Chapter 9

We would find out eventually after grueling days of waiting on test results that one scan showed his liver was inflamed.  The unfortunate part about this was no one knew why.  None of the blood work to date had showed this, but we were finally able to see it with one simple scan.  The only explanation given to us was that small cell lung cancer feeds on the proteins and sodium in your body and attacks your smaller organs and when this happens it quite likely that nothing can be done, there are times that the inflammation cannot be reversed. 

We were left with the possibility of sending dad to a liver specialist in London who had dad’s case file and was just as puzzled as all the other doctors. 

It should be simple; when there is inflammation you apply ice.  If only it could be that simple. 
It was at this point that my gut was telling me that the doctors were thinking that the cancer was causing the inflammation and it was slowly shutting down the liver. 
Slowly my dad’s condition worsened and weakness once again set in.  Blood transfusions were required to try and raise his hemoglobin levels.  The drain from his gall bladder was finally removed at the end of October, and I think we all knew where this was going. 
With the end of treatments nearing, there should have been so much to be hopeful for; however we were a family left wondering what the next option was going to be.  The chemo doctor was still not willing to resume treatment unless the liver condition improved, and at that point we were being told that it was unlikely to improve. 
The battle was intensifying and we were all realizing that the battle he was fighting was soon to be over.  My dad was an immortal to me, and with his strength unable to fight this I knew that it was soon to be over. 

On October 29, we were called into a meeting with one of his doctors.  Arriving at the hospital expecting to hear the worst but still trying to hold hope, the anticipation of this meeting was overwhelming.  Walking into a room with a social worker, nurse and one of his CCAC workers was the final blow.  I knew that when the social worker brought in boxes of Kleenex we were not in for good news. 

His body is weak, and he is tired, but he is in no pain, except for a sore throat from the radiation. 
Doctors tell us that a scan from last week show that the spots in the lung have shrunk from radiation, but chemo has to be given in order to have any shot at beating this, and at this point chemo was no longer an option. 
Even if dad had a healthy liver, he was too weak to go through treatments.  It was the news we all knew was coming, but wanted so badly to ignore. 

The doctor had consulted with many liver specialists and no solution for the inflamed liver has been found.  They had tested him for all the normal things that would cause this, but none of them are present.  It became a trial by error process; to start removing him from his many medications to see if that would make a difference.  It was a possibility that his anti-seizure medication could have caused liver damage.  The option of a biopsy on the liver was given, however even on the slight chance that something would be found, the treatment option would be something he could not handle.

I have watched countless movies, and TV shows and seen the doctors deliver that dreadful news to a family, but nothing can ever prepare you for the day when you are that family. 

My dad was not present at this meeting, and the decision was made to go and tell him that the doctors had exhausted all options in his treatment and nothing more could be done.  It was so hard to give up hope, when less than 24 hours before this meeting my dad was asked if he wanted heroic measures taken should his heart stop to which he answered “yes”.  How do you tell someone this news, when they are not ready to give up? 

We needed a miracle, and miracles have happened.  It was just not going to happen in our case. 
Making that walk down the hallway to tell my dad of his fate seemed like it took an eternity.  Preparing in my head how I was going to handle hearing the words said, and having to watch his reaction to it.  I was quite unprepared for the doctor to actually skate around the topic and once again give my dad hope.  It was if I had dreamed up the meeting we just had.  An unbelievable thing happened that day; I suddenly found strength as it was needed.  My mom and I had to be the ones to tell my dad that in fact his fight was over.  We were the ones who spoke the words to him, not a doctor.  The look on his face is something unexplainable.  Puzzled might explain it, as a doctor had just told him to prepare for a trip to London for further testing.  What he didn’t explain was that they wanted to use dad’s tests for research purposes, and not for a possible treatment.  It was our turn to take over his case; in fact he would not go to London.  He would settle in for his final rest.  He would have his family who loved him at his side, day and night until he decided it was time. 

It was quite an uncomfortable night when the funeral director arrived to talk to dad about his final arrangements.  With all of us present we discussed how things would go down when the time came.  He chose the music for his funeral, which would carry him to his final resting place, even who would deliver his eulogy.  After this meeting, he would await the arrival of a few final family members so we could all have our proper goodbyes.  This is something we never really got. 

It seemed as though he chose to give up one night without telling us.  He went silent.  Except to tell the doctor that he was in pain, so a morphine pump was ordered and that night would be the last that night we could ever speak with him.  I love you were shared, but not enough.  How many times can you tell someone you love them before they die?  There was so much to say, in such little time. 
If I had the chance again, I would tell my dad that he was the best man I will ever know.  My life with him was so blessed.  He was my provider, my rock, my dad, and he can never be forgotten. 

For 3 grueling days we would sit at his bedside, all he did was breathe.  Watching his chest fill up with air, and fall again was eerily peaceful.  I would lay with my head on his chest and listen to his strong heartbeat.  He had a good life, helped many people and touched many hearts.  Nurses were in disbelief at how strong his heart was still on day 3, I wasn’t.  It was a strong heart. 

Remembrance Day came and knowing how much my dad loved the bag pipes I decided to spend the moment of silence at his side with the volume on his TV turned as high as it would go.  Hearing the echo of the trumpet, and the hum of the bagpipes fill his room made me smile.  I held his hand and told him how proud I was of him for the fight he had given to a losing battle.  He was my hero. 
That night when everyone left for supper and my husband and I sat with him one last time, it happened.  He took his final breath.  It was a heartbreaking moment to be with him, but it was a moment I will forever be grateful that we shared together.  We shared such a special irreplaceable bond and he felt at peace enough to let go with me at his side. 

Leaving the hospital that night knowing my life would never be the same was the hardest thing to do.   My mind racing, my head is such a state of disarray, all the feelings I was having and the emotions going through me all at once made it very hard to breathe.  The one thing I found solace in was knowing his suffering was finally over, but selfishly I wished he was still here so I could sit with him and feel his heartbeat. 

The days to come were very long and exhausting, going through 2 days of visitations and then facing the final step, the funeral.  I was going to deliver the eulogy for my father.  For a man who was so important to so many people, that was a scary thought, how would I ever find the words to say, and how could I possibly say all that was needed to be said.  Hoping I could piece something together that was a fitting enough tribute to such a man.  I spent hours writing and re-writing these final words I would share with hundreds of people.  It was my final tribute to him.