Dad died July 9, which seems both like ages ago and just yesterday. About five days after his death, there was an Open House held. It was catered and there were pictures set up in the room where he died. Roughly 100 people mingled and told stories. It was nice. It wasn't a memorial service. Some family members, most notably my sister and her family, were not there. The actual memorial service was going to be held "later."
How much later? Try late October. That's one hell of a delay between death and memorial. Apparently, that's how long it takes to organize around everyone's schedule, and plan what is turning out to be a memorial service of celebrity proportions.
The main purpose for a funeral or memorial service is closure for friends and family. It gives structure to the puzzling void of death and loss, closure to the turmoil of illness; it's a signal that yes, indeed, he really is dead and isn't just on vacation. Ideally, it should be held within a short time following the death; absence has a way of becoming reality, and people's memories are short. Life goes on.
What I'm wondering now, though, while facing a memorial service held at a huge venue, complete with video presentations like a Beverly Hills bar mitzvah, is how effective closure can be in such a spectacle. The guest list, apparently, could run as high as 700 to 1000 people, most of whom didn't know Dad well at all. The actual close friends and family is a very small percentage of the list. Public speaking isn't my forte, and there's no way in hell I'm speaking in front of that many people about such a personal subject.
Plus, there's the law firm's involvement. Before Dad went under for that last big surgery, he made a funny morphine laced statement: "Don't let those fuckers (the firm) give the eulogy." We all laughed; of course we wouldn't let the firm hijack the service. To my knowledge, it was the only request regarding these arrangements Dad ever made. But now the firm is paying for the whole thing, and it has indeed been hijacked. It's a sell out of massive proportions. While I recognize that spending 40 years at one firm does indeed merit some involvement, the idea that the firm began vetoing potential dates infuriated me. Who is this service for, anyway?
Perhaps, given all that I've written on this blog regarding Dad's remarkable split between business and family, public and private, it's only fitting that his service be all about those who knew him least, but got the best side of him. I'm not anticipating any sort of relief from the somewhat numbing depression that's swept over me. I'm hoping it's just par for the course, and over by late October. Perhaps my sister, my mother, my aunt and I will all get together with some of Dad's ashes and hold our own "family" memorial service, just for us, those who knew him solely in that complicated context.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Nature or Nurture: Where Dad Came From
If you wanted a sterling example of the American Dream, you needn't look further than my Dad's side of the family.
His parents met after WWII in their home town of Santa Maria, CA. He was fresh out of the Navy (he was on subs in the Pacific), going to junior college on the G.I. Bill. She was just starting junior college after the horrible shock of her older brother's death, from electrocution, that occurred in North Africa after the war had ended. Since she was just 18 when they married, I assume courtship was brief. My father followed when she was just 19.
They were a typical small town postwar poor young couple. They lived with my great grandparents for a while, which, given my great grandmother's penchant for thinking my grandfather was a loser, couldn't have been easy. After a few years, they managed to buy a small ranch house in town, where my father and aunt grew up.
My grandfather was always in sales, first working in tractor parts, later in tires, until he owned his own small chain of tire stores. He's a prime example of success through hard work, sincere charm, and a good attitude. He was consistently kind, thoughtful, and greatly valued his family. He loved my grandmother; they were indeed a team and married for over 50 years.
My grandmother was the prototypical happy homemaker. She led the Betty Crocker lifestyle, raising kids and taking care of her family pretty much perfectly. On the other hand, she was also a bit of a depressive with a sharp tongue that could really cut my Dad down to size. She was not someone to cross, as many a Santa Maria teacher would come to find out. She was thin and tan, and glamourous in a very natural way. Yet, she also crocheted and knit, canned her own jalapeno jelly, made a plethora of cookies every Christmas. While sometimes I think she was very bored with the whole thing, she considered the home and family her job, and took great pride in holding it all together.
My Dad's childhood, then, was a classic American one. It was small town values, running free through endless farmer's fields (along with endless amounts of pesticide exposure, something I think contributed to his cancer), being poor but upwardly striving, being raised in a very intact and functional family unit. He was always the smartest kid in his school; he was valedictorian but didn't give the speech because he refused to have it "edited" by one of his teachers (he'd won a national speech competition the year before, and felt the teacher wasn't qualified for such a review). He won a basketball scholarship to UCLA, and became the first person in his family to earn a college degree.
My grandparents spent years without money, but by the time my Dad and Mom married, they were doing well. They ended up first remodeling their original house, then building a completely new house in Orcutt and moving there. My grandfather in particular delighted in his financial success, collecting Steuben art glass and indulging in a variety of hobbies. Their new house, build around an enormous great room with cushy carpet and a fireplace big enough to roast a moose, hosted the whole family every Christmas. It was merry there, and wonderfully warm and predictable. They were the ultimate grandparents, providing warmth and structure.
And my sister and I sorely needed that warmth and structure. As it turned out, my Dad was very good at pursuing the money and success part of the American Dream, but considerably less successful in terms of the family. I don't think it was all his fault. My grandparents were very good at their job, but not very good at passing the baton. Their children, my Dad and aunt, were always kids in their eyes, rather unqualified to take over the family duties. I don't think they meant to infantilize my Dad this way, but since I don't think he was naturally inclined toward home and hearth, it made it easier for Dad to never truly step up.
After my parents' divorce, when I was 21, the family scene got even more uneven. Dad got a new girlfriend (who became his second wife years later), she had a daughter from a previous relationship, and they didn't hit it off with my grandparents at all. Admittedly, my family was a tough room. Blood counted for a lot, and outsiders weren't given much trust or credit. Family gatherings became rather divided and uncomfortable. One year at Christmas, my grandmother gifted my Dad two stone garden statues, saying, "These represent your daughters. Put them in your garden, so you'll never forget them." Ouch.
As my Dad grew ever more successful and made tons of money, his lifestyle ratcheted up considerably. My grandparents lived rather modestly, but spent on family dinners. They took the entire family to Hawaii for two weeks for their 50th wedding anniversary. My grandfather bought beautiful custom made jewelry for my grandmother. My father, on the other hand, couldn't stop remodeling the house he'd originally built with my mother; my sister and I termed it the Winchester Mystery House because of the constant construction. While my grandparents were proud of all Dad had achieved, I think they felt betrayed and confused by his rejection of their values.
