My Father’s Dignity
When one is dying of cancer many things fall by the wayside: independence, vitality, alertness. Possibly the most devastating loss to the sufferer is dignity. As of this writing my father is quickly slipping away from us due to something called Small Cell Aggressive Cancer. He was originally diagnosed the week preceding Christmas and now, at the beginning of March, he is living on borrowed time. Living, that is, depending on how you define the word. He is at home with my mother, being made comfortable to the best of her abilities. He is numbed with Morphine 24 hours a day. He now has a catheter and nurse that comes to care for him three times a week. He can no longer perform even the simplest of tasks for himself. In short, to say he is bed-ridden would be to give the situation more hope than is called for.
He was already feeling the effects of the cancer when he was diagnosed. A life-long smoker until five years ago, he had become accustomed to shortness of breath and thought little of it when his breathing became more tedious. It was only at my mother’s insistence that he saw a doctor. After the preliminary screenings it was concluded that he had cancer and that it was localized in his lungs. A more in depth body scan was scheduled soon after the first. This one showed the frightening extent of the illness. What had started in his lungs had quickly spread to other organs in his torso and, most devastatingly, his brain. They began the chemo and radiation as soon as possible. The doctors valiantly did everything they could with the technology at their disposal and my father began to appear frail and weaker.
(It bears pointing out that one thing he never lost during this time was his hope. He knew that as long as he had hope, at least ostensibly, then my mother would not worry. Deep down he knew this was not true. She would worry, but he was not going to give her any reason.)
The end began when my father developed pneumonia in early February. He was admitted to the hospital and put in the ICU. Due to the illness he was unable to receive the radiation and chemo. I cannot say for sure but I think that is what allowed the cancer to multiply and overtake him. I am not a doctor and this may be completely inaccurate medical fact but it seems plausible enough. Aside from that it is impossible for a son to think that his father would simply give up; not with two children, one step-daughter, and three grandchildren, not to mention a wife that will not know what to do without him. How can one give up on a life so worth living?
My father is now laying in a rented hospital bed in the living room of the house I grew up in. It is the house my parents signed the papers for on October 6, 1979, exactly one month before I was born. It may have been a house before they bought it but they made it a home in short order. It is the place I take my daughter and son every weekend to play and feel what a real loving family is. It is a place where I have celebrated thirty Christmases. All of this is all due to my father and everything he had to sacrifice to made sure that my sisters and I got everything and anything we asked for. He knew that money could not buy happiness but without a solid home to live in we were doomed. It was because of this selflessness that I have begun my family with the same values and traditions my father and mother began with my sisters and me.
My father in now laying in a rented hospital bed in the living room of the only home I have ever really known. My wife and I will find our own way and begin our lives and build a solid and loving home for our children. I will take what my father has given me and use it to the best of my ability for the benefit of my family. I doubt that I would have a family if my father had not instilled certain beliefs in me as a young boy. I owe him more than I will ever be able to repay directly. Instead I will have to repay him by living as he taught me: with love for my family, with love for my friends, and always – above all else – with dignity.