Saying Goodbye

Tonight, on the eve of my husband’s favorite holiday, I’m saddened by the fact that we’re in the process of saying goodbye to his dad, Ted.

At the young age of only 43, it seems unfair to me that Jason should have to face his dad’s death. Especially when we see people decades older than Jason who still have their parents around. Why do some people get to live longer than others? Life doesn’t make sense.

Jason’s loving mom passed away from Crohn’s Disease when he was just sixteen. How would you feel being a young high-schooler entering adulthood without your mother? 

Jason's family circa 1986 . Jason was only 12.

Only now, to realize that saying goodbye to your father is an even harder door to close because he’s had a chance to watch you grow up, become successful in life, and raise children of your own.

Jason as a toddler. Dad tickle tackles are the best. (Circa 1977).

His dad is battling stage 4 lung cancer that metastasized to his brain.  I think the hardest part to get over is how late it was caught.

Ted had been going to the local VA hospital religiously over the past few years, never missing an appointment or test. The VA told him that everything was fine and sent him home every time. Eventually, as he felt worse, and as more ailments about his body didn’t make sense, he was encouraged by another doctor to go through UK for tests.

Ted went into the emergency room at UK, barely able to move or even function, in a state of confusion as to what could possibly be going wrong. UK discovered the cancer. We found out that if the VA had done the appropriate tests and scans, then they should have caught it in earlier stages.

Wow.

Say what you want about how wonderful the VA is. But before you speak your mind, stop and think about how you would feel to go in through an ER, only to realize that the hospital that vowed to take care of you misdiagnosed you for Lord only knows how long. And then, we you do get results back, it’s stage 4 cancer spread to your brain. All while you’re in excruciating, indescribable pain.

The point is that this veteran who served our country during the Vietnam War is facing such an abrupt end to his life. Whether you agree with our military or not, with the VA or not, no one should have to endure this kind of pain that Ted is going through. He’s in a Compassionate Care Center that is ran by Hospice. They’re keeping him as comfortable as they can as he “goes through the process”. 

That’s code for “passes away” in case you didn’t realize…

I always prided myself as someone who handles death fairly well overall (with the exception of my daughter). After all, I grew up where attending visitations (wakes) and funerals are a way of life. When someone you remotely know passes, you pay your respects to the family. It’s one of those etiquette rules that are as black and white to me as sending out thank-you cards. So, I generally have handled situations concerning death decently well.  Until now.

When I walked into the room to visit Ted, I lost it. My glasses clogged with tears, and my heart leaped into my throat. He was lying in bed, with his head back, and doing his best to just breathe. The type of cancer he has first takes over control of his body, which it already had. So, he could not move. The nurse told Jason that the last thing to go would be his hearing which was not gone yet. So, if he was awake, he’d be able to hear us. Meanwhile, Hospice’s job is to make him as comfortable as they can as he goes through the final stages of life.

Ted at our wedding. He always joked that he
looked like Kenny Rogers in a cheap suit.

 (On a side note, can I just add that the people who volunteer and work for Hospice should be given sainthood. I have always had a great deal of respect for them and for funeral home directors. They have the kindest people skills and are able to be pillars of strength in the most desperate times of grief. True saints.)

Back at Ted’s bedside, I sat down in a chair and tried to control my sobs. I wanted to be brave, but I didn’t know what to say. When I’m uncomfortable and nervous about something, I tend to try to use either humor or sarcasm as a Segway.  I started with a joke.

“Hi Ted. It’s Angela, your favorite daughter-in-law. Some people will do anything for attention, won’t they?” I chuckled, imagining his wide smile and bantering nature.

(And for the record, he loves both daughter-in-laws. But that was one of our jokes. He would say it to both of us when he visited.)

I started rambling about my new school and my students. I talked about how much his own grand kids had grown, how Jacob plays the piano now, and how Jason and I have to tag team to deal with Jude’s craziness. I started recalling all the stories I remember about Jason when he was a little boy. I even told Ted that Jason liked to eat some of my chocolate that Ted had given me as gifts over the years. It felt good to tell on Jason, and I know that inside, Ted was smiling. 

Ted and his long time companion Margie at our wedding in 2004.

I talked, and talked, for probably half an hour nonstop.  As fast as I could, barely pausing, until I ran out of wind, and of topics. I realized that if I didn’t talk, I was going to lose it. Talking was my way of getting through it and saying my goodbyes. He always had taken an interest in my life, especially about how my teaching career was going. He asked Jason about it every time they talked. He was a good listener too.

 I was choking back more tears trying desperately not to lose it. I mean, what do you say to someone you love going through stage 4 cancer, and only has a matter of weeks, if not days?

Ted with Jacob (top) and Jude (bottom)

He’ll never get to go home again. To drive his Harley. To jam on the guitar with Jason and sing. To hear Jacob tell stories. To take us to a Mexican restaurant so he can deliberately pronounce his order incorrectly just for a good laugh. He’ll never hold Jude again or give us hugs letting us know he loves us.

But, I knew the conversation had to eventually cease.  And as my mind began slowly down, blank thoughts stirred a whirlwind in my head. I sighed, tucked him in a little more to make sure he was warm, and sat back down in the chair quietly for a few moments holding his arm. 

Regaining composure and wiping tears away, in that next moment of silence, my broken heart cracked even deeper as I uttered the words, “Goodbye Ted. I love you. Thank you for raising such a wonderful son. You and Faye did a great job with him. And thank you for welcoming me instantly into your family almost 14 years ago. You’ll always be my favorite father-in-law.”