My grandmother passed away from cancer, my grandfather from pneumonia and grief a few years later. Their deaths signaled the end of the family unit on a lot of levels. Although my Dad would occasionally take everyone to dinner (a feat of gluttony; to watch him order "for the table" made you wonder how an inanimate object could eat that much), or host a dinner at his house, these events were few and far between. Perhaps he liked the idea of family, but the reality and the work involved didn't really thrill him. I ended up hosting a bunch of Christmas celebrations, and they went well. I'd like to think that I had good role models for that in my grandparents.
I think that maybe there's actually a "family" gene that my Dad just didn't possess, and my grandparents' willingness to take over the family duties into perpetuity encouraged Dad's genetic predisposition. He took family for granted; my grandparents made family paramount. Now that Dad is gone, I feel a sense of emptiness and loss in terms of family, but it's nothing compared to how I felt when my grandparents died. Now I feel a real sense of responsibility for the family, its stories, its strange traditions. Somehow, the family baton flew over his head and, I guess, hit me square in mine.
His parents met after WWII in their home town of Santa Maria, CA. He was fresh out of the Navy (he was on subs in the Pacific), going to junior college on the G.I. Bill. She was just starting junior college after the horrible shock of her older brother's death, from electrocution, that occurred in North Africa after the war had ended. Since she was just 18 when they married, I assume courtship was brief. My father followed when she was just 19.
They were a typical small town postwar poor young couple. They lived with my great grandparents for a while, which, given my great grandmother's penchant for thinking my grandfather was a loser, couldn't have been easy. After a few years, they managed to buy a small ranch house in town, where my father and aunt grew up.
My grandfather was always in sales, first working in tractor parts, later in tires, until he owned his own small chain of tire stores. He's a prime example of success through hard work, sincere charm, and a good attitude. He was consistently kind, thoughtful, and greatly valued his family. He loved my grandmother; they were indeed a team and married for over 50 years.
My grandmother was the prototypical happy homemaker. She led the Betty Crocker lifestyle, raising kids and taking care of her family pretty much perfectly. On the other hand, she was also a bit of a depressive with a sharp tongue that could really cut my Dad down to size. She was not someone to cross, as many a Santa Maria teacher would come to find out. She was thin and tan, and glamourous in a very natural way. Yet, she also crocheted and knit, canned her own jalapeno jelly, made a plethora of cookies every Christmas. While sometimes I think she was very bored with the whole thing, she considered the home and family her job, and took great pride in holding it all together.
My Dad's childhood, then, was a classic American one. It was small town values, running free through endless farmer's fields (along with endless amounts of pesticide exposure, something I think contributed to his cancer), being poor but upwardly striving, being raised in a very intact and functional family unit. He was always the smartest kid in his school; he was valedictorian but didn't give the speech because he refused to have it "edited" by one of his teachers (he'd won a national speech competition the year before, and felt the teacher wasn't qualified for such a review). He won a basketball scholarship to UCLA, and became the first person in his family to earn a college degree.
My grandparents spent years without money, but by the time my Dad and Mom married, they were doing well. They ended up first remodeling their original house, then building a completely new house in Orcutt and moving there. My grandfather in particular delighted in his financial success, collecting Steuben art glass and indulging in a variety of hobbies. Their new house, build around an enormous great room with cushy carpet and a fireplace big enough to roast a moose, hosted the whole family every Christmas. It was merry there, and wonderfully warm and predictable. They were the ultimate grandparents, providing warmth and structure.
And my sister and I sorely needed that warmth and structure. As it turned out, my Dad was very good at pursuing the money and success part of the American Dream, but considerably less successful in terms of the family. I don't think it was all his fault. My grandparents were very good at their job, but not very good at passing the baton. Their children, my Dad and aunt, were always kids in their eyes, rather unqualified to take over the family duties. I don't think they meant to infantilize my Dad this way, but since I don't think he was naturally inclined toward home and hearth, it made it easier for Dad to never truly step up.
After my parents' divorce, when I was 21, the family scene got even more uneven. Dad got a new girlfriend (who became his second wife years later), she had a daughter from a previous relationship, and they didn't hit it off with my grandparents at all. Admittedly, my family was a tough room. Blood counted for a lot, and outsiders weren't given much trust or credit. Family gatherings became rather divided and uncomfortable. One year at Christmas, my grandmother gifted my Dad two stone garden statues, saying, "These represent your daughters. Put them in your garden, so you'll never forget them." Ouch.
As my Dad grew ever more successful and made tons of money, his lifestyle ratcheted up considerably. My grandparents lived rather modestly, but spent on family dinners. They took the entire family to Hawaii for two weeks for their 50th wedding anniversary. My grandfather bought beautiful custom made jewelry for my grandmother. My father, on the other hand, couldn't stop remodeling the house he'd originally built with my mother; my sister and I termed it the Winchester Mystery House because of the constant construction. While my grandparents were proud of all Dad had achieved, I think they felt betrayed and confused by his rejection of their values.
My grandmother passed away from cancer, my grandfather from pneumonia and grief a few years later. Their deaths signaled the end of the family unit on a lot of levels. Although my Dad would occasionally take everyone to dinner (a feat of gluttony; to watch him order "for the table" made you wonder how an inanimate object could eat that much), or host a dinner at his house, these events were few and far between. Perhaps he liked the idea of family, but the reality and the work involved didn't really thrill him. I ended up hosting a bunch of Christmas celebrations, and they went well. I'd like to think that I had good role models for that in my grandparents.
I think that maybe there's actually a "family" gene that my Dad just didn't possess, and my grandparents' willingness to take over the family duties into perpetuity encouraged Dad's genetic predisposition. He took family for granted; my grandparents made family paramount. Now that Dad is gone, I feel a sense of emptiness and loss in terms of family, but it's nothing compared to how I felt when my grandparents died. Now I feel a real sense of responsibility for the family, its stories, its strange traditions. Somehow, the family baton flew over his head and, I guess, hit me square in mine.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Dad's Minor Sports Celebrity Persona
My Dad had an achievement filled life, no doubt. A senior partner at a major law firm, a Harvard Law grad, well respected and loved by all his co workers, he was a winner in every superficial way possible. And then there was the basketball.
Dad was a college basketball star. And he was a star not just on any team, but on a UCLA championship team. Under legendary coach John Wooden. Dad's team won three championships with him as guard. He played with the likes of Kareem, Mike Warren and Lucius Allen. Any college basketball fan (and they are legion) knows who my father is and what he did on that team. I never had a PE teacher who didn't recognize my last name, ask if he was my father, and then interrogate me on my sports prowess. I remember one teacher, at a 7th grade parents' night, was reduced to a stammering wreak upon being introduced to my Dad (ok, yes: that was an extreme reaction).
