Written April 30, 2018
“Did he sleep through the night?” my husband whispered as he hovered over me, his navy blue tie tickling my cheek. The family room was a radiant ball of yellow and the wood floors displayed geometric outlines of the windows from the early morning sun. I lifted my head from the burlap pillow and started to shake my head “no,” but winced and grabbed my neck. I should have offered my head a little more support before I passed out, exhausted, against the arm of the couch.
Jay sent me encouragement with quick ruffle of my hair and a coffee-scented kiss. The door chimed and I heard his car reverse down the driveway.
Fifteen years ago, Jason regularly asked me the same question- did he sleep through the night? Often the answer was “no” since our first born was a bit temperamental to put it kindly. Like today, Jason would kiss me on the head and leave the house. Anxiety would start flooding my body while I lay still in the quiet house; alone except for a sleeping baby boy who would need all my energy for the next 12 hours. The first yelp from the room down the hall would trigger my fight-or-flight response and I would run into Jack’s room to immediately try to calm him. He was a healthy, beautiful baby with big, blue eyes and fuzzy, blonde hair. I thought being a mom was hard.
Now, in my forties, rather than watching a baby boy thrive and grow on a daily basis, I am witnessing the decline of a man who I love just as much. The moans and grunts from down the hall are from my father. And he did not sleep through the night. He hasn’t slept through the night since he moved in with us over a week ago.
I was volunteering at school when I got a call from a number I did not recognize. I hit the decline button and continued to help serve hot lunch to a room full of 3rd & 4th graders. After all bellies had been served, I pulled off the rubber gloves and checked my voicemail. It was a nurse. My father had been in an accident. He flipped his car and was in the emergency room.
My heart fluttered like a trapped butterfly while I drove, dialing numbers of my family members while trying to hear the directions from the GPS. My dad’s body was so fragile from cancer that I knew the must have broken a bone if not many. Thinking about him wheelchair-bound made me tear up. He would not want to live if he could not walk.
When I saw him, he seemed ashamed. “Aww, Vic…I don’t know what happened. I must have blacked out.” He had a small bump on his head and bruises on his leg but otherwise looked pretty good and wasn’t in pain. I asked the nurse if he had broken bones or further injuries and she said the results from the scan would be back soon.
As my sister and I sat by his side trying to console him and lighten the mood, the ER doc came in with a clipboard of papers. In a deep Chicago accent he said, “I don’t know if you know this, but you have spots on your brain.” Thank you very much dickhead, we did not know that. Way to be sensitive.
After a week in the hospital which included no broken bones but brain surgery to remove two large tumors that metastasized, I convinced him to come stay with me “only for a few days until I know you are fine.” He reluctantly agreed. We set up a bed in our first-floor office and he slept non-stop for the first three days, barely waking to go to the bathroom or have a sip of protein shake. Recently, he is awake more often now but still spends a majority of the day in his bed.
One minute I feel optimistic; there is always a chance he can get better; cancer treatments have come a long way even in the late stages. The optimism changes on a dime when I see his frail skeleton, riddled with bone cancer from his prostate, his underwear hanging around him like a skirt and his hands shaking as he sucks water through a straw.
The brain surgeon says that he needs radiation to his brain where there are still small tumors on the dura. It will be very hard on him but my Dad wants to do it. When his oncologist heard of the treatment plan, her composure changed and I could clearly read her thoughts; she was in complete disagreement with the surgeon. She has seen cases like my Dad’s hundreds of times and knew this treatment was an unnecessary evil.
Deep in my heart I know she is spot on. Pulling him out of bed to radiate his brain while the rest of his body is on a sharp decline seems inhumane. Today he said his head “feels like it’s grumbling.” Although his stomach is empty, I had to give him another painkiller so he could rest. He’s up to 18 pills a day that have been labeled and organized in plastic bins and boxes with marked compartments. The fan outside his room whirls at medium speed, serving as a makeshift noise machine meant to drown out the noise of the house. He falls asleep again and each time he does, I have hope that he’ll wake up feeling rested.
Until he tells me he is done fighting, I will support him. I will help him eat. I will be his crutch when he walks. I will take him to the doctor and add high calorie drinks to his diet when he is losing more weight. I will move all the area rugs so he doesn’t trip and I will make sure he takes his medicine. And I will always come to him in the middle of the night when he needs me. Life has come full circle, and once again, it is hard. But I hope to look back at this faze of my life with no regrets, the same as I did 15 years ago.
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