Dad dying was like a dark grey gloom that never seemed to end rather than a flash lightning that comes and goes quickly. It started mid eighth grade where I thought my biggest concern would be how I’d do on the girls basketball team unfolding into the fall of my junior year when I wished the only thing I had to worry about were my grades in geometry. Life became a bipolar cycle of treatments, surgery, fear, stress, loneliness, disappointment, happiness, relief, and back to treatments. Though the cancer never left, life became an effort to make the most of the times when Dad wasn’t home sick in bed, not working, unable to sit and build his planes, or join us for things like dinner. I hated all these treatments and surgeries and the ups and downs that it created.
His chemo best illustrates what made his cancer treatments and surgeries so hard. I don’t remember exactly where his cancer was at this time (I think either his stomach or lungs) but this treatment created six of the most miserable months of his illness. It involved one week of intensive chemo, administered in the hospital. This meant Mom had to yo-yo between us kids at home and Dad in the hospital. It meant short visits with Dad that week and missing my parents at home. This was followed by two weeks of recovering from the chemo treatment at home. During this time Dad would progress from being gravely ill, susceptible to any bug/virus, and not really accessible, to slowly getting better. The next week he would finally be able to work, eat dinner with us, do “normal” things. Then it would start all over again. For six months we functioned on this four week cycle. This general cycle, however, permeated throughout his illness, manifesting when he would have a surgery, or whatever the doctors recommended in an attempt to fight the cancer.
While I hated these treatments, I knew that each one gave us more time, extending Dad’s life a little longer and making his death something that would happen later rather than sooner. Each time he got “better” I had more time to sit and talk, learn how to drive, laugh with him, and watch him build his planes. That was true until the two weeks following the death of Grandpa Beckstead. In the weeks following his death something changed in Dad’s health from “relatively good” to “horribly bad” .
Grandpa had been fighting his own battle against cancer for about 2 years. We new that by the beginning of October Grandpa didn’t have long to live. On Thursday Oct. 11 our family got a call that Grandpa was dying. Merilee and I chose to go with my parents to Tacoma to join other family members to be with my Grandpa as he died. At this point Grandpa said very little but we new he could hear us as we talked to him and each other. It was not long after we arrived that he passed away. While there was a feeling of sadness there was also a sense of peace, comfort, and relief in his death.
In the days following Grandpa’s death and funeral it seemed that Dad turned a switch, not to off, but to dim. Where Dad seemed to be doing o.k. he began to struggle. Walking, talking, and breathing became difficult. A distinct wheeziness to his breathing developed and the doctors starting telling us we had till Christmas. This changed to a month, and then to weeks. The gravity of the situation really sank in for me when Mom meat with the hospice worker to set up home care.
The details of the day Dad died and the events following alternate between being fuzzy and crystal clear. I know that Thursday I went to school, probably went to work, and finally home where Mom called (or I called her) and was told to pick up fast food before Mindy and I headed into the hospital. I don’t remember feeling rushed to get there as Mindy and I swung by Taco Bell and then to the hospital. We were a bit jovial as we headed into Dad’s hospital room where I remember knowing instantly that something was wrong. Mom was there with family friends, the Rollins, who had stopped into see Dad. In the time it took us to get there, Dad had died. He went from dying sometime, to months, weeks, days, to hours. In that instant the thing I was able to focus on was my mom’s reassurance that my Dad’s death had been very similar to my Grandfathers. My Dad’s death carried that sense of peace, comfort and relief.
Prior to Dad’s funeral we had a brief viewing. I went in to look because others had encouraged me to do so. I only stayed briefly. For me that was not my dad, and I wanted to remember him not necessarily in perfect health but as a living person. As his funeral progressed kind words were shared, beautiful music sung, and giggles resulted. The giggles came from Mindy and I as we suddenly felt a consistent vibrating pew below us and noticed Mike (my brother-in-law) attempt to still Meredith’s bouncing knee. I remember thinking that Dad would have chuckled too.
Cancer is devastating, causing grief, sadness, and immense stress. In my experience it also brings out the best in people. I am grateful for those who supported, prayed and helped out my family and myself. My family was blessed by the gentleman from church who knew a couple of pizza’s would help relieve the stress of feeding two hungry kids at home. He did not do this just once but many times. The elderly friend of Dad’s who popped over to do yard work without a word of his presence. The big sister away at college who sent thoughtful letters of encouragement and love to a sad younger sister. They were looked forward to and appreciated. The friends and family who took the time to plan and come to my surprise 17th birthday party in the few days following Dad’s death. While I remember the sadness of those times, I remember those that eased the daily stresses and helped bring some joy to myself and my family more.
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