(Editor’s note: I wrote what follows on Monday morning. Hank died early that evening. Only now, on Thursday, a week after the 57-month anniversary of Jane’s death, have I had time to post it here. You can view his obituary here.)
Life—and death—intervenes
The 57-month anniversary of Jane’s death was last Thursday. I’ve had little time to reflect on that because her father’s health has taken a significant turn for the worse. As I write this, he is on his death-bed just a few feet away. It is 5:50 a.m. and Gail, his other daughter, is sleeping.
Every person’s death diminishes me…
I slept for a few hours earlier. The medicines he is on to keep him comfortable have to be given every hour, so one of us has to be awake at all times. How long this death will take, neither of us knows. But he is seemingly comfortable and, at this stage, that is all that matters.
A time to live…
Jane’s dad was sick long before we discovered Jane’s NET cancer. Kidney problems are easy to spot with the standard blood tests everyone gets with every routine physical. It was a bigger struggle to get him to accept dialysis than it was to discover that he required it.
…he is seemingly comfortable…
Dialysis is an exhausting experience, but it does clean out the toxins in the blood pretty well. While Hank’s life the last six years has not been perfect, the quality of it, until recently, has been decent. He was able to get out of the house, go to cookouts, watch football—most of the normal things people do.
A time to die
Unfortunately, Hank was done in by another medical failure. Apparently, we stop testing for prostate cancer in older men at some point. The thinking, they tell me, is that prostate cancer generally moves very slowly in the elderly. In Hank’s case, that meant the cancer had spread to his bones before it was detected.
Dialysis is an exhausting experience…
The last year has not been good. He has been in and out of the hospital, in and out of rehab, and the quality of his life has steadily declined. Last Tuesday, Gail called 911 when he had become increasingly confused and lethargic. We expected he was dehydrated—the weather was hot and humid and there is no way to pump enough liquids and electrolytes into a person in Hank’s general condition orally.
Waiting for Death
But that was not the problem. The vital organs in his body had begun to shut down. We moved him into hospice care Thursday and brought him home Friday afternoon. He was already asleep most of the time—waking up only when we changed his bed-clothes. Since late Saturday night he has not opened his eyes.
The last year has not been good.
We wet his lips, give him his comfort medications, and sit with him. We talk to him—we can’t know how much registers. But I think that while the porch light is on, there is not much of him left at home.
Memories
Jane’s death was similar at the end. She went into that final coma and slowly drifted away. The difference was she did so in a hospital room. I would have liked to have brought her home to die, but she might not have made it there had I tried—and I did not want her to die in an ambulance surrounded by strangers.
…he has not opened his eyes.
I’ve spent the last few days thinking about Jane and her parent’s house. I have stood by the fence outside where I first told her I loved her, stood in the hallway where I kissed her good night after a date, sat in the dining room where we ate Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinner—as well as a host of Sundays.
Inhaling life and death
I have stood under the grape arbor where we once sat and inhaled their late summer perfume. That scent is there this week as we wait for Hank’s death. It will close the book on so many memories in a way I can’t quite describe.
Jane’s death was similar at the end.
We forget, sometimes, that medicine is not an exact science. A test not given, a series of diverse symptoms not recognized as part of a larger pattern, a specialist’s rather than a generalist’s view of things—by such little things all our lives hang like the grapes on that arbor. We don’t know when a particular grape will be fully ripe, when a particular leaf will fall—when a specific life will end.
Nine years tomorrow
Jane’s mother died nine years ago tomorrow. I thought of the irony of that last week. That Hank should die on the same day as his wife has powerful symmetry to it, but I kept it to myself at the time. Gail raised the idea this morning and I agreed with her. I feel uncomfortable intruding on her grief.
…medicine is not an exact science.
In a few minutes, I will dip a fresh DenTip—a tiny sponge at the end of a long plastic stick—in water, cleanse Hank’s mouth and then give him his next bit of medicine. I’ll note the slight change in the sound of his breathing, and continue to wait—as I waited with Jane during her mother’s last hours, nine years ago, as I waited for Jane’s death 57 months and four days ago.
Waiting for the harvest
And when the waiting is ended, Death and I will become full adversaries again. I understand the cycle of life and death—of birth and rebirth. I know even the stars have expiration dates. But I am very much a disciple of John Donne: Every person’s death diminishes me, for I am involved with humankind.
Jane’s mother died nine years ago tomorrow.
For now, Henry is dying. I will do what I can to make him comfortable as he waits like a grape to be plucked from the vine.
So touching and helpful from a net cancer patient . I feel you and I feel a person knows when time is come. Please keep me posted I have a feeling he may be waiting for tomorrow:) my heart goes out to you and all family involved💜thank you Monica Dickson Hoover!
He’s gone.
I’m a carcinoid patient, thank you for sharing. Very sorry for your loss.