Note: This blog was written on April 16, 2019. Dad passed away at age 74 on Aug. 5, 2019 …
I hate cancer. We all do. But you really don’t know how much you hate cancer until it gets personal. For me, that’s seeing the toughest man I’ve met struggle with pain and wither away as he fights desperately for more time.
It’s been four months since my dad received his death sentence in the form of bone cancer. Given six months to live since onset, his oncologist had him six feet under by this point (we believe the cancer returned in October, right before his 74th birthday).
As much of a roller coaster as the past several months have been for those of us who love him, I can’t imagine what he’s doing through. I ask often, “How do you feel today?” Some days, he replies, “I feel pretty good today. Hardly any pain.” And there are days like yesterday: “The last four days have been bad, son. The pain is more intense and spreading.”
This is bone cancer in the late stages. It eats away at your body, causing severe, aching, sometimes sharp, pain. For dad, that’s mainly in the left ankle and knee, though it comes and goes in other places.
That said, I’m incredibly grateful to have the time we do. I’ve learned a lot about my dad during the past four months. We’ve done several interviews so that I can learn more and potentially write a book about his life, which is an amazing story. That is, of course, after I finish the other book.
More importantly, this awful disease has brought the family closer together. While my father and I have always been close, I see him far more often now than I have in years. It’s a constant reminder that you should never take people for granted because they aren’t always going to be there.
That last sentence becomes much more clear when somebody you know is on the clock. It could be two months. It could be four months. He might even make it to his 75th birthday in November (a goal he set).
One of my prouder moments as a son came in March. As Dad entered the final stages of his life, he was really struggling with faith. Though never a “religious” man, he always believed in God. This despite living an extremely difficult life well into his 20s, one in which he saw plenty of awful things.
In the times we spoke about faith, he struggled to believe that he’d see his family in the afterlife, to the point of tears. “I just don’t know, son. How can these kinds of things happen if God’s really the way he says he is?”
Though I’ve never been a religious person, I’ve always believed in God. I’ve always believed that the book and movie “The Count of Monte Cristo” summed it up perfectly: “God is in everything.”
As I explained that to my father during our conversation about Heaven and the afterlife, I told Dad that raising two sons who are good men is a fine example of God’s work, as are the plethora of people who have helped him over the last year, including treatments that almost certainly have extended his life several months.
I also reminded him that he survived an episode last fall in which he drove from Overbrook to Gardner in a haze due to a dangerously low sugar level (likely the first sign his cancer had returned). Dad drove along Highway 56 for 40 miles, through Baldwin, through intersections, avoiding cars, ditches, accidents, you name it, without severely injuring himself or dying. That is not luck.
My wife, who has much in common with my father spiritually, gave him the book “Conversations with God,” thinking it would help him get over the hump. A few weeks later, Dad said, “I’m good, son. I finally am at peace.”
Dad explained that many times in the past several months he’d asked God if we would see his sons, grandchildren and family when he dies, code for “Am I going to Heaven?” He said after months of asking, one night he asked and felt God answering him. That eased his pain considerably.
A few weeks ago, Dad was baptized. He expected a small turnout. About 50 people showed up. So, the hermit, one who kept to himself most of his life, has, indeed, made an impact on more people than he could have imagined.
We know the final months are going to be rough. The pain will grow. He’ll get weaker. He’ll lose the ability to be as active as he’s been. But he’ll have a ton of support, and he’ll be at peace.