Two things prompted me to write about my father’s illness and death. A friend suggested that I share my experience of eldercare, experiences that so many people are struggling with these days; and I saw a wonderful blog ( reviewed in the American Anthropologist) by Dana Walrath (http://danawalrath.wordpress.com/), which touchingly and even amusingly documents her experience with her mother who suffers from Alzheimer’s. I imagined writing something more upbeat than what I have written, something about my wonderful and still-living mother and her demented partner, something with some lightness in it—they have wonderful attitudes as they cope with these changes. But what came out was the much sadder story of my father’s cancer and death. One cannot always tell what one’s mind will dictate.
In the summer of 1993 (when I was in my late 40s), my husband and I decided to return from Borneo to the US, thinking to let our son have some of his formative years in the US, but also concerned about my father’s health. He had been diagnosed with stomach cancer in the fall of 1992, and been operated on at that time—but there was significant question about how effective that operation may have been. In residence at my parents’ home, while seeking stateside employment, the continued progression of the disease became clear in November of 1993. A second operation revealed his body riddled with cancer. The prognosis was ‘two or three more months’.
This meant making some difficult decisions. The first, whether or not to seek additional treatment, was answered quickly and definitively by my father. The chances were miniscule of any success treating stomach cancer, and he wanted to enjoy his last few months, insofar as possible. There were to be no treatments.
The second, less dramatic but also important, decision was, would my parents prefer that we remain with them to help care for my father, or would they prefer to have their home, and some time, to themselves. Our uncertain employment situation was such that we had unusual freedom to do either. But my parents’ exceedingly hospitable natures made this a delicate proposition. I knew how hard it would be for them to express a desire to be alone (they wouldn’t have wanted us to feel unwanted); and I also recognized the possibility that they would genuinely need the help. My paternal grandmother, aged 92, also lived with us. After several, very careful heart-to-hearts, it seemed that they did want us to stay.
Throughout the football season, my father and I sat together, watching the games he loved. I realized at the time how precious were these moments with him. He taught me more about the rules. I learned the quarterbacks, coaches and players, particularly those of the San Francisco 49ers, his special love. He taught me something of the strategies, the vocabulary; and told me stories of games he’d seen, players he admired. He was particularly impressed with someone named Blanda, who continued to play into his mid-30s. My father shared the ways football, manliness, sportsmanship, strength, honor all came together in his mind. I had known this at some level, but it was interesting (and a bit alien) to realize how closely they fit together in his world view. I imagine the poignancy he must have felt realizing he was seeing these games for the last time.
Sometime that fall, my husband received a job offer in Jakarta. We had a ‘rule’ within our marriage not to be separated for more than six weeks; we knew we would need an income at some point; and our son was enrolled in school—we were reluctant to move him yet again (even though we were developing some serious concerns about the US educational system). It had also become increasingly clear that we were needed in Portland. What to do!? After some soul-searching, we decided that our 9 year old marriage was stable enough to bear making an exception to our rule. Alan and I stayed; Dudley headed off to Jakarta alone in January of 1994. I watched with pain as I realized that my husband and my father—two men I loved and who, I was sure, also loved each other—were saying goodbye, knowing they would never meet again. I don’t know how they managed not to cry—it is one of the abilities American men learn early (or suffer awful consequences).
Meanwhile, we were all learning what happens when a loved member of the family begins the sad process of dying. We watched, helpless, as my father declined. His taste buds somehow went bad, and we searched, pretty much in vain, for foods he could enjoy. One Sunday morning he developed a longing for crème caramel, imagining that might taste good. We phoned all over Portland, finally finding it, buying it, bringing it home. The failure of the attempt was immediately visible on his face, though he tried to pretend, for our sake…He lived primarily on those awful cans of a thick, pink, health drink, its name thankfully lost in the recesses of my brain.
As his strength waned, we realized all the things he’d done, work that we’d taken for granted. We couldn’t keep up. The cars got dirty and we didn’t have time to clean them. We were unable to maintain the front yard to his high standards. Once, he complained about these failures, special points of pride with him. I had to explain to him, gently, that he had done so much around the house, that we were unable to keep up with the work—his as well as our own. He took in this information fatalistically. And we tried to do better.
My father and I had always loved Christmas, it had been our special time of the year. As it approached, my mother and I found ourselves dreading it, knowing it was definitely his last. We struggled trying to figure out what on earth we could give him. Whatever it was had to be something immediately enjoyable. He didn’t drink alcohol; he now couldn’t appreciate the candies he’d devoured so enthusiastically his whole life, or any other foods, for that matter. What was left? We bought flowers. I gave him ‘hours of reading’. But even that proved not to be a very good present—he didn’t much care for being read to, as it turned out. He would lie on the couch in the living room, decked out in his fancy, satiny, black and gold, Asian lounging attire, as had been his wont for decades in moments of leisure, listening to music or watching us preparing for Christmas. Usually I could carry on as though all was normal, but one day I remember kneeling beside him, falling across his chest and sobbing pitifully at the depth of my own imminent loss. He patted me kindly.
When our two families lived together, as we had all done once before (1990-91), he and I would divide up the bills. I gradually took over this task. In retrospect, I should have done this with my mother, so that she could have learned how to do it. I was under the impression at that time—somehow—that my father and mother took care of the finances together (as it had been explained to me as a child). I don’t know if the practice changed, or if the story had always only been words. In any event, I later learned, after my father’s death, that my mother had been totally uninvolved in family finances, and indeed had no clue about how to take care of them. I could have helped her more, had I noticed, had I known…
As his situation deteriorated further, we began to have serious nursing duties. He would have terrible chills. We would run up and down the stairs to the dryer in the basement, heating up the blankets to throw over him to warm him. But…he could not really be warmed. He was on Hospice, and at one point a nurse began coming from time to time, bringing ever-stronger narcotics to blunt his discomfort, and eventually his pain. My father had always considered himself rather immune to pain (he proudly, only half joking, attributed this to his close kinship with Neanderthal), but he had also been afraid of it. I was so sorry that he was dying of cancer, an ailment that includes so much pain.
The many people he had helped throughout his life began coming to visit toward the end, knowing this was their last chance. I took a picture of one such visit, as some of his pseudo-children stood around him in his bedroom. When I took the picture to the small photo shop near our house for developing, the man behind the counter apologized. He said, “I can’t figure it out, I can’t seem to get your father’s face to be the right color.” My father had turned very yellow.
A few days before his death, we called my brother, who lived in Los Angeles, warning him that the end was near. He’d never really accepted that my father was dying, insisting all along that Dad would pull through. When he arrived, he went into our father’s room, and could no longer deny the reality of impending death—our father’s yellow, emaciated body before him. I felt so sorry for him, as the sad sad truth hit home. He also loved our father deeply.
As the end drew closer and closer, Dad needed more and more painkillers. I guess it was codeine that I gave him, as he requested it. No one worried about addiction at this point, and my only regret really is that I didn’t give him more sooner, so he might have had even less pain. At the very end, my mother sat on one side of their bed, and I on the other, each touching him. She remembers him looking at a stitchery she had on the wall before him—one that she also made for me and that also hangs on my wall here in Etna, NY. It says “I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.” I remember him looking at me, with love in his eyes. I always knew he loved me. I suppose he was probably actually focused internally at that pivotal moment as he left us.
What did I take home from this experience? That being there with him, and for my mother and grandmother, was well worth it. I cherish the time, despite the difficulties and sadness. We often laughed, shared our thoughts, fully appreciated our time together, never sure how much remained. And my young son was also able to spend this same time with his grandfather, a man who loved him deeply and expressively. That too I cherish.