Yet, his basketball years were barely mentioned when I was growing up. I had been there, as a baby, for some of them; my mother first pregnant and then a new mom sitting on the sidelines. I knew he had been drafted to the pros, but left training camp after a short while and went off to law school at Harvard instead. He told my mother that, the moment he got to pro training camp, he knew he wasn't going to be a star. If he couldn't be a star, there was no point in going. I can understand that; the shock of being downgraded in an instant from big college star to slightly too short bench sitter was probably an eye opener. My Dad was a competitor, but he knew when to throw in the towel.
The way his basketball and sports background manifested around the house was in intense sports watching. He would follow a basketball game with such intensity, it's a wonder he didn't have a stroke. Every weekend when he wasn't working was pretty much devoted to sports. He'd make himself some chili or a tuna melt, and settle in to watch a marathon of events. My mother was convinced he'd watch anything; she once found him studying curling, an obscure far northern sport played on ice with big weights and brooms. She thought it was funny, but in a sad way.
Needless to say, my sister and I were not really encouraged to watch with him. He was so intense that, if you asked him something, it might take him three minutes to respond. He didn't have patience when explaining games and strategies; apparently we were supposed to learn such things through familial osmosis. And there was no way to play any sort of game or sport with him. "You throw like a girl," he jeered at me once. Well, I was a girl. And thank god for that, because being a boy would have been really difficult.
It took me years to get over thinking I was bad at sports. Gawky and half blind, I was terrible at racquet sports and anything else involving eye/hand coordination. I could run well, though, and was pretty strong for a skinny girl. My skiing wasn't bad. Later in my life, I became a gym rat, then a Pilates instructor, and now an amateur aerialist. I think the aerial trapeze actually freaked my Dad out a bit, because it was something he honestly couldn't imagine himself doing in any way.
In the last 20 years of his life, my father couldn't play basketball or tennis anymore, because his knees were shot. He ended up becoming a yoga enthusiast, investing in a popular yoga studio in Santa Monica and attending class often. But he was, ironically, competitive about yoga. I was wise enough at this point to stay away from yoga. It was too slow paced for me and I didn't like the scene. But that didn't keep him from asking me if I could get into this or that yoga pose. Of course I could, because I was young and female. The question was, why was he trying to compete with his daughter who didn't even practice yoga? He'd already shown himself to be more competitive, more successful, and more accomplished than his children, but even I knew that age, when it came to physical prowess, mattered.
When I was young, we never saw any of the guys Dad played basketball with at UCLA, but later on once he remarried they appeared on the scene. Dad would host team reunions up at his house. He always had a relationship with "Coach," who was a formidable guy I met several times over the years (the first time I met Wooden, at age 29, he rattled off my Dad's stats to me as if he was still coaching that team). In fact, I didn't speak much with any of the team members until Dad got sick, and then they visited him at home and in the hospital. They were, and are, really lovely guys. The consensus, always, was what a good sport and team player he always was, no matter what ego nonsense was going on with the other players. It was reminiscent of the same things my Dad's co-workers said about him.
Again, it's hard to reconcile the selfless team player with the ultra competitive Dad who used to cheat on board games just so he could win (he ran the bank and stole money in Monopoly, and hung ships over the edge of the board in Battleship with unsinkable results; I actually find that pretty funny). Just a couple years ago he got in a fight with my daughter, then nine, while playing handball. Not liking her take on the rules of the court, he apparently threw the ball into a wall of trashcans and then stormed into the house. My daughter, not intimidated in the slightest, followed him in and, in front of the entire family, asked "Why did you do that?" My Dad had no answer. "Welcome to my childhood," I told my appalled husband.
I only got a real insight into the impact of his basketball years once. Dad told me a story of how, although Wooden hated giving any player the spotlight, in one game he let each of the starting players go onto the court with the second stringers. That way, each star knew all the cheering was just for him. Dad described just how heady the feeling was of having thousands of people cheering for him. It was intoxicating, seductive, wonderful. And it never happened again, at least not on that level. Sometimes I think his raging at televised sports was the frustration of a supposed team player who only got the drug like fix of total adulation once, before having it yanked away.
In the end, I think, the basketball stardom was just one more thing that separated him from his family. It was something none of us could understand. It wasn't something he wanted to explain, and maybe he couldn't really articulate it anyway. But when I think back, to all those weekends of him watching sports and getting angry, it just seems so lonely. It was just him and the game and nothing else at all.
Dad was a college basketball star. And he was a star not just on any team, but on a UCLA championship team. Under legendary coach John Wooden. Dad's team won three championships with him as guard. He played with the likes of Kareem, Mike Warren and Lucius Allen. Any college basketball fan (and they are legion) knows who my father is and what he did on that team. I never had a PE teacher who didn't recognize my last name, ask if he was my father, and then interrogate me on my sports prowess. I remember one teacher, at a 7th grade parents' night, was reduced to a stammering wreak upon being introduced to my Dad (ok, yes: that was an extreme reaction).
Yet, his basketball years were barely mentioned when I was growing up. I had been there, as a baby, for some of them; my mother first pregnant and then a new mom sitting on the sidelines. I knew he had been drafted to the pros, but left training camp after a short while and went off to law school at Harvard instead. He told my mother that, the moment he got to pro training camp, he knew he wasn't going to be a star. If he couldn't be a star, there was no point in going. I can understand that; the shock of being downgraded in an instant from big college star to slightly too short bench sitter was probably an eye opener. My Dad was a competitor, but he knew when to throw in the towel.
The way his basketball and sports background manifested around the house was in intense sports watching. He would follow a basketball game with such intensity, it's a wonder he didn't have a stroke. Every weekend when he wasn't working was pretty much devoted to sports. He'd make himself some chili or a tuna melt, and settle in to watch a marathon of events. My mother was convinced he'd watch anything; she once found him studying curling, an obscure far northern sport played on ice with big weights and brooms. She thought it was funny, but in a sad way.
Needless to say, my sister and I were not really encouraged to watch with him. He was so intense that, if you asked him something, it might take him three minutes to respond. He didn't have patience when explaining games and strategies; apparently we were supposed to learn such things through familial osmosis. And there was no way to play any sort of game or sport with him. "You throw like a girl," he jeered at me once. Well, I was a girl. And thank god for that, because being a boy would have been really difficult.
It took me years to get over thinking I was bad at sports. Gawky and half blind, I was terrible at racquet sports and anything else involving eye/hand coordination. I could run well, though, and was pretty strong for a skinny girl. My skiing wasn't bad. Later in my life, I became a gym rat, then a Pilates instructor, and now an amateur aerialist. I think the aerial trapeze actually freaked my Dad out a bit, because it was something he honestly couldn't imagine himself doing in any way.
