SALUTE
Posted by Jill under Uncategorized | Permalink | | Leave A Comment | No Comments
PROLOGUE
“The way I look at it, I saw young, talented men on my ship who were buried at sea. I was given 40 more years. That is really something to be grateful for.” These are words spoken to me by my father, Charles Pfau who chose life when given the diagnosis of lung cancer. Throughout the 15 months of his courageous struggle, he consistently chose full living and maximum effort at self-sufficiency, metaphorically spitting at despair. As the months unfolded, his true character emerged not hidden by triviality and masks so often worn by long lifers. This treasured pearl is one father’s gift to his offspring.
IN THE HARBOR OF EACH OTHERS ARMS
Every once in a while families unite for a reasonable time to refresh memories. In this particular springtime, our family regrouped to find strength in the collective reserves of each other.
Family members nervously gathered in the waiting area of the surgical wing. This hospital was to be the recipient of my Father’s consistent efforts t overcome the cancer that usurped his lungs. We were left alone in that mauve and gray appointed room; you know the kind, a room delicately dashed with soft draperies and stuffed sofas, one table and a lamp, floral paintings and no magazines. We were left to our own resources to accommodate fear and anxiety or light humor and insignificant chatter. Neither display seemed appropriate. The silence was even more unwelcome. We were uncomfortable at the prospect of hearing the results of my father’s biopsy.
Just glancing at the surgeon’s face answered the first question. He found cancer, small cell, oat cell cancer in the bronchial area. My Father did not tolerate the invasive procedure well, and the searching ceased. The assumption included malignancy of the the tumor found in the lung. The second question was answered unasked….”three months at best. No chance for surgery. If it was me, would not choose chemotherapy.” I learned early on that surgeons have a matter of fact demeanor. There was a stiffening silence. I felt an overwhelming need to say something, anything meaningful. My communication to my Mother, two brothers, one brother-in-law, my sister and a friend was in the form of a small , timidly spoken and verbal gesture of grateful acceptance that flatly asserted that as bad as the news sounded, at least he was not taken from us abruptly, coldly stolen away. Little did I realize that statement would be a mental argument to deal with countless times over. There was no response to the statement, as if silence was the loudest of speech. Stunned, confused, desperate, we boldly inquired about chemotherapy and radiation options. Hope propelled us forward, and so began the journey.
As I visited my Dad in the hospital room where it all was to begin, I remember one comment so clearly stated by him, ” didn’t know how much everyone cared about me. “ Such an obvious notion..the caring. Even though I felt it, so often it must have been hidden from him. During the ensuing months, I did everything that I could to reinforce the concept of caring. It became an obsession that would perhaps save him and make all the difference regarding his recovery and triumph over this monster.
Diagnostic testing and evaluations began abruptly. The luxury of time to spare was surely absent. Questions darted all over the place. “How invasive was the cancer? Did it appear in the bones, the liver, the brain?” The answer was the embodiment of hope. The disease was localized in the bronchi and lungs. The oncologist emphasized that my Dad’s body was strong and his heart was in extremely good condition. He was indeed a candidate for chemotherapy.
The initial prognosis faded away so quickly buried, so feverishly released as if flying away inside of a balloon. Readiness for healing was the only prognosis I would accept.
Administered on an outpatient basis, the radiation treatments were done twice a day for 20 long, consecutive days. That was no small accomplishment considering the fact that my parents lived 20 miles away from the hospital that provided the treatments. The radiation sessions were draining his strength but not his determination. They trekked to and from the hospital, lunching between treatment times, holding up so well. The closeness began to draw them toward each other in a way that, I having been their daughter for many years, had not truly witnessed. What I was witnessing was a definite second chance at romance, a commitment so unspoken bonding tightly a married couple of 49 years. One of my Mother’s first jarring comments upon sorting out the news of the cancer was, “Oh we’ll never celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary. ” The sadness of that reality slipped in and out at moments told and untold. But for the most most part, my parents’ acceptance of the situation pervaded and thus inspired the entire family. I particularly recall watching the two of them sitting closely opposite each other while playing card games and grinning at who was winning at what. Real love is so ordinary. Ordinary is so precious when tragedy spurts at you.
