This story was written by an adult child after her father was diagnosed with a rare type of lung cancer called Mesothelioma. She reflects on those months and the spiritual growth that took place in their relationship. That adult child was me, and here is the story I wrote in 1985:
My father turned 70 in June of 1984, and my new husband, Tom, and I visited him and my mother for several days. He was very strong for his age, his arms still able to roto-till the large garden behind the home where I had been raised. As Tom and I watched him move effortlessly with the roto-tiller, he was amazed my father could still do this at 70.
I had inner struggles regarding my relationship with my father. One year prior, we had a heated discussion two days before my wedding. I did not want him to “give me away,” as the tradition went. He got angry, and I wondered if he would even show up. He did, and we agreed that he would escort me down the aisle of the church but the minister would not ask, “Who gives this woman away?” He would simply take his seat by my mother.
In late August of 1984, I received a call from a family member that Dad was in the hospital. He had collapsed in the living room when he stood up from his chair. My panicked mother had called the ambulance.
Dad had shown no signs of being ill; in fact, he’d been helping with a federal election campaign about to take place in Canada. A staunch Progressive Conservative, he was looking forward to a win for the party of his convictions.
A confirmation from the oncologist on Dad’s condition had been a diagnosis of lung cancer, and a rare one called Mesothelioma. It was a cancer that affected the lining of the lungs, and it was caused by breathing asbestos. As a plumbing contractor, he had welded together many pipes in his day, pipes lined with asbestos.
I called my older sister, Barb, right away. We were the only adult children who lived at a distance, both in New England. We packed and got on the road for another of many road-trips home. The following afternoon I walked into Dad’s hospital room, bracing myself for what I would see. I was surprised that he was sitting up in bed, talking to my mother. A closer observation told me he had a contraption attached to his back that was draining fluid out of his lungs, and he was unable to move around. I had never seen anything like that before.
Other family members gathered, and he talked about what would happen next. He would have to make some decisions about whether to have chemotherapy, which would require him to go to Halifax for treatments. It was an hour and a half drive each way, so he and Mum would have to stay there during the weeks. I didn’t think either of them would like that. When a visitor came to see him, he showed them a family photo he had right beside his bed, something he had asked my mother to bring to him that morning. This was different. He also cried when we got ready to leave, and this was different too. I had never seen him cry.
He had a surgery to stop the fluid from building up in his lungs, then went back to regular life at home. Talking to him on the phone, all seemed normal. However, his oncologist had been blunt about the prognosis; this type of cancer was aggressive and without treatment, it would be a matter of months. My father reassured us all that he was strong and would fight it for as long as he could.
The next time I went home was for Canada’s Thanksgiving. He was a few pounds thinner but was doing well other than getting tired more easily. The World Series was on, and I enjoyed the time with my mother and father. I also appreciated how much more open he was becoming, no longer holding back his emotions. He was scared at times but also courageous, and had no bitterness about the turn his life and health had taken. “I guess I got my three-score and ten” he said at one point. On one rare day when he snapped at Mum, he apologized immediately. This was a big change. He was becoming the loving father I had missed for many years.
When his oncologist had him readmitted to the hospital, Barb and I went home again for several days. He was having anxiety attacks, and was very agitated at the thought of seeing his doctor. After several days of observation, the oncologist met with him and my mother as we all sat in the waiting room. They got the news that he was not physically able to endure chemotherapy treatments. Rather that being upset about this, he showed immense relief. That decision had been made for him, and he and Mum could stay close to home for however many months he had left.
Christmas was coming, and we prepared spend the afternoon at the hospital. Determined to have Christmas Dinner at home, he summoned my brother and brother-in-law to pick him up. When they walked him into the house, he was dressed in his suit and tie. He proudly took his place at the head of the table and started to say Grace before his voice broke. Barb finished Grace for him. He was not able to eat much, but we were able to surround him with love.
In January he returned home and could remain there, provided that my mother could administer his pain medication. In retrospect, I realize that this was similar to the “home hospice” that terminal patients receive today. By February he was back in the hospital, now under the care of the family physician, Dr. Stuart. Dad felt very safe with Dr. Stuart taking care of him.
In March, Dr. Stuart called and recommended that we come home as soon as we could. We were only told that there had been a “change.” I was four months pregnant and it was a shock when I saw him. He was unable to speak, and his whole right side was limp. I excused myself to go to the closest washroom, where I threw up. It was a moment of digging deep to face the reality. He was extremely thin, with a labored cough. We all hugged and cried. I had an idea and asked the hospital staff for paper. I wrote the alphabet on it and held it in front of him. He immediately spelled out the word “paralyzed.” We nodded helplessly that we understood.
He was so depressed at this point, that all we could do was be present for him. As the days went by, his speech came back somewhat, and if he said each word slowly, we could understand what he was communicating. Sometimes, he would even make a joke.
It was getting very hard to say goodbye each time I left him. Easter was coming, and he was slipping away. Dr. Stuart called us and said he probably had two or three days left. We arrived at the hospital to join the rest of the family, and I felt lost. I did not want to watch him suffer any more, but I was not ready to let him go either. When I saw him, he was heavily sedated, asleep. I offered to stay with him while my mother and siblings went to get a bite to eat, he opened his eyes and seeing me there seemed to shock and frighten him. I called out for a nurse and, seeing I was quite pregnant, she suggested that I leave the room. My father was gripping my hand so tight, I had to stay. His body was skin and bones, and the shot caused him pain. I held his hand and told him to count to three and he would feel better. Thankfully, the morphine kicked in and he settled down.
That night, Barb and I stayed with him for a few hours as he slept. I prayed for death to relieve him from suffering. I felt like this was a bad dream. It seemed impossible that the small figure lying in the hospital bed would be the same man who had roto-tilled his garden nine months ago. I looked at him as he took his last breaths, expecting the strong man I had known all my life to come walking through the door at any moment and take charge. It was such a powerless feeling to want him to go, and not wanting to lose him. Barb and I went home to rest and our brother took the next few hours. We were not home long when the hospital called. Dad was wide awake and this was a good time for all of us to be with him.What struck me as soon as I saw him was his blue eyes. I suddenly knew what that expression “the eyes are the mirror of the soul” meant. His soul was glowing through bright blue eyes, even looking out of place in his weakened body. As he looked at all of us, he said, “I know.” He knew it was his time, and he was very ready. We chatted, and even laughed, in those moments. Soon it was time to leave and we put on our coats. He suddenly got anxious, but calmed down when one of us designated ourselves to stay with him. We all hugged and kissed him, and he clenched both fists tightly afterward. He knew his fight was over and he was telling us to be strong for each other, and probably for our mother. Mum decided to stay with my brother, and we sat outside in the hospital lobby. The nurse came out and informed us that he had slipped into a coma and passed away. She recommended that we go in and sit quietly with his remains before they were removed from the bed. I went in with the other family members, even though I wanted to run. I wept so hard to see the empty shell, but at the same time, I felt something else. He had left the body that he had been suffering in, and I could feel his spirit flying above us, now free.