In the last 20 years of his life, my father couldn't play basketball or tennis anymore, because his knees were shot. He ended up becoming a yoga enthusiast, investing in a popular yoga studio in Santa Monica and attending class often. But he was, ironically, competitive about yoga. I was wise enough at this point to stay away from yoga. It was too slow paced for me and I didn't like the scene. But that didn't keep him from asking me if I could get into this or that yoga pose. Of course I could, because I was young and female. The question was, why was he trying to compete with his daughter who didn't even practice yoga? He'd already shown himself to be more competitive, more successful, and more accomplished than his children, but even I knew that age, when it came to physical prowess, mattered.
When I was young, we never saw any of the guys Dad played basketball with at UCLA, but later on once he remarried they appeared on the scene. Dad would host team reunions up at his house. He always had a relationship with "Coach," who was a formidable guy I met several times over the years (the first time I met Wooden, at age 29, he rattled off my Dad's stats to me as if he was still coaching that team). In fact, I didn't speak much with any of the team members until Dad got sick, and then they visited him at home and in the hospital. They were, and are, really lovely guys. The consensus, always, was what a good sport and team player he always was, no matter what ego nonsense was going on with the other players. It was reminiscent of the same things my Dad's co-workers said about him.
Again, it's hard to reconcile the selfless team player with the ultra competitive Dad who used to cheat on board games just so he could win (he ran the bank and stole money in Monopoly, and hung ships over the edge of the board in Battleship with unsinkable results; I actually find that pretty funny). Just a couple years ago he got in a fight with my daughter, then nine, while playing handball. Not liking her take on the rules of the court, he apparently threw the ball into a wall of trashcans and then stormed into the house. My daughter, not intimidated in the slightest, followed him in and, in front of the entire family, asked "Why did you do that?" My Dad had no answer. "Welcome to my childhood," I told my appalled husband.
I only got a real insight into the impact of his basketball years once. Dad told me a story of how, although Wooden hated giving any player the spotlight, in one game he let each of the starting players go onto the court with the second stringers. That way, each star knew all the cheering was just for him. Dad described just how heady the feeling was of having thousands of people cheering for him. It was intoxicating, seductive, wonderful. And it never happened again, at least not on that level. Sometimes I think his raging at televised sports was the frustration of a supposed team player who only got the drug like fix of total adulation once, before having it yanked away.
In the end, I think, the basketball stardom was just one more thing that separated him from his family. It was something none of us could understand. It wasn't something he wanted to explain, and maybe he couldn't really articulate it anyway. But when I think back, to all those weekends of him watching sports and getting angry, it just seems so lonely. It was just him and the game and nothing else at all.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
My Split Persona Dad, part 2
As I said in an earlier post, death, at least in my Dad's case, is a powerful public relations machine. The almost unanimous consensus among his friends and co-workers is that Dad was the most diplomatic, generous, kind, helpful, and compassionate person at his firm and in his yoga studio. That's in pretty sharp contrast to my more nuanced view of him as moody, distant, disconnected, sometimes resentful, unpredictable, and bitingly, sophomorically funny.
An anecdote not even from my childhood: while on a "family" ski trip in Colorado. I'm about 25 and able to take care of myself. My stepsister and her cousin, on the other hand, are still kids, maybe around seven or eight. Dad is trying to get them to ski school. Their tiny skis are falling all over the place, the girls are tripping over themselves, and finally one of them falls and starts to cry. My father rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and says, "I hate being a Dad!"
My stepmother looks horrified, turns to me, and says, "He didn't mean it."
In turn, I look at her with resignation and replied, "Yes, he did."
It's true. He didn't like being a Dad, especially with little kids. All the patience and nurturing he could supply to hysterical law associates at work went out the window when dealing with real children at home. That's just the way he was.
Much, much later, during one of his many hospital stays, he had me and one of his partners by the bed. Dad proceeded to talk about me to the partner as if I wasn't there, "This one, I could never get her to do anything I said."
What sort of bullshit was this? I was 43 with a new marriage and a child. I had often taken his advice, stingily meted out over the years. And why try to humiliate a middle aged child over advice probably ignored 20 years ago? And why in front of his partner, who had the good grace to look uncomfortable.
Perhaps every parent does this, assigning a child a role and then never admitting they've outgrown it; as if keeping the child's emotional development in stasis shields the parent from having to adapt, or even notice change. For years, Dad liked to egg me on. I'll admit it was easy; I'd go for that bait while he amused himself. At some point though, probably in my late 30's, I stopped reacting. Who cared what he thought?
I thought our relationship had evolved, but towards the end of Dad's life I wasn't so sure. Once, when we were alone in the hospital, Dad looked at me sharply and said, "You've changed."
"What do you mean," I said.
"I used to be able to get you going, but I can't anymore. What happened?" He sounded bummed about this, as if I'd denied him some sort of entertainment.
"Everyone has to grow up sometime, Dad," I said in a matter of fact tone. But I was truly shocked. That was the last time we discussed anything about our relationship.
When I listen to non family members talk about my father, it makes me feel sad and a bit robbed. I obviously didn't get the best side of him. Maybe it was easier to give advice to an admiring young associate, who'd really listen to him, instead of a sulky teenaged daughter who looked just like him. Intellectually, I know that my Dad had traits he hated and he probably saw them in me, the kid most like him on every level. I did not feed his ego properly, the way his work associates did. I was challenging and argumentative and, I'm sure, often infuriating. I did not fawn, although my husband has recently told me he's always thought I was very nice to Dad, and he wasn't that nice to me. Perhaps my Dad wasn't the only person stuck in the past.
All of this, I'm sure, will become even more confusing at the eventual memorial service, at which people will give the work side of him ample spin. And I'll have to sit and try to reconcile the man I dealt with, a real mix of good, bad, and confusing, with the image of saintly warrior they're painting. Talk about feeling guilty.
And I haven't even discussed the fact that Dad was kind of famous, a whole other aspect of the split persona. That's next.
An anecdote not even from my childhood: while on a "family" ski trip in Colorado. I'm about 25 and able to take care of myself. My stepsister and her cousin, on the other hand, are still kids, maybe around seven or eight. Dad is trying to get them to ski school. Their tiny skis are falling all over the place, the girls are tripping over themselves, and finally one of them falls and starts to cry. My father rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and says, "I hate being a Dad!"