Once the radiation treatments concluded, a cycle of intensely strong chemotherapy sessions routinely began at three-week intervals. The first plan was to give my Dad a combination of chemotherapy drugs every three weeks intravenously. Admission to the hospital occurred. The seventh floor assumed an entirely new image in my mind as I glanced around at the intravenous drip equipment endlessly clicking as the toxic liquid trickled from tube to arm to course its route to the cells of each patient, Dad being one of the many. The annoying, shrill beeps that alerted the staff that the infusion was complete, bounced from doorway to hall, sometimes quieted by a passing nurse, always interrupting any attempt to pretend that all was well. There we were, my Dad, my Mom and myself camped out, so to speak, in room 7003. We were ready to fight for all it was worth. We requested a cot for sleeping. We didn’t do much of that. I thought we were supporting my Dad with even an awkward presence there, only discovering after the third month of this, he probably would have preferred to go it alone. The sheltering from worry began just about then. We didn’t want him to know how ominous things seemed, he didn’t want us to know that he already knew that. After the fourth set of chemotherapy, the oncologist told us that the cancer was still present. The radiation treatment shrunk the tumor and 60% of it was gone. We were elated. The cancer was almost gone!The plan was that the chemotherapy would continue to shrink the tumor and stop the spreading of cells. Half of the plan worked.
As for the side effects of all of this toxicity, can only relate that my Dad said he had just a little bit of nausea. His hair did fall out. This was an unfortunate occurrence as my Dad had beautiful, thick hair. One day an old friend of his greeted him in the hardware store with the comment “Well, Charlie, haven’t seen you for a while, is everything all right?” My Dad just grinned and tipped his golf hat revealing his baldness and said, “What do you think of my new look?” He covered the subject with light humor helping to make everyone else comfortable.
One of the troubling and almost haunting thoughts that surfaced at the treatment phase was the drifting question of whether or not he would survive….and if not, what would the final days be like? Only hind sight gives that delicate answer. The sharing of the phase somehow builds tolerance for the recollection of the events that unfolded.
In the midst of the sickening reality of my Dad’s disease, my Mother related to us that she was having difficulty walking with stability. She began losing balance and experienced unusual weakness. Surely, the shock and stress of the last three months were the obvious reasons, or so we thought.
Fresh anxiety and unidentified fear once again surfaced to be dealt with. The diagnostic testing was completed. She learned that there was a tumor on her spinal cord causing early symptoms of paralysis. This development initiated a role reversal of such proportion that jolted the entire family who witnessed the care giving relinquished by one spouse, embraced by another seriously ill partner. In essence, my Mother faced helplessness and shock bordering on despair, while my Father gathered strength and purpose living life to take care of his dependent wife. After two spinal surgeries, my Mother was left hemiplegic and in pain.
Struggling for breath and napping for strength, my Father carried on. The sparkling romance resurfaced in the late evenings in the form of gentle hand holding and compassionate glances and brushed away tear drops. The struggling with the unfolding events doubled, sometimes tripled. He greeted every morning with a sunrise smile…she barely had the will to face another day of pain and dependency.
Ten, eleven, twelve months had bolted and slithered by, all in the same unfold of events. Questions of what was really happening with regard to my Dad’s health began to arise daily. Sometimes I found the courage to ask, at other times I quietly looked away, blocking the questions, refusing to entertain the obvious answers.
I noticed unusual lengthy naps and the tiredness that could be mistaken for a side effect of chemotherapy. My own confusion and uncertainty as to what was really happening sometimes numbed me for what was about to happen.
The effort for my Dad to breathe was becoming so noticeable. The walk from the family room to the kitchen was becoming slower and more difficult. Those rooms were adjacent, but the intrinsic length seemed yards apart to his mobile capacity. Dressing meant short intervals of resting between layers of clothing and a nice hot shower became a frightening endeavor, so much so as to warrant someone remaining right outside the door just in case he was unable to breathe sufficiently. These episodes of shortness of breath as the doctors called it, happened every day, causing my Dad to panic and gasp for oxygen that simply did not fill his lungs as they were so diseased. The end result was a call for help. I gave help in the form of reassurance and breathing technique exercises that almost always normalized his breath pattern. A co-dependency evolved. I was his breath. He was mine.
Difficulty eating was an indication to me that something very grave was beginning to happen to my Dad. Small portions made him feel full. Even drinking water satiated his stomach. Just about this time, pains began appearing, the unexplainable kind that we tried to blame on muscle strain or eating the wrong things. The uncertainty, the confusion, the wondering all matched the highest of hopes that these obstacles could be overcome along with the disease.
