At 84, when my father-in-law, Jay, got his cancer diagnosis, they told him he had 6 months to a year to live. With treatments he might get another 3 months, but those treatments don’t equate to 3 months of quality of life.

 

After his doctor told him, I don’t know exactly what went on in his heart of hearts, but what he demonstrated was grace and appreciation. He publicly remarked that he was grateful that he had lived a good life—been all the places he wanted to go and done many things of which he was proud. In the last eleven years he readily expressed how he had found happiness with his (3rd) wife, Valerie. She had brought him joy and given him unconditional love.

 

 

Disclaimer: Well, except she did make him eat healthier. That’s what a good wife does, right?

 

Jay had fair warning that death was coming soon. Did he change his way of living? Not at all. There was no rushing around to see more of the world or buying toys or much of anything different for him, even though he felt pretty good for the first 6 months after his diagnosis.

 

He told me he liked to sit in his recliner chair and read and watch old westerns on TV. He wanted Valerie in her chair right next to him. That’s what made him happiest. Instead of broadening his world, he honed in on it, making it smaller. He was at peace with a simple life. I would go as far as saying he was happy. He never complained. Not once.

 

And in the last months, Valerie was all about making it what he wanted. When it got to be too much for her to do alone, she asked me to come. I will be forever grateful for that phone call and the time I got to spend with them in the last couple months of his life.

 

Witnessing the stages when someone is actively dying can be hard on the ones who are there to hold down the fort. But it can be magical too, and precious. A few occasions brought us belly laughs, like the time the three of us were watching a Paul Newman movie and the camera panned to a couple playing poker. We were not expecting to see a naked woman at the poker table, but there she was with her perky, big boobs staring at us. Dad quickly drew in an audible surprise breath and said joyfully, “You thought I was asleep, didn’t you?”

 

One time I offered to clean his glasses and he was reluctant to let me for some reason. But I was anxious to please and after dousing them with soap and water, I proceeded to dry and polish them. As he put them back on I asked him if they were better. With a twinkle in his eye he told me, “That’s okay for a first try, I guess.” Oh, he could be sarcastic, but that was one of the things I loved about him.

 

His hospice care was a finely tuned machine. There may have been a few hiccups, but those small instances were overpowered by superb care. Appropriate medicine and equipment was delivered right to the door. The people involved in giving the care are unsung heroes. They anticipate needs of the patient and perform their duties with (dare I say?) what can only be described as love. Mostly things went without a hitch. The family caregivers (Val and I) were supported by hospice as well. They educated us about the stages of dying, so we knew what to expect, and they gave us much needed TLC. Hospice was a beautiful thing.

 

Between the care given by hospice and Valerie and me, we made Dad comfortable as he participated in his walk with cancer. It’s not all pretty; much of it is messy, and some of it is just plain heartbreaking. But as caregivers our only goals were to allow him dignity and provide him comfort, as he went on with this final journey. Dad died on July 17, 2015. He wanted, and got, a military service. Bless his heart.

 

 

If you ever get a chance to help someone die, I recommend you do. It will be tough. Maybe the hardest thing you ever do. But it is the greatest gift you can give—to love someone so much—to help him make a smooth transition from life to death. Rest in peace, Dad. We hold on to our love.

 

At a Window

BY CARL SANDBURG

Give me hunger,

O you gods that sit and give

The world its orders.

Give me hunger, pain and want,

Shut me out with shame and failure

From your doors of gold and fame,

Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

But leave me a little love,

A voice to speak to me in the day end,

A hand to touch me in the dark room

Breaking the long loneliness.

In the dusk of day-shapes

Blurring the sunset,

One little wandering, western star

Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.

Let me go to the window,

Watch there the day-shapes of dusk

And wait and know the coming

Of a little love.