I wrote this story about year ago for one of my English classes. It was published in the spring of 2009 in the Devry University Literary Publication. Its my first publication. Grab a tissue, its a tear jerker.
My brother had seen the whole event and stared at me in disbelief. I hadn’t imagined it. He had seen the change in my father’s face and heard his voice. We said nothing to each other about it. There was no need. My father’s body breathed and his heat beat for another fifteen hours while Aunts and Uncles arrived throughout the morning. Everyone wanted to be there for his passing but I knew he was already gone. He had survived seven years to the day of his diagnosis.
A Fathers Last Struggle
My father passed away from Prostate Cancer in July of 1999. He and I did not have a close relationship while I was growing up. Being the oldest of four children, I was the leader, the protector, and the proverbial black sheep. I tested all of the rules, pushed all boundaries, and frequently caused my parents much concern and dismay. Yet in the end, despite the gap in our relationship, it would be my words that would help my father let go.
It started back in July of 1992. My father was diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. At 48 years old he was one of the youngest men in the country to be diagnosed with such an advanced stage. Several prominent research facilities across the country took interest. My father was given a maximum of 7 years and he was put on the standard protocol of hormone therapy to stop the spread of the disease. Surgery was not an option. Even chemotherapy was not recommended as it would have weakened his body and shortened his life.
The initial shock of the news wore off and life in my family returned to normal. My father went to his doctor for regular check ups and blood tests, and each time was told there was no change in his status. Five and a half years passed with virtually no disruption in his life. Then, during a routine check up, the tests indicated that the standard protocol was no longer working and it was time to seek out alternative options.
My father was sent to a leading cancer research facility in Chicago and was put on an experimental program which consisted of several rounds of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. The doctors surgically implanted a chemo “port” into his chest and tattooed his abdomen as a guide to pinpoint the radiation. My father was not a fan of tattoos. He was even less of a fan of cancer.
Through the years of his treatment my father refused to accept that his fate had been sealed. It wasn’t that he was afraid to die, or that his affairs were not in order, or even that he hadn’t accomplished everything that he wanted to accomplish in his life. It was simply that he did not want to die. Given a choice, my father would have chosen life support in a vegetative state over pulling the plug and dying peacefully. He wasn’t lucky enough to have that choice.
When my father began having difficulty driving home from work he would frequently stop at my house for a break. We began having long discussions about life and the gap in our relationship began to close. A mutual respect developed between us. My father finally, but reluctantly, gave up his 30 year career as a programmer.
The treatment took its toll and the cancer ravaged my father’s body from the inside out. The cancer had caused such massive damage to his organs that he required weekly blood transfusions. My mother took a leave from her job when my father no longer had the strength to get out o bed. She was determined to allow him to die at home and not in a nursing home.
After several months, the doctors recommended we stop the transfusions because they were only prolonging the inevitable as there was no chance for recovery. Even with a miracle cure for cancer there was no saving him, the damage was done. My father disagreed and demanded the transfusions continue. His health deteriorated and he fought every day at the expense of my mother. She pleaded with him to stop the treatment but he refused. My years of disagreements with my father had prepared me for this one final argument. I had his stubbornness and resolve and no one else was more equipped. Only I could listen to him fight for his life and still ask him to give up. He finally relented.
During his last night, my father laid in his rented hospital bed in the living room, merely a skeleton of the man he had once been. His eyes were sunken and his skin was grey. My siblings and I took up residence on the floor of the room for the night. At 2am my father awoke, sat up in his bed, and then he stood up. His movement was so quick that I barely caught him before he fell to the floor. He spoke for the first time in over a week.
He said to me “I keep trying but I can’t keep my eyes open.” I said to him “Dad, its ok to go to sleep now. You don’t have to wake up any more.” Standing there holding him up I saw his face change. His eyes suddenly appeared normal, his skin was pink, and he felt warmer than he had in a long time. He said in a perfectly normal and strong voice “I know you will take care of your mother. I know everything is ok now.” He smiled at me then he lay back down in bed and closed his eyes. I knew he had left at that moment.
My brother had seen the whole event and stared at me in disbelief. I hadn’t imagined it. He had seen the change in my father’s face and heard his voice. We said nothing to each other about it. There was no need. My father’s body breathed and his heat beat for another fifteen hours while Aunts and Uncles arrived throughout the morning. Everyone wanted to be there for his passing but I knew he was already gone. He had survived seven years to the day of his diagnosis.Copyright KBStrangeway
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