The time frame for these symptoms was in the vicinity of one month before the final time. Wishing for the knowledge of the plan,for the glimpse of just one answer at a time was never satisfied. I relied on faith, the strength to know blindly that whatever happened would happen inevitably at the appointed time.
Then there were those endless nights of sitting in the dark in the family room, the ocean of emotion rolling over me. I was listening to his breathing and to too lengthy pauses between the breaths. There were the times that only by careful observation, could I realize the intensity of the pain that he endured, catching a glimpse of it only by seeing his hand touch the area of his abdomen or shoulder…never a grimace, never a moan, always a concerned concentration of focus on the reality of this new sensation, uncomfortable as it must have been. I recall my Dad telling a friend some time ago, that he never experienced “pain” so this was all new to him. This statement came from a man who endured chronic back pain for much of his life. He never allowed pain to interfere. This time the intensity of the pain could not be overlooked. So began the administering of Morphine. At first, I was alarmed to see the drug was chosen so early on or so I perceived it to be early on. The absence of hurting reassured us. Only when we realized more and more of the drug was needed, did we begin the fearful journey.
In the final week the Morphine was not dulling the pain, so the last visit to the hospital was met with little resistance. We made arrangements for a pain control session to begin. There in the hallway leading from his bedroom, dressed in his blue pajamas, my Dad hugged me goodbye and I sensed his relief that someone was going to help him deal with this. I remember how warm his cheek brushing against mine felt. His gentle pat that everything would be all right, his request that I take good care of my Mother. “Good bye, Honey.” The familiar farewell whispered and said thousands of times over the years from husband to wife, parent to child, meant so much more this time. He walked outside, his oxygen tank trailing behind him jostling and clicking. He was whistling, gingerly stepping, if Dads can do that, into the car that would provide the last ride he would take down the street that led him away.
Once inside the hospital, he rode effortlessly to the seventh floor and he settled into a peaceful and comforting awareness that the pain would go away. The increased dosage of Morphine sedated my Father in a manner that was frightening yet safely tolerated. He slipped in and out of coherence but he was still able to recognize and talk. Eating became optional. Selective communication nourished his spirit and became a substitute for our own meals.
After an afternoon of bone scans and chest films, he awoke to relate something of an urgent nature to me. “Please don’t let them give me any more Morphine, something is very wrong. Go ask the doctor to explain what is happening to me.” I told him that I would ask, and I left the room. I approached his doctor, who just happened to be on call that evening. I asked him how my Dad was doing. The doctor looked directly at me and said, “I don’t know for sure, but tonight might be the night that he…….” and he stopped talking. I was puzzled by his response and hoped that he did not mean what I thought he meant. Subtly, clumsily he was confirming my Father’s suspicion, “what if?” He told me just that afternoon my Dad’s condition had worsened to such an extent that he was dying.
Alone, I realized what he had said. I tried to think of what to tell my Dad to answer his plea for an explanation. The doctor warned me not to frighten him with the news that his lungs were failing. He instructed me to call the family members in. I called my husband, my brothers, my sister, trying desperately to explain and insisting that the doctor was somehow mistaken. Denial meant that I could cope for a few more minutes. So I denied what was happening as an exaggeration of a critical state. Darting back to the truth, I told my brother to bring our Mother to the hospital. I asked him not to alarm her. At this point she was bed ridden and the call to bring her in to be with our Dad was self-explanatory.
Once again all of us gathered. He breathed slower, shallow wisps of air passed through his still lips. We talked him through one breathing pattern after another, desperately trying to lengthen his being ours. Four days and four nights elapsed. He struggled to remain. He whispered in his sleep. He told each one of us that he loved us. He received the sacrament of Baptism. He told my brothers that he made a good choice by doing that. His lingering looks into our Mother’s eyes said the goodbye that was secretly felt. At the final moment my eyes caressed his face, he opened his azure eyes moistened with emotion and returned the kiss.
I cling to the memory of the tight grip that he held onto any one of his children’s hands for four days and four nights while we waited and watched our strong Father bravely go where we had never gone. I told him softly that it was a Dad’s job to show his children the way through the tunnel and chart the journey with his bravery, known to all of us. He held strongly. He entered boldly. I look forward to holding that tight grip of his hand when it is my turn to arrive. Until then, we will rest in the harbor of each others’ arms.
(This story was written one week after my Father’s passing…The narrative account has a copyright obtained in the year 1991). Seems like yesterday.