This blog was written, but not published, on June 6, 2019. Dad passed away one day shy of two months later at age 74. He texted one year ago today to tell me that he was no longer undergoing treatment for cancer. It’s a text I’ll never forget.
At the time, my family and I were on a fishing boat in the gulf off of Mississippi and dad was home in Kansas. The sun was shining bright. It was a beautiful day. It was an awful day after the text. I spent the next two hours sad and upset. Sad for obvious reasons, upset that the old man texted me that when he did. I couldn’t call him surrounded by family, and the rest of vacation was a struggle.
I remember calling dad that night. I barely got two words out before I began to sob. On the other end of the phone, I could hear my father sobbing for the first time. The next two months were the most difficult of my life. But they were also rewarding. It was nice to finally return the favor, taking care of him with my brother and sister-in-law, as he’d done for us for so long.
“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing every dies.”
I love this line from “Shawshank Redemption.” I often watch the ending of the movie, when this line occurs, for inspiration.
Today, though, I’m really struggling to believe in it. I absolutely believe it’s a good thing and maybe the best of things. But I also don’t believe no good thing ever dies, at least not right now.
My original plan was to write more about my father in the past few months. None of it published, yet, because he kept his battle with cancer a secret to virtually everybody outside of our family. My thought was that if I share these experiences later, it’ll help others and help me. Few things are more therapeutic than writing.
For various reasons, I didn’t write as much. One of those reasons was hope. We had some for a while. There was even the belief, at least briefly, that he could defy the doctor’s prognosis of six months and actually beat this terrible disease for a second time.
That hope has faded, and faded fast. Two weeks ago, after enduring months of non-stop pain, Dad sold his house and moved in with my brother and his family (thank God for them. They have been angels in this ordeal).
A few days ago, Dad more or less waved the white flag, opting to discontinue his treatments and work with hospice on what is essentially an exit plan. The pain was so bad over the weekend that he cried. My father is the toughest person I know, so that was heartbreaking to learn.
He’s had enough. Enough of the pain, enough of the low quality of life, enough of the struggle. It’s time for him to take the next step into the afterlife.
We don’t know how much time this leaves us. It could be days, it could be weeks. It almost certainly will not be months. I cry every time I think about that.
There are so many things floating in my brain right now. What do you do when a parent dies? How do you handle this when you’ve never had somebody close to you die? Who do I go to for advice after I’ve spent the last 43 years going to the same person for it?
There is some hope. Dad’s at peace with the decision. He became a Christian not long ago and is comfortable with his place in the afterlife. This is good because it bothered him for months. Time and time again, he asked, “Am I going to get to see my kids after I die?”
When he had the answer he needed, Dad seemed to be at ease. He was even hopeful. That was gone in a matter of weeks. I can’t imagine the emotional roller coaster he’s been on the past six months.
What I do I know is that in the first 41 years of my life, I never saw my dad cry. I knew of one time he cried years ago because my brother saw it happen. It was a few weeks after my grandfather died on June 12, 1984. My brother, then 6 years old, asked Dad why Grandpa had to die, and my father cried and said, “I don’t know.”
Until August 2017, I had not seen my dad cry. We shared tears that day when doctors told him he had stage three cancer. Until December 2018, I had only seen my dad cry once. In the last five-plus months, I’ve seen or heard him cry numerous times.
It happened again tonight when I called him from Waveland, Mississippi. We’re on a vacation organized by my mother-in-law, and I’ve been amiss for most of the six days we’ve been here. They know what’s going on, but I still feel like an introverted jerk.
Anyway, I called my dad while driving alone. He sounded so defeated, which I’ve really never heard. After a few minutes, there was a long pause, and I could tell that both of us were sobbing. Cancer can go straight to hell.
I’m sure there will be millions of tears in the upcoming weeks and months. I’m thankful my stepsons and stepdaughter are old enough that they won’t ask why my father has to die like this. My answer would be “I don’t know.”