(This is another one of my "Ed stories". Every word of it is true. If you'd like, take a gander...)
Over a decade ago now, my dad started his own cancer battles - initially prostate (fought with implanting
the "nuclear seeds" method), followed by lung (removal of a chunk of one, followed by chemo) and
eventually, spreading all over in the end - and we learned about the "cyberknife"...
This was all before I started down my own path with similar sh-- (I'd only had basal cell stuff prior), so it
was disheartening - no, check that, it was downright infuriating at times, to watch - as supposed cancer
expert after expert took their turn and I got a real up-close view of the
practice of medicine (that word is
very appropriate to the medical industry, come to find out - we're all the subjects of medical experiments).
Basically, my dad was one of the first in this region to have the cyberknife stuff tried on him - with resulting
frequent faux pas and seemingly almost experimental techniques often employed.
They literally were using him and others like him as human guinea pigs as they became more well versed in
newer techniques and that pissed me off no end, especially given the lack of success vs. what we were often
"told" would happen.
They made mistakes with it - often - and sometimes he even came out the worse for the treatments.
In the end, his battle was a decade long and one in which his will to live was slowly drained of him...
and I watched a formerly proud and strong self-reliant man reduced to a weak subject to the whims of what
I'd refer to as "medical leeches", all taking their shots at him, draining him of money and will to live.
Reminded me of buzzards picking at the bones on the side of the road, it really did.
Life for him had become not much more than being transported to locations on appointments, being subjected
to treatments without question, then going back home and trying to recover enough to start the next one.
When I'd try to intervene or discuss it with him, his wife would intercept and he'd acquiesce, not wanting to
stir things up in his home.
I understood - but I didn't like it. Not one bit.
So, anyways....
When he was laying in the local hospital ICU that last fateful day, surrounded by machines and all sorts of
hangers-on (both private life and hospital staff) it wasn't anything new to behold when my wife and I arrived,
having been summoned yet again on his behalf....or at least I didn't think it was anything new at first....
I go in to speak to him...and instead, he's awake and he catches me off-guard by saying
"don't you ever quit, hear?"
(There was a bit of tension in the room, admittedly- he and I had our petty differences in later years, for which
I am eternally ashamed; they weren't in hindsight anything other than territorial spats really and I should have
been better for my part, even though I truly am my fathers' son and come naturally by being the way I am.
Regardless, of the three surviving kids at the time, I was the only one who was with him in his last years, the
others being "too busy" to come see him much towards the end).
Now, Pop had said that to me before over recent years (he was referring to his decision to retire early, deservedly
so - he'd been the breadwinner for his mama, and then eventually his own family, since he was 14).
This time, though, he damn near stared right through me, those eyes having an intensity to them that got my
full attention like only a dad can...
"Don't you EVER quit, hear?"
It occurred to me this was him calling his own ticket, taking charge finally after all those years, deciding it was
time to call the whole thing off on his "appointment" schedule,
not somebody else's.
All pretense left the room at that point and all the noise and commotion going on around us seemed to fade into
the background for me; all I could do was focus on Pop.
"Yes, sir" was all I could manage in response - and in retrospect, all I
should have responded with.
Flabbergasted, I wandered back out into the hallway adjacent and allow all the commotion to resume....
I update my wife on what's going on, trying to put on a brave face for her - and yes, even for Pops' then-wife,
whom I affectionately referred to as the "evil stepmother" (that's another story...).
At the same time, I keep peering back into the room, never leaving sight of being able to watch my dad -
because I felt like our exchange wasn't the last of it that day - for whatever reason, I knew more was coming
from him.
Sure enough, a little bit later I feel his gaze on me even though there's some distance (and a lot of activity)
between he and I - in the middle of all that fuss, he's locked onto me with that look.
I walk away from whoever was speaking with me and head straight back into the room, having been summoned
without hearing a word...
Pops' gaze now is as intense as before - but it had a vulnerability to it too this time - and he says the words that
absolutely crush me:
"Tell them to stop".
I stammer out something like
"Huh? What are you talking about Pop, you know the drill.
They gotta do all this stuff so you can go home tomorrow...."
He grabs my arm to shush me and says it again, slower and with more intensity this time:
"Tell...them....to...stop".
(If there's a more memorable moment in my life than that one, I can't think of it.
Total deflation at that point.
Damn.
Just.....damn.)
He was calling his own shot - and all I knew was I was being given marching orders - orders I instantly became
hellbent on following exactly as he wanted.
"Yes sir"...
I came back out of that room to the group of family and my wife in the hallway, but I guess any pretense I may
have been able to summon before had vanished and my "brave face" was totally gone.
Wife and I locked eyes and she knew instantly...
Evil stepmother, not so much
(she always was a flighty one)...
I grabbed her arm and stopped her from rushing back into the room, looked her dead in the eye and said "this
is HIS call - last thing he needs is you falling apart on him right now, we have work to do".
She didn't like any of that.
Tough ****...
I looked back in the room one last time and there was Pop staring right at me, as if to confirm and cement
his wishes to me, making sure I was doing what he wanted me to.
From across that distance of the hall and room, I mouthed the words
"are we ok, Pop?"
(tensions - remember?)
His stare softened a bit and he mouthed back
"we're fine, son."
(I had never - still haven't - felt so damn helpless in my life than at that point).
Pop waves his hand at me from that bed, like
"go on now, you got work to do".
I followed orders....and that was the last time I ever saw him alive.
Pop went home that night and passed on in his own bed the next morning as he wished - about 5am.
Once I had taken charge of the disposition of his "estate" (he left no will, the stubborn old cuss) at the
request of evil stepmother and settled all that, it wasn't much later on that I began my own knockdown
drag-out war with cancer myself...it's been 11 years now since my first "serious" one and a total of
(6) times so far.
I've managed to flatline 3 other times, too.
I can tell you all about dying - been there, done that, remember it vividly (and the TV shows are horseshit BTW).
Heard my own flatline tone on the monitor, which is both at once creepy and oddly fascinating, least to me.
The cancers, though?
They have been handled entirely different with me than with Pop.
I have learned so many lessons through Pops' ordeal and rather than become another guinea pig, I've
become quite active in researching and calling my own shots.
If the evil **** cancer winds up taking me, then it's going to be
on my terms.
I will not wind up at the mercy of others to determine what I am subjected to, endure, undergo...
I'm convinced that mindset is why I'm still this side of the dirt.
"Don't you EVER quit"
"Get back up, EVERY time"
Yes sir, Pop.
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