by Donna Swagerty Shreve
1984
I became the family member who Dad talked to about his thoughts as he endured his four and a half year battle with cancer. Each family member seemed to have their own role in his process of dying.
My first memory of our conversations happened when we were working together landscaping in my backyard. During our landscaping, he developed a hernia, which lead to the discovery of his prostate cancer.
Dad: “I am going to get me a gold pump when I have licked this cancer.”
Me: “Really Dad, a gold pump?”
Dad: “Damn right. I can beat this and move on. I don’t want to give up sex.”
Me: Well, good for you Dad.
The second conversation that comes to mind was while the two of us were wallpapering one of my sons’ bedrooms. The radio played music and we hadn’t spoken much for a while.
Dad: “Have you ever noticed how much sex is in songs?”
Me: “No, not really.”
Dad: “Listen to this song carefully. The last few selections have been full of it.”
Me: “Wow, I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
Dad: “Wine, women, and song. That is what is supposed to make us happy. I can’t drink or eat most foods any more so the wine is gone; women, not after they operated on me; song, what is there to sing about?”
Me: “Do you want me to turn the radio off?”
Dad: “No, leave it on.”
Dad had now journeyed a year or so into his illness and he was becoming much more reflective.
Dad: “You know I have had a great life. I was born in the United States and in California. I had loving parents and a huge close family. I was given above average intelligence and had no major handicaps. I was tall and I was a male.”
Me: “Wow, that is all so true and that last attribute is an interesting item to share with your daughter.”
During his last year, Dad’s conversations were difficult for me but for him necessary.
Dad: “Well, the pain is now a constant. I am not sure how much more I want to endure.
Me: “Dad, you know I will do any thing for you.
Dad: “Well, the doctor is giving me sleeping pills now and, of course, I do have my pain medication.”
Me: How would we know the right combination? Do you want to start squirreling the pills away?”
Dad: “Let me think about this more first.”
The next day we continued our conversation.
Dad: “I have given this a lot of thought and even though it is very tempting, I have decided I can’t for the following reasons: your mother would figure it out and never forgive you; it might mess up my insurance policies for your mother; and we might not have the right dosage figured out. I think I have to stay alive as long as I can.”
This next conversation took place in his hospital room where he receiving a blood transfusion because his blood count had gotten so low and he wanted some strength for an upcoming visit from all of his siblings.
Dad: “John, have you made my coffin yet?”
Stunned silence.
Me: ”Uh, no he hasn’t Dad. I guess John would be the one as Brian is out of town. It isn’t time yet, Dad.”
Dad: “I had the most vivid dream last night. I was in this hospital bed and there were no walls to the room. The whole family surrounded my bed. Off in the near distance was a hooded creature beckoning to me. The family wouldn’t let me leave or let him in.”
Me: “Wow, that is some dream, Dad. I guess we just aren’t willing to let you go yet.”
Dad died one month later.
Another conversation during his last year was one of the hardest for me.
Dad: “I wonder how it will happen?”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Dad: “Well, I have been doing a lot of reading and there are several ways I could die. I might just bleed out. Another possibility could be by drowning in my own liquids.”
Me: “Those sound rather grim, Dad. Maybe you might get lucky and never wake up or be in a coma where you don’t feel a thing.” “Where do you want to buried?”
Dad: “I want to be cremated.”
Me: “Don’t you want to be buried next to your parents and grandparents in Escalon?”
Dad: “Why, are you going to come out and visit me? I didn’t think so. Scatter my ashes at sea.”
Me: “Have you thought about what happens after you die?”
Dad: “Well, I was raised in the church and tried to give you kids the same background. But the truth is I think there will just be a big nothing, a void. Oh, don’t look so sad. I will live on through all of you. When family and friends are gone, then I am gone. My biggest regret dying right so early, is that I won’t be able to watch my nine grand children grow up.”
Dad: “Now I have a favor to ask. I have planned my funeral and I want you to ask the following five people to talk at my service because I feel they represent the various facets of my life.”
The very last conversation was the day before he died. He was trying to tell me something and I just couldn’t understand him. He had a high fever and I was sponging his forehead. He finally communicated by shaking his head to tell my sponging was really irritating him.
I apologized and said I was just trying to help but was so frustrated because there wasn’t anything I could do for him. I told him he had taught me how to live by his wonderful example and now he was showing me how to die with dignity. After assuring him I loved him so much, I did him the favor of just sitting silently next to him.
Swagerty-Aldrich Family Web Site 