My stepmother looks horrified, turns to me, and says, "He didn't mean it."
In turn, I look at her with resignation and replied, "Yes, he did."
It's true. He didn't like being a Dad, especially with little kids. All the patience and nurturing he could supply to hysterical law associates at work went out the window when dealing with real children at home. That's just the way he was.
Much, much later, during one of his many hospital stays, he had me and one of his partners by the bed. Dad proceeded to talk about me to the partner as if I wasn't there, "This one, I could never get her to do anything I said."
What sort of bullshit was this? I was 43 with a new marriage and a child. I had often taken his advice, stingily meted out over the years. And why try to humiliate a middle aged child over advice probably ignored 20 years ago? And why in front of his partner, who had the good grace to look uncomfortable.
Perhaps every parent does this, assigning a child a role and then never admitting they've outgrown it; as if keeping the child's emotional development in stasis shields the parent from having to adapt, or even notice change. For years, Dad liked to egg me on. I'll admit it was easy; I'd go for that bait while he amused himself. At some point though, probably in my late 30's, I stopped reacting. Who cared what he thought?
I thought our relationship had evolved, but towards the end of Dad's life I wasn't so sure. Once, when we were alone in the hospital, Dad looked at me sharply and said, "You've changed."
"What do you mean," I said.
"I used to be able to get you going, but I can't anymore. What happened?" He sounded bummed about this, as if I'd denied him some sort of entertainment.
"Everyone has to grow up sometime, Dad," I said in a matter of fact tone. But I was truly shocked. That was the last time we discussed anything about our relationship.
When I listen to non family members talk about my father, it makes me feel sad and a bit robbed. I obviously didn't get the best side of him. Maybe it was easier to give advice to an admiring young associate, who'd really listen to him, instead of a sulky teenaged daughter who looked just like him. Intellectually, I know that my Dad had traits he hated and he probably saw them in me, the kid most like him on every level. I did not feed his ego properly, the way his work associates did. I was challenging and argumentative and, I'm sure, often infuriating. I did not fawn, although my husband has recently told me he's always thought I was very nice to Dad, and he wasn't that nice to me. Perhaps my Dad wasn't the only person stuck in the past.
All of this, I'm sure, will become even more confusing at the eventual memorial service, at which people will give the work side of him ample spin. And I'll have to sit and try to reconcile the man I dealt with, a real mix of good, bad, and confusing, with the image of saintly warrior they're painting. Talk about feeling guilty.
And I haven't even discussed the fact that Dad was kind of famous, a whole other aspect of the split persona. That's next.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Who Was Dad, Anyway?
I have a number of good friends who have lost their fathers. Their relationships with their fathers have varied: one was the apple of his eye, one was alienated almost completely, one had very mixed emotions. But, none of them had a split between how they experienced their fathers and how the world saw their fathers as individuals.
My Dad, however, was different. He was barely 21 when I was born, still in college, still almost a teenager. Obviously, I wasn't planned and neither was my parents' marriage (although it lasted 21 years, which is pretty long for marrying so young and under duress). Because of both the age difference and, probably, because of the way Dad was wired, he seemed more like a terrifying big brother than a father figure. His rough housing was indeed rough, his game playing was competitive and took no prisoners. He worked non stop throughout my childhood, again partially because he was young and needed to build a career, and partially because that was how his personality worked. He wasn't particularly warm and cuddly when I was a child, although he did seem to enjoy having more adult children and gave good advice and support, when asked.
Compare my experience to the overwhelmingly rapturous praise bestowed upon him by his co-workers and casual acquaintances. He worked at a large law firm and had a party many summers for the firm's summer associates. Young attorneys would approach me, the oldest daughter, to wax poetic about what an amazing mentor and wonderful guy Dad was. "It must be so awesome, to have such a cool dad," one female associate gushed at me. I wasn't sure what to say back, so I anemically agreed. It seemed easier than to try to inappropriately explain that I wasn't sure who the hell she was talking about. And this scene played itself out repeatedly over the years.
Now, after his death, it almost seems like there's a public relations machine at work, one which has no room for subtlety or nuance. To his partners and underlings, he's a hero, a team player, the most beloved person at the firm, the peacemaker, the confidante, the appropriate ladies' charmer. There's no room to perhaps explain that he gave those patient, compassionate, good instincts and efforts to his career, but gave his child (I won't speak for my sister or stepsister here) a considerably different experience. He was often cold, distracted, and emotionally unavailable. He had trouble communicating unconditional love, although I'm sure he did feel it. He was often witheringly dismissive. While he was always financially supportive, he wasn't the emotional booster for his children that he was for his associates at work. That's just the truth.
He was also funny and often outrageous. Although he was known as a true diplomat at work, he was the provocateur at home. His cursing was legion. He had a whimsical side and a penchant for making up hilarious songs. He teased mercilessly, which was only funny if you weren't on the wrong end of the teasing. In fact, his behavior at home was almost the complete opposite of his behavior at work.
So was was Dad, anyway? It's hard to decipher because he seems so split. On the one hand, perhaps he felt comfortable enough at home to make the rest of us feel uncomfortable, something he couldn't afford to do at work. Sort of along the lines of: you're stuck with me, so I can be as badly behaved as I wanna be. But I think that it was also more important to him, as well as easier, to be loved at work by people who had less complex relationships with him. He was, ultimately, the man who spent more time at work, and probably didn't regret it.
Dad's memorial service hasn't happened yet. Although I'm hoping to feel a sense of closure from it, I don't have high hopes. Listening to a bunch of people sing his praises for hours is just a repeat of every encounter I've ever had with his co workers and acquaintances. And I don't think I'm going to speak, because I don't think anyone wants to hear my ultimately loving, but decidedly different view of Dad.
My Dad, however, was different. He was barely 21 when I was born, still in college, still almost a teenager. Obviously, I wasn't planned and neither was my parents' marriage (although it lasted 21 years, which is pretty long for marrying so young and under duress). Because of both the age difference and, probably, because of the way Dad was wired, he seemed more like a terrifying big brother than a father figure. His rough housing was indeed rough, his game playing was competitive and took no prisoners. He worked non stop throughout my childhood, again partially because he was young and needed to build a career, and partially because that was how his personality worked. He wasn't particularly warm and cuddly when I was a child, although he did seem to enjoy having more adult children and gave good advice and support, when asked.
