After she took my vitals the other day, my radiation nurse popped her head back into the examining room.
�Hey, I meant to ask - how�s your husband doing?�
�Oh, he�s ok. Well. No. Actually�� I paused, not sure how to finish that sentence. I mean - how do you casually insert the fact that your husband is dying into a quick conversation?
I stumbled through the key points:
- He stopped taking the chemo pill he was on.
- He may not pursue additional treatment.
- He�s focusing on enjoying what time he has left.
See? It�s like dropping a bomb on people.
It�s also been a major reason for the gaps between my evasive blog posts lately. It hurts too much to think those thoughts. It hurts even worse to give them shape.
We had a great Christmas. Absolutely, we did. It was very special.
But.
Everything has taken on this weird blend of light and dark, happy and sad, gratitude and grief.
About a month ago, Paul went into the clinic for routine bloodwork. It was the usual state of affairs: low hemoglobin, requiring Paul to order up his preferred cocktail of A- blood. Blood transfusions are an all-day event, so we passed the time by discussing fun topics such as: which photograph should we use in his obituary, and a Buy-One-Get-One headstone promo Paul considered �a deal we should jump on!�
When his oncologist stopped by, Paul broached the subject of stopping treatment. It�s a topic Paul and I have discussed a lot, but one we�ve never raised with any of his doctors. We wanted to get her honest input on the subject. Realistically, Paul asked, aren�t I coming to the end of the line in terms of treatment available to me?
Her tone was kind, yet matter-of-fact: �Yes, we�re getting close to that point. Our options are winding down.�
In all of his years as a patient, a concrete timeline has never been assigned to Paul�s survival. You know how people say �my doc gave me 10 months, but I beat the odds and here I am 8 years later.� Paul HAS beat the odds, but those odds are numbers we scooped off the Internet.
Until very recently, the majority of our medical consultations have danced around the fact that his cancer would result in, uh, death. The language is usually more geared towards survival: treatments, clinical trials, getting better, the future.
Things are shifting, though. It�s impossible not to notice.
When I met him, Paul was a strapping, wood-chopping, winter-camping kind of dude with thick sideburns and an unhurried, mellow temperament. I found him extraordinarily charming with his Grateful Dead t-shirts and his �93 stick-shift Volvo. He was easy to befriend. He was easy to fall in love with.
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| Summer in Wisconsin, 2007 |
The sideburns and the Volvo have long since bit the dust, and we don�t do much camping these days. Certainly not in the hollowed-out cavern of a snow mound. (Paul maintains that this is an enjoyable activity. We agree to disagree on the matter.)
He�s still charming, and he still has a laugh that makes my insides gooey. But he now checks in at 136 pounds and he sometimes needs help getting into a standing position.
Before the holidays, Paul�s palliative care doctor asked, ever so gently, if we had worked out his end-of-life wishes. She gave us pamphlets with photographs of silvery-haired couples and instructions on how to initiate this conversation. Not a cheery read. But I was grateful for her candid approach.
Last month, my own palliative care doctor put us in touch with an end-of-life wish-granting organization. I gave the forms to Paul�s oncologist who happily completed them. Afterwards, as I was filling out our end of the paperwork, I scanned what she had written in the space following �Patient�s Life Expectancy:� 6-12 months.
6-12 months.
He�s still charming, and he still has a laugh that makes my insides gooey. But he now checks in at 136 pounds and he sometimes needs help getting into a standing position.
Before the holidays, Paul�s palliative care doctor asked, ever so gently, if we had worked out his end-of-life wishes. She gave us pamphlets with photographs of silvery-haired couples and instructions on how to initiate this conversation. Not a cheery read. But I was grateful for her candid approach.
Last month, my own palliative care doctor put us in touch with an end-of-life wish-granting organization. I gave the forms to Paul�s oncologist who happily completed them. Afterwards, as I was filling out our end of the paperwork, I scanned what she had written in the space following �Patient�s Life Expectancy:� 6-12 months.
6-12 months.
It�s possible she had written those numbers with the hopes of securing a Disney vacation for our family. But I don�t think they�re far off the mark.
I�ve been hesitant with posting, too, because I don�t want to be this woe-is-me harbinger of gloom. So I�m sad, so what. Everyone is sad.
And people have been so good to us. So generous, so kind and helpful. Who needs to hear about how I can�t make the drive home from radiation without some stupid Ed Sheeran song on the stupid radio making me bawl my stupid eyes out? (It�s terrific trying to compose myself at red lights. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a slightly hysterical woman who maybe shouldn�t be driving.)
A few weeks ago, Ingrid approached me with a serious look on her face.
�Mom? Is my Dad ok?�
Me: �What makes you ask that?�
Ingrid: �My Dad is so...so�so�(she stammered in search of the appropriate adjective)...so SAD.�
He is sad, naturally. But he�s still Paul and he still jokes in his singularly �Paul� way. His 33rd birthday fell on Thanksgiving this year. While planning our menu and arguing the superior features of our preferred holiday desserts, Paul played the dying card. He played it hard.
�But Liz, you do know this is going to be my LAST Thanksgiving, right? My LAST birthday.�
Me: �...�
Paul: �Cherry pie it is then.�
I�m sorry for this party pooper of a post. But then, I write about cancer. Not much happy stuff to report on the topic, I�m afraid.
Please know we are so grateful for all of the encouragement and meals and Wegmans gift cards and prayers we�re still receiving. I wish I could give every single one of you a giant bear hug to say �Thank you, we love you, you�re making this so much easier for us.� Except it would be less of a giant bear hug and more of a delicate fist bump because I�m not a hugger and, well, you understand.
xoxo
