After the reconciliation
On a Tuesday, one week before Christmas I got a phone call that would change my life forever.
My Dad hadn’t been feeling well. He and David had been out Christmas shopping the previous weekend and David noticed that one side of his face was kind of drooping. It didn’t improve so my Dad went to the doctor. I received a phone call that they had checked him into the hospital for testing.
I was on vacation that week trying to prepare for the holidays so I was at home when I got the call. I picked up my stepmother, Gayle, and we hauled ass to the hospital.
We talked on the way there about what could have happened. We were convinced he had had a stroke. He didn’t eat well, was a little overweight, smoked like a freight train, and had an incredibly stressful job. Actually he thrived on stress (that must be where I get it).
I remember sitting in a hospital room when two doctors walked in looking very serious. The bigger one sat down in a chair by the bed. He was wearing a white shirt and had reddish curly hair. He looked down to earth and smart and very practical. I hated him.
He looked at us and told my Dad, “You have cancer. It has metastized and you have four large lesions on your brain, which is causing the numbness on your left side.”
I stared forward in horror not believing what he said. I even replied, “You must be wrong. My Dad had a stroke. We have a history of heart disease in our family.”
He looked at me, with the understanding and resolution that only someone used to delivering bad news can have, and replied, “I am not wrong. I’m sorry.”
My Dad replied, “I need a smoke.”
The rest of my family left the room, but I was paralyzed with denial and a fear that I didn’t even understand yet. While I was stunned into physical silence, inside my head I was screaming profanities at an enemy that couldn’t hear me and even if it could have it wouldn’t have cared.
The doctor looked at me and said, “You have to convince them that this is serious.”
But how I was supposed to do that when I didn’t want it to be serious. I didn’t want my Dad to be sick. I needed him to be well. I needed more time. Over and over again my mind screamed, “Why? Why? Why? This is not fair. We need more time. Why? Why? Why?”
The doctors performed their testing, prescribed him anti-seizure medication, and set up an appointment for his radiation treatments to start immediately. He was released from the hospital, and we took him home. They gave him six weeks.
I was driving home with my brother, Jason, when it finally hit me. I couldn’t breathe. I pulled over on the side of the road and jumped out of the truck and started screaming. Jason had to pull me out of the highway so that I wouldn’t be hit by an oncoming car. I had hit a wall.
Little did I know that the nightmare was just starting. What followed was radiation and chemotherapy and doctors and cancer hospitals and false hope and regret. So much regret. He fought hard for three months, twice as long as the doctors gave him, and was finally release to hospice care at home. I was laying by his side when he slipped into a coma. He passed away the next day.
I have lived with the regret of those years wasted to hurt, anger, and pride every day since.
Next is The Understanding.
Note: This a series I’m writing about my relationship with my Dad. This is the story of my pain based on my perceptions of events. Some of it will not be pretty, but it is time for me to set these memories free. Mistakes were made by everyone, including me, so please read with a soft heart and forgiveness so that I may forgive myself. Also, please keep in mind there are always at least two sides to every story.
Some people will probably think that I should not write this, but I offer up two quotes from Anne Lamott for the reason why I should.
If people wanted you to write warmly about them they should have behaved better.
Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.
This post was originally published on November 4, 2010. I have edited parts of it to make it flow with the recent posts about my relationship with my dad.
I'm so sorry about your father. What a horrible experience to have to deal with.
My grandmother went to the hospital one day because of chronic back pain. The doctors found a cancerous tumor on her spinal cord. She was gone within the month. It all happened so fast.
Cancer is so scary.
Visiting from Mama Kat's
Yep, it was a wall, but I applaud you for hitting it and calling it a wall instead of standing around saying,"Wall? What wall?" Like we tend to do or expect others to do.
Thanks for advocating for this cause. Two of my grandparents died as a result of emphysema and asthma due to smoking.
I have so many bad words to say about cancer. Why does this happen to people? To good people?
A very close family friend (who was more like a grandma to me than my real grandma) passed away after suffering lung cancer twice. It makes me so angry and so sad.
I'm really sorry about your dad. My mom survived lung cancer (they gave her a less than 2% chance) and I thank the stars every day for sparing her. ((you))
My parents divorced when I was a freshman and my maternal grandmother sort of took over role as mom to us. My mom was sick with grief or depression or I don't know what from the divorce and so we lived with my grandmother and she took over the mothering role. She smoked. Sometime during my junior year she was diagnoses with lung cancer and died in May of that year. It was a horrible way to die. I remember hearing her waking up many nights unable to breathe and gasping for air while asking my mom to take her to the ER and I would wonder if that was the last time I would see her. And even after watching her mother die that horrible death, my mother continued to smoke until just a few years ago when she was forced to quit because her emphesema and COPD were so bad. She can't walk around the house now without having to use an inhaler or take a breathing treatment. And she is only 57.
I'm so sorry to hear about your loss. I am also proud of your strength and your passion for the cause. I watched my Grandfather pass to this nasty, evil beast when I was little and it came back for an Aunt a few years ago. It is serious. And it is sad. And that is why you are also so right, smoking MUST stop! It's not worth it.
