Our Ride: Loss From Five Perspectives

     I have often been fascinated by the different perspectives dad’s cancer and death had on each of my family members.  Periodically I’ve pondered a collaborative book called “The Cancer Roller Coaster: A Different Ride for Each Passenger,” or “My Side of the Story: One Family’s Perspective on Cancer and Death.”  Except for dad we are a family of females. Led by mom we are strong, independent, opinionated, and emotional women.  We have five very different, uniquely individual, and deeply personal experiences to share.  Thanks to my sister, Mindy, we have all written about our point of view and agreed to share them.  She asked us each to write for her blog and has agreed to let me post them on my blog too.

                                    My Ride: A View From My Seat

    I’ve always felt like the odd man out in this event.  Dad was diagnosed with cancer my freshman year at college.   I was gleefully enjoying and majorly screwing up being independent for the first time. My family was in Washington State while I was miles away in Utah.  I don’t remember any build up or warning to the phone call from my parents telling me dad had cancer.  I thought it was just a routine call until they started explaining that a tumor had been found and that surgery and chemo were options.  I remember feeling shocked, numb and alone.  Throughout dad’s illness, I felt like I never knew what was going on.  A friend from home passed me on campus and asked me if my dad was going to lose his leg.  I had no idea what she was talking about.  I hadn’t heard anything of the sort.  I rushed to my apartment and called home.  It was a small possibility my mom assured me.  They hadn’t told me because it was so unlikely.  I was devastated and always worried that I was missing information.  I felt fearful and alone.
    It was difficult to go home that summer.  In a normal situation it would be tricky to return home after being on your own.  There are too many observers, too many expectations, too many people.  I wanted to go home and be with my family. I wanted to know what was going on and to be helpful.  However, I wasn’t prepared for the awkwardness.  I felt a little resentment from my siblings. I sensed they thought it wasn’t fair that I had missed out on watching dad get sick or that I’d “gotten” to be away during much of the hard work.  Also, my family had been in crisis mode.  They’d had to adjust, sacrifice and help out.  I hadn’t been there.  I couldn’t be there.  This meant new roles had been taken on.  Even though technically I was the oldest, I hadn’t been around to fulfill my responsibilities.  The next oldest sister, Merilee, had taken on much responsibility and my role.  I got home and felt like I’d lost my place in the family. 
    I eventually returned to college, got married and went home for vacations and visits only.  I dreaded the phone ringing those years.  I always worried what a phone call would bring.  My memory is that in the fall of 1993 we got news that dad would probably be around through the holidays, but not much longer.  We planned a big Thanksgiving reunion with dad’s family after we got the news.  On October 11,1993 I received a phone call from my mother telling me that her father, Grandpa Beckstead, had passed away.  She told me that he had been at home and that everyone had got to be there as he died fairly peacefully.  I have to admit I was jealous.  Being a bit selfish I was a little comforted when my mom told me grandpa had mistakenly called people by my name at times in the end.  I know that sounds awful, but once again I felt so alone.  Since, I was a poor college student and my parents were paying medical bills, I didn’t fly home to attend my grandfather’s funeral.
    It was mid afternoon and between classes when my mom called me ten days later.  My dad was at the hospital and the doctors said he only had days to live.  I needed to arrange a flight home so I could say goodbye.  Shocked, I got off the phone, called the airlines and booked a flight home first thing in the morning.  I had a late afternoon class to attend, but I couldn’t do it.  My husband decided to take me to a movie to distract me.  We picked the comedy, “So I Married an Axe Murder.”  It was the perfect distraction. 
    After the movie we drove to my in-laws for dinner.  As we walked in the door my mother-in-law told me my mom had called and to call her back.  Relaxed from the movie and thinking she was double checking my flight information, I quickly returned her call.  Her news was not what I’d expected.  While I had been enjoying the movie my dad had died.  First, I felt guilty for going to the movie.  Second, I was mad.  He’d died!  Why the hell did he do that?  I was coming tomorrow.  He couldn’t have waited one more day?  I wept.  I cried until my nose ran and my head hurt.  My husband held me, then made arranged for both of us to fly to Washington.
    I was surprised, and I’m ashamed to admit it, a tiny bit pleased, to discover, dad had robbed us all.  He died before anyone, but mom could be at the hospital.  It’s awful to admit, but I’m just being honest, for once in this experience I wasn’t alone.
    I remember the viewing before dad’s funeral and everyone telling me I had to go see him that one last time.  Many people told me if I didn’t see him I’d miss out on an important part of saying goodbye.  I hated the viewing.  That wasn’t my dad there in the coffin.  It was a body.  My sister kissed his forehead.  I thought I should try that.  It was cold and just reminded me he was gone.  Don’t let anyone tell you how to mourn.  I say the viewing is awful, but some people find it helpful.  Listen to yourself.
    I gave the eulogy at dad’s funeral.  Mom asked me to.  I said yes only if everyone helped me write it.  I was so nervous I bounced my right knee uncontrollably the whole time I waited to do my part.  At one point my husband reached over and tried to still me with his hand. 
    “You’re shaking the whole bench.” He whispered.
    I shoved his hand away saying, “So.” and bounced until I had to speak. 
    I’ve often described cancer as a roller coaster.  It’s bad, then better, then the tumor is not shrinking or spreading, but not growing.  It’s years, then months, then weeks, then days.  It’s devastating, then hopeful, then unpredictable.  You scream, you smile, you wave your arms excitedly, you get dizzy and sometimes you almost throw up.  There’s little of the fun of a carnival ride with cancer, but there’s the ups, downs, tight turns, jerky stops and relief when it’s over.  The relief doesn’t come right away, but time, family and sharing like this are my best medicine.