Death...And Love

Seven years ago, my husband Tim was sick. He had what seemed to be a bad case of bronchitis, which was resisting all the rounds of antibiotics his doctor kept prescribing. By Christmas Eve, he was no better, so we went to an urgent care center for an x-ray. That was also the last day he worked.

By January 11, we knew the impossible, my thirty-six year old husband had stage four lung cancer. He died in his sleep, at home less than three weeks later.

Three months ago, I visited an oncologist with Tim's parents and we were informed that his father, James, had stage four melanoma. He is seventy-seven. The doctor was very clear on the outcome, but said he could start treating James with a low oral dose of chemotherapy. Anything more aggressive was out of the question, given his age and how much damage the cancer had already done to his internal organs.

So we sat there for a minute, absorbing the news. James said he wanted to go ahead with the treatment, because you "can't just give up". So, thus motivated by their decision, we walked to the elevator. We walked slowly, because James had broken his hip earlier the year before, and Irene's knees badly need replacing. They walked on their canes, I followed behind, to the pharmacy, where he would get his first dose of oral chemotherapy.

Today is Irene's 80th birthday. James had to be hospitalized with another broken bone three weeks ago, and when he returned home last week, he was unable to eat without explosive diarrhea. On Tuesday, I told her he needed to go the hospital. Her doctor told her to call 911. Two hours later, she called to tell me his stool was somewhat solid, so she would keep at home.

This probably seems like too much information. We as a culture can barely stand to talk about death, much less about what happens on the way. Irene knows all this information intimately because she, and she alone, carries him to the toilet, washes him, removes his sheets and rubber mattress to wash and remake the bed. Over and over again.

Talking to Irene is somewhat like walking through a maze. You start at the outside, and walk your way through to the center. Her mind is clear, she just has different ways at arriving at where the discussion goes. We talked today about hospice, her case manager, her doctor, her aversion to having James end up back in the nursing home for rehab. Finally I had to tell her. This is not about James getting better, this is about him being as comfortable as possible. She asked me, finally, "So no one gets through this, then."

I said, "No, he will not survive this. You have to decide if the chemotherapy and the side effects are worth him living a year longer, or a few months, if they make him this sick. Remember how quickly Tim went, and what a blessing it was?"

"Yes," she sighed, "that was the best thing. You know I have that old hospital bed upstairs? Maybe I could get four young strong fellows to move it downstairs for James. He would be so much more comfortable, and it would be easier to feed him.." So that was how we ended our conversation, discussing the things we could do in the immediate, to put away, for now, the unthinkable things we could not do, no matter how many doctors, case workers, phone calls, and endless other meaningless decisions we used to try to "manage" death.

Tomorrow I will call her to find out if she was able to get help from "that nice Mexican couple" that cleans their house and does odd jobs. It's strange to remember that not so long ago, James resented "that Mexican" for doing the chores around the house he had always done. For having to give up control of the home he had built and lived in for over fifty years.

Saturday, I will go up to see them, and hope for more time for James, and pray that his time is short.

Happy birthday, Irene. You've had more than your share of loss.