Compare my experience to the overwhelmingly rapturous praise bestowed upon him by his co-workers and casual acquaintances. He worked at a large law firm and had a party many summers for the firm's summer associates. Young attorneys would approach me, the oldest daughter, to wax poetic about what an amazing mentor and wonderful guy Dad was. "It must be so awesome, to have such a cool dad," one female associate gushed at me. I wasn't sure what to say back, so I anemically agreed. It seemed easier than to try to inappropriately explain that I wasn't sure who the hell she was talking about. And this scene played itself out repeatedly over the years.
Now, after his death, it almost seems like there's a public relations machine at work, one which has no room for subtlety or nuance. To his partners and underlings, he's a hero, a team player, the most beloved person at the firm, the peacemaker, the confidante, the appropriate ladies' charmer. There's no room to perhaps explain that he gave those patient, compassionate, good instincts and efforts to his career, but gave his child (I won't speak for my sister or stepsister here) a considerably different experience. He was often cold, distracted, and emotionally unavailable. He had trouble communicating unconditional love, although I'm sure he did feel it. He was often witheringly dismissive. While he was always financially supportive, he wasn't the emotional booster for his children that he was for his associates at work. That's just the truth.
He was also funny and often outrageous. Although he was known as a true diplomat at work, he was the provocateur at home. His cursing was legion. He had a whimsical side and a penchant for making up hilarious songs. He teased mercilessly, which was only funny if you weren't on the wrong end of the teasing. In fact, his behavior at home was almost the complete opposite of his behavior at work.
So was was Dad, anyway? It's hard to decipher because he seems so split. On the one hand, perhaps he felt comfortable enough at home to make the rest of us feel uncomfortable, something he couldn't afford to do at work. Sort of along the lines of: you're stuck with me, so I can be as badly behaved as I wanna be. But I think that it was also more important to him, as well as easier, to be loved at work by people who had less complex relationships with him. He was, ultimately, the man who spent more time at work, and probably didn't regret it.
Dad's memorial service hasn't happened yet. Although I'm hoping to feel a sense of closure from it, I don't have high hopes. Listening to a bunch of people sing his praises for hours is just a repeat of every encounter I've ever had with his co workers and acquaintances. And I don't think I'm going to speak, because I don't think anyone wants to hear my ultimately loving, but decidedly different view of Dad.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Not Dealing with Death and Dying
Around the time Dad started getting really sick (perhaps when he went to see that quack doctor), I stepped into Skylight Books and bought the book Saying Goodbye: A Guide to Coping with a Loved One's Terminal Illness. I read it in a bunch of quick gulps that weekend, but it all seemed distant, something that happened to other people. The anecdotes, the astute observations, the practical information contained within didn't seem to apply.
After Dad died, I sat down with the book again. Yes, I know: hindsight is 20/20. But what I found was something stranger. Rather than seeing the situation echoed in the book, I still couldn't find it. Sure, my reactions to his illness and death seemed normal enough. But Dad's reaction to his own illness and impending death? Not so much.
In this book, there wasn't an anecdote that described the ill person as refusing to acknowledge his illness as terminal. Everywhere in the book, the family members were the ones unwilling to discuss the inevitable, keeping up the denial for as long as possible, while the dying person wanted to discuss the end game. In Dad's case, though, my sister and I knew early on how this was going to end. It sucked, but we knew. And when the illness quickly took over his life, reducing it to rubble, we longed for some sort of agreement from him. When was he going to utter the words "death," "dying," and "terminal?"
The answer was never. He charged ahead with more treatment, more hospitalization, more blood transfusions, even as it became clear it was futile. He never once admitted he was dying to us, only saying things like, "I must get stronger." This was perceived by many as evidence of Dad's strength and warrior spirit. I guess I don't really see it that way. I think he was terrified and pissed, and remained that way almost until the end, when he was too out of it to do or say anything anymore, and hospice was finally called.
I felt bad, not being able to be a cheerleader. God knows, my stepmother and stepsister certainly were. Dad's friends certainly were, marching into his hospital room and telling him he looked "great," which was a total insult to everyone's intelligence. The Death Elephant was lounging prominently in the middle of the room, taking huge dumps, and these people were just side stepping it constantly. It made me feel crazy.
I do believe that, toward the last week or so of his life, he did finally admit it to my aunt, his sister. She came to see him, and he told her, "Well, I guess the next time you'll be here will be for a funeral." But he never said anything of the kind to us. Unlike so many of the dying in the book I read, Dad never discussed his arrangements in his will, never truly specified memorial service options, never truly said goodbye. And that's a shame, because he was given time to do all those things, time that some people don't get.
I know that ultimately it was Dad's choice, because it was his illness and his death. But when an illness goes on for a long time, it radically affects the family. It wasn't just him anymore. I worry that he thrashed and fought in terror and denial until he ran out of energy, and then didn't have any peace at the end. And although I think I said everything to him I needed to say, it was mostly met on his end with silence (and not just because he had trouble talking). How lonely for everyone.
After Dad died, I sat down with the book again. Yes, I know: hindsight is 20/20. But what I found was something stranger. Rather than seeing the situation echoed in the book, I still couldn't find it. Sure, my reactions to his illness and death seemed normal enough. But Dad's reaction to his own illness and impending death? Not so much.
In this book, there wasn't an anecdote that described the ill person as refusing to acknowledge his illness as terminal. Everywhere in the book, the family members were the ones unwilling to discuss the inevitable, keeping up the denial for as long as possible, while the dying person wanted to discuss the end game. In Dad's case, though, my sister and I knew early on how this was going to end. It sucked, but we knew. And when the illness quickly took over his life, reducing it to rubble, we longed for some sort of agreement from him. When was he going to utter the words "death," "dying," and "terminal?"
The answer was never. He charged ahead with more treatment, more hospitalization, more blood transfusions, even as it became clear it was futile. He never once admitted he was dying to us, only saying things like, "I must get stronger." This was perceived by many as evidence of Dad's strength and warrior spirit. I guess I don't really see it that way. I think he was terrified and pissed, and remained that way almost until the end, when he was too out of it to do or say anything anymore, and hospice was finally called.
I felt bad, not being able to be a cheerleader. God knows, my stepmother and stepsister certainly were. Dad's friends certainly were, marching into his hospital room and telling him he looked "great," which was a total insult to everyone's intelligence. The Death Elephant was lounging prominently in the middle of the room, taking huge dumps, and these people were just side stepping it constantly. It made me feel crazy.
I do believe that, toward the last week or so of his life, he did finally admit it to my aunt, his sister. She came to see him, and he told her, "Well, I guess the next time you'll be here will be for a funeral." But he never said anything of the kind to us. Unlike so many of the dying in the book I read, Dad never discussed his arrangements in his will, never truly specified memorial service options, never truly said goodbye. And that's a shame, because he was given time to do all those things, time that some people don't get.
