That last gift
June 20, 2004: Father's Day
My brother and I were both home. The only home either of us ever knew growing up. The type of home that had become a character in our story, a member of our family. The place we needed to be. It's the only place my father wanted to be when facing this. This. The end.
It was a beautiful spring day. We were all sitting in lawn chairs. I was on one of the white and yellow ones that had been around for as long as I could remember. No matter how you sat or laid down, your foot managed to slip through one of the plastic cracks. Or maybe I always just did that on purpose. I was pushing my feet through and creating a hole wide enough that allowed me to see the ant hill that had formed in between the brick pavers. I was staring at this when my mom said, so your father would like to discuss something with you. His Father's Day gift.
I don't remember if I had even gotten him a card. That sounds terrible, but a gift seemed meaningless. He still had a bottle of his favorite scotch and a bottle of Don Perignon in the cabinet that he hadn't touched. He hadn't had an appetite for weeks. That makes him sound like he enjoyed the bottle a bit too much. Not the case. He just enjoyed the finer things in life from time to time. I remember an odd thought popped in my head that it seemed unfair that people on death row are able to have a feast of their favorites for their last meal, and my father who lived a good life and savored a good meal couldn't even enjoy a bite of food.
His Father's Day gift.
The one thing he wanted.
He wanted us to say it was okay that he went off his feeding tube.
Doctors had already determined he would not survive. The tumors had begun to suffocate the feeding tube which meant sometimes the mixture just backed up instead of going into his system. It was a process. He was in pain. Even with the tube, he only had a couple weeks tops. Without the tube it would be days - two days to be exact.
We agreed. We could give him this gift.
For the man who worked long hours to provide for his family, we could do this. For the man who had already gone through way too many surgeries as he battled polio as a child and cancer as an adult, we could do this. For the man who had taught us to enjoy the outdoors and take vacations, we could do this. For the man who always spoke about his future grandchildren and would never get to meet them, we could do this.
He had already decided it was time.
But as a dad, he needed to know his wife and children were okay. I've never been part of a more important gift.
I just wish it hurt less. 14 years later.
My brother and I were both home. The only home either of us ever knew growing up. The type of home that had become a character in our story, a member of our family. The place we needed to be. It's the only place my father wanted to be when facing this. This. The end.
It was a beautiful spring day. We were all sitting in lawn chairs. I was on one of the white and yellow ones that had been around for as long as I could remember. No matter how you sat or laid down, your foot managed to slip through one of the plastic cracks. Or maybe I always just did that on purpose. I was pushing my feet through and creating a hole wide enough that allowed me to see the ant hill that had formed in between the brick pavers. I was staring at this when my mom said, so your father would like to discuss something with you. His Father's Day gift.
I don't remember if I had even gotten him a card. That sounds terrible, but a gift seemed meaningless. He still had a bottle of his favorite scotch and a bottle of Don Perignon in the cabinet that he hadn't touched. He hadn't had an appetite for weeks. That makes him sound like he enjoyed the bottle a bit too much. Not the case. He just enjoyed the finer things in life from time to time. I remember an odd thought popped in my head that it seemed unfair that people on death row are able to have a feast of their favorites for their last meal, and my father who lived a good life and savored a good meal couldn't even enjoy a bite of food.
The one thing he wanted.
He wanted us to say it was okay that he went off his feeding tube.
Doctors had already determined he would not survive. The tumors had begun to suffocate the feeding tube which meant sometimes the mixture just backed up instead of going into his system. It was a process. He was in pain. Even with the tube, he only had a couple weeks tops. Without the tube it would be days - two days to be exact.
We agreed. We could give him this gift.
For the man who worked long hours to provide for his family, we could do this. For the man who had already gone through way too many surgeries as he battled polio as a child and cancer as an adult, we could do this. For the man who had taught us to enjoy the outdoors and take vacations, we could do this. For the man who always spoke about his future grandchildren and would never get to meet them, we could do this.
He had already decided it was time.
But as a dad, he needed to know his wife and children were okay. I've never been part of a more important gift.
I just wish it hurt less. 14 years later.
If you would like to learn more about pancreatic cancer including resources for patients and families and how to support research and awareness, I have worked with both of these organizations:
