heartbroken

Bye Dad – Part 2

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The nurses pulled the chair at the foot of Dad’s bed around to the bedside. Mom sat in the chair for a while holding Dad’s hand. When she heard Catharine’s voice Mom got up to meet her in the hall. Catharine wailed. I stood aside when she came into the room and sat in the chair as she held Dad’s hand and stroked his hair.

While Catharine was with Dad Mom went to call Corpus Christi rectory to tell them Dad had just died. I went to the TV room to call my friend, Linda, who had worked for Dad in the lab at McKellar.

“Hi Linda . . . Dad . . . Dad . . .”

“died,” Linda finished for me. I just couldn’t say it.

“ . . . Yes, about half an hour ago.”

“Brian, I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ll tell everyone at work.”

When I got back Catharine was getting up. She looked at me with a questioning glance wondering why we couldn’t have called her in time to see Dad before he passed away.

“Kate,” I said, “it was so sudden.”

With her head downcast Catharine joined Mom in the hall to talk to the nurses.

It was my turn to sit with Dad. I held his hand while resting my head on his hip and I cried. Mom said she hadn’t heard me cry like that since I was a young boy. I was a little boy. Images of Dad flooded into my mind. I remembered my walks and talks with Dad and the comradery that we shared. I thought of all the projects Dad and I built together – the hovercraft, the lathe and Tara.

I remembered Dad’s warm smile, the genuine loving concern in his eyes and the reassurance I felt from the sound of his voice. Dad had not only been my father but my close, life-long friend and soul mate. He had always been there to help me in any way he could. I thanked Dad for his love and unconditional acceptance of me and for paving the way for me to succeed in life.

“Would I be where I am now without Dad’s help?”

Despite all my determination I knew that I wouldn’t have had the opportunities to make it in life without Dad supporting me.

As I watched the redness in Dad’s cheeks turn yellow and felt the warmth in his body fade away, I realized that the time for our final good-bye was near.

“Will I ever again have someone who understood me as intuitively as Dad? If Dad had lived longer what would we have talked about? Would we have found another project to do? Where would we have gone?”

In the end if Dad’s life had been longer I doubt any amount of time could have been enough. I would be as heartbroken by his passing as I am now and still wish I had more time with Dad.

Mom and Catharine had come back in the room to see him one last time. After a few minutes Catharine said she would drive Mom home. I stayed.

Finally I knew I had to let go. I stood up still holding Dad’s hand and looked at him for a minute lying there in peaceful stillness. “Bye Dad,” I said looking at his face. Then I looked down at my hand holding his and I slowly and reluctantly let go of his hand – Dad’s hand – the hand that had held me and helped me through life – the hand I knew the shape of intimately that was comfort, acceptance, trust and understanding – the hand I would never hold again. As I slowly walked away I stopped at the doorway to look at Dad one more time. After a minute I sighed a deep breath to collect myself. Then I turned and left.

I was consumed by a feeling of complete and utter defeat as I walked out of the hospital. I had lost the fight – the fight I could never have won. I knew deep within me that I could never have made Dad well again. Even so when defeat came it was hard to take.

When I got home Catharine was just leaving. She had to go back to her home and family. Mom was sitting in the living room. She got up and we hugged each other in silence. Both of us were trying to clarify in our minds what had just happened. We had prepared ourselves for this time. We knew it was coming. When it came we weren’t ready for it. Could we ever have been?

Mom and I talked about Dad until 2:00 AM. I remembered then that I had an appointment at work the next day. I sighed rubbing my forehead. At that moment the last thing I wanted to do was go to work in the morning. But I had a business to run and a responsibility to our customer.

“Brian, I know you don’t what to go but you have to keep that appointment. There is nothing you can do for Dad tomorrow.” Mom was right.