I know that ultimately it was Dad's choice, because it was his illness and his death. But when an illness goes on for a long time, it radically affects the family. It wasn't just him anymore. I worry that he thrashed and fought in terror and denial until he ran out of energy, and then didn't have any peace at the end. And although I think I said everything to him I needed to say, it was mostly met on his end with silence (and not just because he had trouble talking). How lonely for everyone.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
What the Hell Happened: A Chronology
You'd think after watching my father go through this relatively short (as I said, eleven month) ordeal, every aspect would be burned into my psyche. But that's just not true. Terminal illness is tricky. It has ups and downs (in Dad's case, mostly downs), and half the time you're not just dealing with the sick person, but with the other relatives' bullshit. I have bullshit, too, so I mean that in the kindest possible way. This basic chronology might be helpful, just to get the timing out of the way.
In July 2011, my Dad was struck by what the doctors thought was diverticulitis. He had pain in his abdomen, nausea, weakness. Although he had had cancer three times before (I'll get to that in later posts), he had been getting regular scans and everything looked normal. Ok.
But when the surgeon went in to fix the diverticulitis, he found cancer. A lot of cancer. Enough cancer that he decided it was way above his pay grade to remove it all, and stitched Dad back up. It turned out to be leiomyosarcoma, a very rare soft tissue cancer in his small intestine. And it was a recurrence; he'd had several tumors removed seven years prior. It's a hard cancer to treat. It doesn't respond well to most chemo or to radiation (plus, there's a big limit on radiation of small intestine anyway). The only real "cure" for it is to just cut it out.
Enter the surgical oncologist (one of his only doctors I really liked). By this time, it's September, at least (see, time really does fold and morph with this stuff), and Dad needs to have the larger tumor removed. This surgeon manages it: a tumor surrounded by its own fancy blood supply the size of a grapefruit. How anyone could miss this on a CAT scan is beyond me; my faith in this diagnostic tool is forever shaken. Obviously, this is a big surgery. The surgeon cuts out everything he can see, but that doesn't mean there aren't cancer cells happily proliferating anyway. Dad needs further treatment.
He decides to go to some sarcoma specialist at Dana Farber in Boston. This guy is the final word on sarcomas, leiomyosarcomas in particular. He even does clinical trials. Dad's original appointment with the guy was in October, but that big surgery makes that date impossible. It's pushed into January. Meanwhile, Dad is in a lot of pain this whole time. He's taking tons of pain meds, including oral morphine. He's still working, still driving, but obviously in distress.
January: He meets with the Dana Farber guy. It does not go well. Dad is told that the cancer "is exploding" inside him; the guy has seen this before. "Run, don't walk, to get chemotherapy," he's told coldly by the doctor. Dad and his wife are devastated. Paralyzed, even. He's resistant to the idea of chemo. It will make his life terrible. But his life is already pretty terrible and pain filled. Around this point, he's given a 2% cure rate. That sucks.
Desperate for some other, more positive news, Dad goes for the alternative medicine treatment: Dr. Nicholas Gonzalez. This is the only doctor's name I will mention on this blog, mostly because he's unethical and should lose his license (at least you know I'm totally biased here). He meets with Gonzalez in New York in late January. He's told that, if he follows a strict diet, takes up to 150 of his special supplements a day, and does coffee enemas (a very bad idea for someone with diverticulitis, which he actually did have), he can "cure" him. In fact, this guy gives Dad an 80% cure rate using his protocol.
Naturally, this gives Dad hope. He's in a fragile state. He doesn't want to do chemo. This guy is offering him odds that are 78% better than what he's been given. Gonzalez feeds on his desperation, gets him to buy the supplements and the expensive organic coffee that's going to go up the wrong orifice. There's nothing any of us can say without sounding "negative."
But Dad's body has other plans. The tumors inside him (no, they weren't all taken out, or they grew like weeds) start to bleed, and they bleed out into his abdomen. Unable to eat 150 supplements, etc, Dad gives in and gets through one round of chemo. And then, disaster.
The bleeding is out of control. He needs blood, lots of it, sometimes two units per day. It's not sustainable. The doctors consult (in a rare act of unity) and agree on a radical, last ditch surgery to fix the problem. Dad hasn't got great odds of surviving it, mostly because they don't know what's really going on inside him.
Dad, high as a kite on the morphine drip we're now pushing for him every seven minutes, says goodbye in a rather classic "Terms of Endearment" style, goes in for surgery, and.... survives.
Yes, he survives the surgery beautifully. At least, until he develops pneumonia through some lovely e-coli that got through his stent. And because he's had a round of chemo, his immune system is having trouble fighting it off. The doctors decide to sedate him, really induce a coma, in order to intubate him and let the antibiotics work.
Dad is put under in ICU. He's unconscious for five weeks. The family takes turns visiting him, sleeping yet still wincing in pain, for five whole weeks. The wincing, it turns out, is due to a complication of morphine sensitivity: Dad is an addict who's drug has turned on him and he must be weaned off onto Methodone. It's unclear whether he'll come out of it without some other massive complications, like never walking again because of muscle atrophy. But he does.
I cried the first time I heard his voice after five weeks. He was confused (he had, after all, just had one of the world's longest naps), but was otherwise ok. He started physical therapy for his drop foot and atrophy, and made strides.
I believe he had roughly two good weeks at home before everything started to go wrong again. Although he'd been trying to eat, he was steadily losing weight. Something was up with his digestive system. Maybe it really never recovered from the surgery. Maybe the cancer was screwing it up. The doctors kept saying the cancer hadn't spread, that it wasn't on the scans, but since it never showed up on the CAT scans before, none of us took that seriously. The doctors inserted a tube directly into Dad's stomach, so he could have his food poured in there.
It didn't really matter. He kept losing weight. And his hemoglobin stats kept sinking. It became a cycle: go to the hospital, get some blood, rest, go home, falter, fatigue, then back to the hospital again. Was he bleeding? Probably, although the doctors weren't going to do any surgery to find out (he wouldn't have survived it, anyway). Soon, he was down to under 140 pounds (he was 6'5") and unable to walk. He was incontinent, partially due to a series of UTIs he couldn't seem to fight off. And, cruelest of all, he lost his voice. There were varying theories on that: a bunch of phlegm he couldn't cough up, weakness in his diaphragm because he was essentially starving, depression. It was frustrating for everyone.
