Tuesday, May 23rd, marked 11 years since we lost my dad. He had been battling stage III lung cancer for nine years. He had a tumor wrapped around his pulmonary artery. They could not operate but he wouldn’t have let them anyway. It’s hard to believe he started fighting cancer when he was just 52 years old.
He went through chemotherapy and radiation like a champ. He lost his hair and eyebrows for a brief period of time but that was it. He continued working and drove several hours a day to work and to chemo.
In his nine-year battle with cancer, he seemed to be in remission while other times he seemed tired and in pain. I am not sure how cancer works, I just know it sucks. My sister and I were living in Virginia at the time. We went home as often as we could, but we both worked full time and had made our lives in Virginia. My sister taught five years and was getting discouraged with it. She decided to go home and finish her nursing degree in 2007. In 2008, she moved back to Virginia because dad was doing really well. As he went up and down so did we. We talked to other doctors, and we got second opinions. I was really hoping that the John Kanzius radio frequency transmitter trial would takeoff and that dad could be a part of it. The researcher passed away in 2009, and I haven’t heard any more about it. The radio waves seemed promising to say the least. It would use radio waves to destroy the cancer cells without destroying the human body.
In May 2011, the tumor grew bigger and my dad’s lung collapsed. He was rushed to the hospital, and we rushed home from Virginia. He hung on and a few days later he came home in Hospice Care. He was on oxygen full time, and we were not sure how long he would make it. All we knew was that he didn’t want to be in the hospital anymore. He wanted to be home with his family, on his couch.
My sister and I had to get back to Virginia so we could only stay so long. My dad continued to amaze us. In less than a month he was turning the liters of oxygen down. He looked like a normal person again instead of a shell of the man he was. At this time my sister was engaged. She was getting married in September, and I think my dad was determined to be there to walk her down the aisle.
That summer we were in amazement. Hospice was wonderful and got him portable oxygen tanks so he could travel. He went to Florida and to Virginia several times. We had no doubts he would make it to the wedding.
September 10th came and there was my dad all dressed up in his tuxedo. We were so proud of him. He didn’t want to pull his portable tank down the aisle so he had it in the back until it was time to walk my beautiful sister to her groom. Then someone took it to the front pew for him. He walked her down with no oxygen. It was amazing. He was such a strong man. What an inspiration!
As time moved on, the cancer continued to beat him up. He was up and down and my sister and I were home and not home. We knew “the call” would be coming soon we just weren’t sure when.
I came home for spring break that next year. Dad seemed pretty good. We did errands but he got weak and very tired easily. I went home but about a month later we got the call. Mom was very concerned. She wasn’t sure how long he would last. I was able to take some time off so I headed home. He still seemed okay the first few days I was there. I told my sister to stay home and come up on the weekend. He tricked me for sure. She got there late that Friday. They all laughed and talked in the kitchen. But then about 5am dad woke up and couldn’t breathe. We had the priest come and do the anointing of the sick. The next day he was quit talking and went mute.
His brothers came to see him but he seemed to be a shell of himself. I guess the cancer had spread into his brain at this point. I am not sure. It was so sad, and we didn’t know what to do. We waited and waited. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, into Tuesday. My brother-in-law had to go home to work. The rest of us stayed with him in the living room, sleeping on the floor, praying, waiting for him to be released from the pain.
Then it happened at about 11:45pm on May 22 he took his last breath. The Hospice team did not arrive until after midnight so his official day of death is May 23. My mom, my sister and I held his hands and told him we would be okay. He finally let go. He was out of pain. I didn’t want him to go but it was heartbreaking seeing him him in so much pain.
My sister was pregnant at the time, and I know my dad wanted nothing more than to be a grandpa. Although he didn’t get to see my niece here on Earth I know he watches down on her from Heaven. I know he is so proud of his two grandchildren. I am sure he sees himself in both of them. They got his sense of adventure, his determination, his hard work ethic, and his sweet smile.
If you have ever been in the same room with someone when they pass onto the next life, you know what it is like. Even though it’s been 11 years, I can still picture the exact moments we shared as a family for those final days. I am grateful that all four of us could be together. It must have been how my father wanted to go.
It still stings every May even after 11 years. If I let myself think about it I could cry on and on. I could be angry and upset that his life was taken at the young age of 60. I could be upset that he didn’t get to enjoy retirement or be the most amazing grandpa. I could be bitter that he didn’t get to walk me down the aisle to My Prince. And honestly some days I am all of that, but I know I need to be grateful. I need to be thankful for the 36 years I had with him. I need to be conscious of how I live my life, and I need to not take life for granted. Life is short, my friends. Don’t wait for something to happen. Make it happen. Be you. Be inspired. Be strong. Be adventurous!