Cancer, Death & Life After

Heroic and brave characters say it all the time. I've even witnessed a few elderly relatives who have lived remarkably long lives utter the same. But my brother and father felt and displayed great fear before they passed away. It's not because they weren't heroic or brave enough. It was just not the right time to die. They were rather too young to be forced to let go of life.

But that's what cancer and ill-fated medical treatments do. Unpredictable and cunning, cancer can afflict anyone, and they along with the families who love them suffer considerably. And that suffering can last a lifetime for those who cannot learn to cope with their losses.

Although I happily see "ghosts" of my brother and father today, it was terribly haunting to see them in clear view after they died. Whether or not my mind was playing tricks on me because of any guilt or regret I may have felt at the time, seeing them appear before me pushed me into a darkened sulk. I couldn't lift myself to do anything to get my life in order.

My brother's last words were, "Where's Davey?" I was sitting at the foot of his bed in the critical care unit at the hospital when he barely awoke from his morphine-induced sleep. I rose and immediately approached his side as he struggled to lift his tube-filled arms for a hug. "I'm right here, little brother. Get some rest." He gazed around the room one last time, as if to say goodbye to everyone, and fell back asleep. After lying in a coma for two weeks, he passed away. He was only 29.

For the first time in my life I witnessed my father crying over my brother's bed. This is a man who fought in the Vietnam War, argued until everyone reluctantly acknowledged he was right, smoked cigarettes like it was the coolest thing to do for a tough guy, and never got sick a day in his life. A few years later, he would succumb to the same dreadful disease himself.

Why is this happening to me and my family? Are we cursed? What do we do now?

My brother, who was single, left very few assets. So, it was relatively easy to settle his estate. My father, a 33-year veteran of the military and 15-year veteran of the federal government, made sure my mother would be cared for the rest of her life. Despite the military and federal government graciously assisting us, settling his estate, however, required months of paperwork and follow-up. It was extremely stressful.

I, myself, was dealing with a handful of obstacles to tackle. My mother, now alone and suffering from rheumatoid arthritis and osteoporosis, would require part-time assistance to help her with simple household responsibilities. I had risked losing my job while spending a few months caring for her. My daughter, who was 5 years old at the time of my father's death, wanted me back home. My marriage was on the rocks. Last but not least, my mental stability was being severely compromised.

"You need to talk to somebody," my friends would say. They quickly noticed that I wasn't sleeping well and couldn't focus on simple tasks. Furthermore, I often appeared somber, sad, slimmer, and irritable. I would decline every offer for a friendly gathering and chose to stay home. But here's what fascinated everyone, I told them I was fine and honestly believed that myself.

Depression itself can keep a person from making that essential first step in getting help. It was difficult for me to acknowledge the fact that I needed help at all. I complained about everything such as fatigue, sleepless nights, and lack of motivation but never once thought it meant I was depressed.

Eventually I sought help. My long-term grieving for my brother and father finally took a toll on me, evident after several months of feeling hopeless. Not having cried over their deaths may have had something to do with contributing to my depression and inability to respond to my loss. But I finally cried. I then acquired professional guidance, turned to my family and close friends and drew comfort from their love and support, focused on a more positive outlook on life, and worked hard to being healthy again.

While visiting my father's grave soon after, my then 6-year-old daughter turned to me and said, "Don't be sad anymore, daddy. Grandpa wants you to play with me and be happy while he's sleeping." That was the best medicine of all.