiled at pictures of his grandchildren and at other parts of their conversations in his hospital room. Apparently, after their visit, he became quite lucid and talkative, eating on his own and joking with the nurses. I know there’s a medical term for this moment…the period of time just before the impending end where a patient is invigorated and alert…just before the impending end.
To be continued…
The Art of Choosing True Life 