Day 1-Finding out

The Hospice worker looked directly into my eyes and answered my question, "I think he has about 2 weeks. Yes, 14 days. How do you react? Disbelief? Crashing depression? Heartfelt tears? Bitter anger? Honestly, none of these. I have been numb. Numb because I don't care? Hardly, numb to survive, numb to keep my composure, numb to help my father, numb to help my wife and kids, numb to support my mother. Mostly numb so I don't break. Because once I break, I won't be able to help, won't be able to support, won't be able to stop crying. Numb.

Let me try to explain. My father has had esophageal cancer over the past year. He has endured numerous treatments, medications, hospital visits, 1st opinions, 2nd opinions, opinions wanted, opinions unwanted. Through it all he fought. Rarely complaining, doggedly doing what his doctors recommended. At his 80th birthday party, he was the picture of health. He was able to play golf with his friends, basking in the in their comradeship, take his loyal dog Nell for sunlit strolls and stick throwing beach escapades, and reading. Reading all the books that he was never able to in his life's committed work as a medical doctor.

We all felt redeemed. He made it. He must be turning the corner. He has beaten the odds. Survived this awful life's episode. So many of the people at his birthday party commented on how good he looked. 80 years old and doing just fine.

The decline came quickly. So it seemed. After a visit at the Cleveland Clinic they told him that the cancer had spread to his brain. The medication that he took so reluctantly to prevent this didn't work. The cancer stayed one step ahead. It had also spread in the esophagus. How could it be? He looked so good. He was playing golf every day. He was...

He was quickly being tackled. Like African Lions, patiently surrounding their prey and waiting for the weak. He left the golf course one day in the middle of the round. How many times had he done this as a doctor , hastily leaving to go help a patient. Not this time. He left because he was too tired. This was a ominous sign and we knew it. We knew it. When my mom told me, my stomach clenched. Like it is now, recalling. It was all too strong of a sign. Cancer was winning.

After that day it seemed that each day brought the loss of something. No more walks with the dog, no more hamburgers or hot dogs on the grill, no more meetings with the numerous civic organizations which he discreetly belonged, no more driving in his car. One of his first big defeats. His car was and is an object of pride. His cars were always maintained and treated with respect. As a child, I begrudgingly washed his cars. They were spotless, and left car salesmen clamoring to sell to my father knowing they would get a car in mint condition upon his trade in. The loss of driving meant taking away a level of freedom that is taken for granted. No longer.

I find myself blathering a bit here. So I will pause and hopefully write again another day with more clarity. If you read this please comment and tell me what you think. I'd appreciate any comments.