No words my dear friend can soften that experience for you. My heart breaks for you when I think of that time and how I wish I could have been your friend then so I could have at least held your hand.
I don't really know what to say to this, it was a beautiful post but I am sorry you had to write it.
We had almost the exact same experience with my father-in-law. His lung cancer had metastasized to his brain and liver by the time he was diagnosed. They gave him 6 weeks, but he lived 18 months. Watching him go through that was hell on earth. Yet, both of his daughters still smoke. Stupid and infuriating!
The gave my Dad six weeks too. He made it three months. Twice as long as they said.
And my brother still smokes. I hate it.
Thank you for posting this, even though it made me cry. My dad smoked too, two packs a day. He was going to quit someday, on his own time. He died of a heart attack when he was 43. I know it's hard to to quit, but it's harder on your family if you're not there.
I'm so sorry about your dad. Its so scary that it takes you so fast. My Grandma had lung cancer and it took her within 6 weeks of finding out about it.
Moved me to tears….I'm so sorry about your dad. What an amazing way to remember him by trying to warn and save others.
WOW….I'm so sorry. That must have been really hard.
Thanks for the info about Lung Cancer.
So sorry about your father. I lost my grandfather six years ago to liver cancer. He was given six weeks to live, and lasted almost to the day. Cancer is an ugly thing. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him and miss him.
Cancer sucks.
I'm so sorry for your loss – I know it's hard remembering, especially this time of year.
((((HUGS))))
A brave post. I watched Husband lose his dad to Lung Cancer. It is a wretched, silent disease. Thank you for bringing awareness.
May his blessing be a memory.
My dad is my whole world, and I so fear the day he passes away. I admire your courage for sharing such a personal story. I'm so sorry for your loss but hope your happy memories bring you some peace.
So sorry about your Father. My grandfather also passed away from Lung Cancer. It was also a quick but very painful death.
My husband and I often talk about how we don't understand how people could start smoking in this day and age. It makes no sense.
thanks for spreading the message.
Thank you so much for sharing your heart-wrenching story with us. I am so sorry your dad is no longer with you. I know that must hurt terribly. You told me how you don't even like going near the medical center when you are that direction because your dad was at M.D. Anderson and you can't even stand the thought of being close to that place again. I will always think of you when I'm there! It is true that lung cancer (or head & neck cancer) does not get the same press as breast cancer. I'm glad you are spreading the word in your dad's honor.
Ugh.
You know where I stand on this. Dads are not supposed to die. Ever. And cancer sucks. So sorry Jennifer!
Both of my grandmothers died of lung cancer and it was AWEFUL. I saw some of the anti-smoking campaigns that the they are wanting to put on tobacco products. One is of an emaciated woman who is dying of lung cancer…it is very compelling.
I am so sorry for your loss. It's hard when someone you love is diagnosed with cancer, but there is a certain level of anger and hurt that accompanies a diagnosis that could have seemingly been prevented to some degree. It makes me so angry to see my family members smoking.
Oh Jennifer I just read all your posts. I have been wanting to read them, but honestly knew I would need a little bit of time to process everything.
Isn’t funny how as kids and young adults everything is so black and white. You either love or you don’t. And as an adult we know that things are so much different.
I also think that with some things you just need someone to blame, plain and simple.
Thanks so much for sharing this story.
It is amazing how much you learn as you get older. Especially after you have kids of your own. I just wish all lessons weren’t this hard.
I thought I was being anonymous up there, btw.
The chemo radiation strategy treatment torture thingy fills me with rage. They were telling us all about a strategy they were going to try next. Starting the following week. Mickey’s mom died before the appointment.
I’m not even going to discuss the hell of treatment. I can say they have made incredible advances in the last 10 years.
I’m so sorry for your loss and i hope sharing your experience has been theraputic.
It has been. I’m glad I did it.
It’s interesting to see the comment I left from when this was published almost two years ago.
I still have the same feelings, but yet, different feelings. Knowing the back story on it all changes it for me. I’m sorry you had such little time with your dad after the reconciliation. But, if there’s any good at all, how great that you were able to reconcile with him before this happened.
I really think this is one of the reasons it was so heavy on my heart. God knew what was coming and how little time I had left. I can’t imagine how I would live with myself if I had not reached out to him before he died.
I just caught up on all of these posts and I am shaking. Jennifer, I can’t believe the strength that it took to put all of this into words. As I cry from reading all of this pain, I hope that you are feeling a bit lighter by letting some of this out. I knew I adored you the first time I landed on your blog but you just cemented it in stone!
I do feel lighter. Releasing the words has helped to release some of the hurt.
This is my first time here (from the SITS FB post) so I’m not sure of the back story, but from what I can tell from the comments and such, time to heal the wound of a bad relationship with your dad was so necessary, so desired, and cancer stole that from you. I’m so sorry. The trite “Time heals all wounds” isn’t so trite when you’re not given that chance. I’m sorry for what you and your dad have gone through, past and present. I wish you both comfort and peace in the challenging time.