It’s four years to the day since my beloved Dad died of pancreatic cancer on Nov 1, 2008. He was a thoroughly good, wise, gentle man — yes, a true Gentleman.
Orphaned young, he survived and succeeded in this difficult world, remaining devoted to his wife and family until the end. I sit here crying because I miss him. Our relationship changed over the years until he became something like a friend, something like a role model, something like a touchstone or reminder that there is goodness in some people. Not that he didn’t irritate me and even bore me from time to time.
Diagnosed officially on August 24, he died on Nov. 1.
My sister and I had suspected Dad was ill around the previous Christmas. He began to shrink away in front of our eyes; his voice became less vigorous; his steps slowed; I said to my husband that Dad was moving further and further away. My Mum had died 4 years previous and Dad was living by himself in an over-65 apartment building, but we saw him in the neighbourhood all the time as well as getting together regularly at my house for fish and chips.
At the start of August, my husband and I went for a weekend escape to Vermont… I couldn’t stop thinking about Dad. I remembered how he had begun to sit with his hand inside the belt of his trousers, pushing the belt away from his stomach. It started to worry me. He looked so thin, almost transparent! My sister called me and said she was beginning to be very concerned about him.
On the way back from Vermont, I dropped my husband at home, and went to get milk and bread at our local grocery store. Dad was there, as he often was, sitting in the sunshine outside the mall, watching the world go by. I drove the car up to him and said, “Dad, we must take you to the hospital tonight.” He smiled, and said, “Okay, Susie.” He must have been feeling so sick — he hadn’t wanted to bother me or my sister, but he knew it was time to find out what was wrong.
We waited all night in the Emergency Dept, Dad on a stretcher and my sister and I sitting/sleeping on the floor. Eight o’clock the next morning, the Emergency Dept came to life, suddenly doctors appeared, ordered tests, and told us our Dad had pancreatic cancer, with 3-6 months to live. My sister and I cried. We cried until he died, and after. We didn’t want Dad to go. He was loving, dignified, stoic, and calm all his life, until the moment it ended.
He came to live with me and my husband for 2 months. We had some wonderful days and some difficult days. The palliative care nurses were very good. As autumn arrived, he sat on the deck in the uncharacteristically warm sunshine, looking up at the airplanes taking off from Montreal Airport about 1/4 mile from my house. You see, he had helped design many of those planes: the Canadair Challenger, Bombardier Regional Jet, Airbus…
On Canadian Thanksgiving, I made a big turkey dinner and my sister’s family came over… what was left of my family was all together eating around the table. Dad became very ill for the first time — he could not tolerate the smell of the food, and we knew he didn’t have much time left. He became less and less able to eat and even those things he could previously tolerate (a little glass of beer, for example!) had to be left behind. Some days, he would hardly eat, and I could not warm him up no matter what I tried. He shook with cold. He could hardly brush his own teeth, he was so weak. He resembled a skeleton but, at the same time, his face grew younger and almost beautiful. The day he vomited unspeakable substances, I knew he had to go to Palliative Care. I thought he would choke to death in my arms. He didn’t want to go, but went bravely. I moved in too and slept on a cot next to his bed. I don’t know how, but I also taught College for 4 hours a day!
They were great at the hospice — Dad even rallied and ate a cookie. All this time, he had never allowed himself to stay in bed: He’d get up with me at 7 am and go to bed at 11 pm. He dozed in his chair and told me he hoped to pass away sitting in his chair listening to his music that he loved. At the Palliative, he spent the first 6 days in his chair, watching DVDs of the old British shows and listening to music. It rained every day. The leaves fell from the trees. The Palliative doctor called me aside and said, “Your father is a dead man sitting in a chair.” The doctor had never seen the will not to give up that my Dad displayed: he was determined not to lie sick in bed.
But there came a day when Dad could not get up and get dressed, even with help. He dozed and slept in bed all day. That night, I heard my Dad stop breathing. I counted to 120 and he started again. He hadn’t taken a breath in 2 minutes. Suddenly, I was terrified. I felt ghosts all around me. I jumped up off my cot, put my coat on over my pjamas and drove home. I couldn’t take it any more. I was back again before Dad woke up, but he knew I had gone and I know he was sad about that. I said, “Dad, I haven’t been back to my own house in a week. I will stay with you all day but I have to go home at night.” He smiled and let me know it was okay.
From that point on, his sleep deepened and his drugs were increased, and there were several times when the doctor counted 2 minutes or more between his breaths but, incredibly, he would rally enough to give us the “thumbs up”. Friday night, my sister and I knew death was very close. Dad hadn’t been able to eat for a week. We spent the evening writing Dad’s obituary. He passed away the following morning. I’m not young, I’m 57, but life has not been the same since Dad left. I think of him every day. God bless you, Dad. You are loved and missed.
xoxox Hugs and peace to everyone touched by this disease. xoxox
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We Will Not Fail You 