He slept more, interacted less. He had moments of real lucidity and energy, but they never lasted. He couldn't digest the stomach feedings anymore, and his weight dropped further. Hospice wasn't called in until he was pretty far gone. He didn't seem to be in pain, although it's my understanding that starving to death is very painful; hopefully hospice drugged him enough so that he felt nothing.
He died at 9:25 am on July 9, 2012. His nurse and housekeeper (who had also been acting as a nurse) were in the room with him. I'm glad they were there, because Dad really liked them.
In July 2011, my Dad was struck by what the doctors thought was diverticulitis. He had pain in his abdomen, nausea, weakness. Although he had had cancer three times before (I'll get to that in later posts), he had been getting regular scans and everything looked normal. Ok.
But when the surgeon went in to fix the diverticulitis, he found cancer. A lot of cancer. Enough cancer that he decided it was way above his pay grade to remove it all, and stitched Dad back up. It turned out to be leiomyosarcoma, a very rare soft tissue cancer in his small intestine. And it was a recurrence; he'd had several tumors removed seven years prior. It's a hard cancer to treat. It doesn't respond well to most chemo or to radiation (plus, there's a big limit on radiation of small intestine anyway). The only real "cure" for it is to just cut it out.
Enter the surgical oncologist (one of his only doctors I really liked). By this time, it's September, at least (see, time really does fold and morph with this stuff), and Dad needs to have the larger tumor removed. This surgeon manages it: a tumor surrounded by its own fancy blood supply the size of a grapefruit. How anyone could miss this on a CAT scan is beyond me; my faith in this diagnostic tool is forever shaken. Obviously, this is a big surgery. The surgeon cuts out everything he can see, but that doesn't mean there aren't cancer cells happily proliferating anyway. Dad needs further treatment.
He decides to go to some sarcoma specialist at Dana Farber in Boston. This guy is the final word on sarcomas, leiomyosarcomas in particular. He even does clinical trials. Dad's original appointment with the guy was in October, but that big surgery makes that date impossible. It's pushed into January. Meanwhile, Dad is in a lot of pain this whole time. He's taking tons of pain meds, including oral morphine. He's still working, still driving, but obviously in distress.
January: He meets with the Dana Farber guy. It does not go well. Dad is told that the cancer "is exploding" inside him; the guy has seen this before. "Run, don't walk, to get chemotherapy," he's told coldly by the doctor. Dad and his wife are devastated. Paralyzed, even. He's resistant to the idea of chemo. It will make his life terrible. But his life is already pretty terrible and pain filled. Around this point, he's given a 2% cure rate. That sucks.
Desperate for some other, more positive news, Dad goes for the alternative medicine treatment: Dr. Nicholas Gonzalez. This is the only doctor's name I will mention on this blog, mostly because he's unethical and should lose his license (at least you know I'm totally biased here). He meets with Gonzalez in New York in late January. He's told that, if he follows a strict diet, takes up to 150 of his special supplements a day, and does coffee enemas (a very bad idea for someone with diverticulitis, which he actually did have), he can "cure" him. In fact, this guy gives Dad an 80% cure rate using his protocol.
Naturally, this gives Dad hope. He's in a fragile state. He doesn't want to do chemo. This guy is offering him odds that are 78% better than what he's been given. Gonzalez feeds on his desperation, gets him to buy the supplements and the expensive organic coffee that's going to go up the wrong orifice. There's nothing any of us can say without sounding "negative."
But Dad's body has other plans. The tumors inside him (no, they weren't all taken out, or they grew like weeds) start to bleed, and they bleed out into his abdomen. Unable to eat 150 supplements, etc, Dad gives in and gets through one round of chemo. And then, disaster.
The bleeding is out of control. He needs blood, lots of it, sometimes two units per day. It's not sustainable. The doctors consult (in a rare act of unity) and agree on a radical, last ditch surgery to fix the problem. Dad hasn't got great odds of surviving it, mostly because they don't know what's really going on inside him.
Dad, high as a kite on the morphine drip we're now pushing for him every seven minutes, says goodbye in a rather classic "Terms of Endearment" style, goes in for surgery, and.... survives.
Yes, he survives the surgery beautifully. At least, until he develops pneumonia through some lovely e-coli that got through his stent. And because he's had a round of chemo, his immune system is having trouble fighting it off. The doctors decide to sedate him, really induce a coma, in order to intubate him and let the antibiotics work.
Dad is put under in ICU. He's unconscious for five weeks. The family takes turns visiting him, sleeping yet still wincing in pain, for five whole weeks. The wincing, it turns out, is due to a complication of morphine sensitivity: Dad is an addict who's drug has turned on him and he must be weaned off onto Methodone. It's unclear whether he'll come out of it without some other massive complications, like never walking again because of muscle atrophy. But he does.
I cried the first time I heard his voice after five weeks. He was confused (he had, after all, just had one of the world's longest naps), but was otherwise ok. He started physical therapy for his drop foot and atrophy, and made strides.
I believe he had roughly two good weeks at home before everything started to go wrong again. Although he'd been trying to eat, he was steadily losing weight. Something was up with his digestive system. Maybe it really never recovered from the surgery. Maybe the cancer was screwing it up. The doctors kept saying the cancer hadn't spread, that it wasn't on the scans, but since it never showed up on the CAT scans before, none of us took that seriously. The doctors inserted a tube directly into Dad's stomach, so he could have his food poured in there.
It didn't really matter. He kept losing weight. And his hemoglobin stats kept sinking. It became a cycle: go to the hospital, get some blood, rest, go home, falter, fatigue, then back to the hospital again. Was he bleeding? Probably, although the doctors weren't going to do any surgery to find out (he wouldn't have survived it, anyway). Soon, he was down to under 140 pounds (he was 6'5") and unable to walk. He was incontinent, partially due to a series of UTIs he couldn't seem to fight off. And, cruelest of all, he lost his voice. There were varying theories on that: a bunch of phlegm he couldn't cough up, weakness in his diaphragm because he was essentially starving, depression. It was frustrating for everyone.
He slept more, interacted less. He had moments of real lucidity and energy, but they never lasted. He couldn't digest the stomach feedings anymore, and his weight dropped further. Hospice wasn't called in until he was pretty far gone. He didn't seem to be in pain, although it's my understanding that starving to death is very painful; hopefully hospice drugged him enough so that he felt nothing.
He died at 9:25 am on July 9, 2012. His nurse and housekeeper (who had also been acting as a nurse) were in the room with him. I'm glad they were there, because Dad really liked them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)