My dad is dead. I’ve been saying “passed away”, but I’ve never really been fond of that phrase. He’s gone forever, it hurts, and I don’t see the point in trying to disguise that fact with euphemisms.
The doctors thought it was cirrhosis. It didn’t make any sense, as my dad didn’t drink much. I know that people who don’t smoke can get lung cancer, so I guess perhaps it was plausible. However, the treatment didn’t seem to be helping. My parents eventually gave up on the doctors in Harrisburg and went to one at the University of Pennsylvania instead. That’s where they found out it was cancer. Cancer isn’t necessarily a death sentence. People beat it all the time. My mom and my aunt both survived breast cancer. No reason he couldn’t do the same.
Then we found out it was hepatic angiosarcoma. It’s not even in the Microsoft Word dictionary, so I guess that’s indicative that it’s not the most common form of cancer. I believe it’s actually one of the rarest forms of cancer you can get. It’s the kind of thing you see in an episode of House, except it’s an episode where the patient dies because there’s no way to fight angiosarcoma. According to my mom, the medical team at U Penn was great, but there really weren’t any options. They tried chemo, but it was almost too much for him to handle. The doctor could provide ways to minimize the pain, but since my dad wasn’t really in any pain, there wasn’t much to do.
I’m not sure how much my dad knew about his prognosis. He was a smart guy, and I’m sure he knew this wasn’t going to end well. But, he acted as if he’d still be around in 20 years, and if hadn’t gotten that damn disease, he probably would have been. My dad was remarkably healthy for a 65-year-old man. He was tired a lot, and he was using a walker, but he was still the same guy I always knew. The last time I saw him, he looked sick, but he seemed in relatively good spirits. I don’t think anything about him ever astonished me as much as his bravery in the face of death. I don’t know if I could ever do the same.
It looked like things were on a bit of an upswing, and Lisa, my son, and I were going to visit. Then he went to bed on a Friday night and didn’t wake up. I drove in the next day to see him. He was unconscious. I watched a priest give him last rites. I stayed there for a while, but my mom told me to go home. The hospice workers told her he could last several days in that condition, and she didn’t want me to be away from my son for that long. There was nothing any of us could do except wait.
I went home and ran in a half-marathon the next morning. I wasn’t sure if I was going to, but then I woke up at 5 o’clock in the morning and figured it was better than lying in bed. I gave my medal to a charity that gives them to kids going through chemotherapy. When I got back home, my mom called and told me he was gone.
I dreaded going to the funeral. Not because I didn’t want to say goodbye, but I didn’t want to be a blubbering mess and make things worse for my mother. She was already going through enough, and want to burden her with my own grief. The funeral was going to be at the church my dad went to as a kid. The priest there apparently had better things to do than comfort a grieving family and gave my mom all manner of pushback about this, so she found a very nice priest who was willing to do the ceremony at a funeral home. I’m not religious, but I greatly appreciate that man’s kindness.
Several of my friends came to the funeral, which was unexpected but very nice. A lot of my dad’s coworkers showed up to, which was also nice. It was not easy to sit through, but I did feel some sense of relief once it was over. I wouldn’t say I felt better, but at least I felt like there was some kind of closure.
My dad was a workaholic. I wish he hadn’t worked so hard, and I wish he hadn’t had to travel so much when I was a kid. But, he loved my mom, and he loved me and my sister, and I don’t think there’s anything more anyone could have asked of him. He was always there when I needed him. He was there my wedding and for the birth of his grandson. I’m not sure if he had any regrets, but he seemed like he was pretty content. As far as lives go, I think he had a decent one.
What does hurt is when I think about what could have been. He was a wonderful grandfather to my son, and they could have had so much more time together. I lost both of my grandfathers when I was fairly young, and I’d hoped that son would be spared that and that my dad would be around for a good long time. When I think about what could have been and what my son will miss out on, it’s devastating.
I don’t know how to act or what to do. If I dwell too much on it, then I find myself unable to function, and I don’t have the option to just wallow in sadness. If I try not to think about it, I can go about the day, but I feel like I’m betraying my dad’s memory. I want to be angry, but there’s no one to be angry at. It’s no one’s fault he got cancer, and it’s no one’s fault they couldn’t cure it. It’s just terrible luck. I try to try to tell myself that it could have been worse, that he could have died in a great deal of pain, but I’m not even sure I believe that.
What happened was awful. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I don’t know if I’ll ever be quite the same again. When it looked like we couldn’t have children, I sometimes comforted myself with the thought that it was OK because there was no way I could be as good a father as my dad was. I’m still not convinced of that, but I will have to try my best. I wish he could have been here to see it.