By nine o’clock Wednesday morning I was back at Tara. I stopped at St. Joe’s on the way. I had to see Dad’s room to solidify in my mind the reality of last night. His room was exactly as we had left it except that there was no Dad. The undertakers had removed him during the night. After a few minutes of looking around the room I went to work.

It was a very quiet day at Tara. Nobody came through the door except my appointment that afternoon. I don’t think I accomplished anything that day except to make a sign to tape on the door that said, “Due to a family emergency Tara will be closed until Monday.”

I sat at the office desk – alone. I had to call home every hour to talk to somebody. Mom or Catharine answered. As we spoke I could hear the voices of friends who had come to give their condolences and I wished I was there. After they left Mom and Catharine went to the funeral home to make the final arrangements for Dad’s funeral. I wanted to be one of Dad’s pall bearers. It was the one final duty I needed to perform for him. I had to carry Dad to his final rest just as he had carried me through life.

When the appointment ended I locked the door at 3:00.

The next day was difficult. Mom, Catharine and I went to see Dad lying in his casket. Dad looked as if he was just asleep – as if I could reach over, tap him on the shoulder and say, “Dad, wake up.”

Then Friday came – the day of Dad’s funeral. We gathered for a half hour visitation at the funeral home at 11:00 AM. I sat with Mom and Catharine through the service and then joined the other pall bearers to put Dad into a hearse for the drive to Corpus Christi for his funeral mass. Then I rejoined Mom and Catharine.

When we arrived at the church Mom, Catharine, and I, along with Fr. Carey, a long time friend of the family, met Dad’s hearse and we carried him into the church. As we entered the full senior choir was singing. Many of them had taken time off work. Dad had been a member of the choir for years. Fr. Carey gave a glowing eulogy. I can’t recall what he said but I remember feeling proud of Dad as he spoke. I followed Dad’s mass, listened to Fr. Carey speak, heard how wonderfully the choir sang but it all seemed shrouded by a fog.

When mass was over we brought Dad to St. Andrew’s cemetery for his interment. I and the other pall bearers carried Dad from the hearse and placed him over his grave. Then I stood with Mom and Catharine as Fr. Carey said prayers over Dad. After a moment of silence we left to go to a reception in the church hall.

That evening Mom and I sat across the living room from each other. Her eyes met mine. No words were spoken but her look expressed both our thoughts. Dad’s presence had left our home. Although Dad hadn’t lived in the house for a month we never truly felt his absence until he was buried.

My Game – Third Period – My Fate Is Decided

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Third Period. My fate is decided. My brain tumour went away. It never came back. But the drastic treatment – the radiation therapy – came at a price.

Whenever I recall the whole ordeal with my brain tumour I first think of 9:00 AM, Friday, November 3, 1972. It became an anniversary date. But my struggle to survive didn’t end with those three months in Toronto. It continued in Thunder Bay. The year of hope, 1973, was the fateful year that decided whether I would live past 14 years old.

In 1972, the radiation therapy could only be targeted at an area. Along with killing my tumour it caused a lot of collateral damage. As the doctors predicted a delayed reaction started six weeks after the treatments ended. Up until the radiation therapy reaction began my co-ordination, balance, swallowing and speech were improving – and my smile was getting broader.

When the radiation therapy reaction set in, my brain tissue in the irradiated area swelled blocking the normal flow of cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) that caused the intracranial pressure (ICP) to increase which would kill me if left untreated. The doctors were ready for this. When the reaction began they put me on decadron medication to keep the swelling down.

Cerebrospinal fluid (CSF): The fluid circulating in and around the brain.

Intracranial pressure (ICP): The pressure of the CSF.

Decadron (dexamethasone): A steroid medication used to counteract swelling and allergic reactions.

As the reaction progressed my face became completely paralysed. The 7th cranial nerve controlling the muscles in my face died leaving me with no facial movement at all. My speech became more slurred. My eyes turned in giving me double vision again. I had more difficulty swallowing. I had to chew each mouthful of food thoroughly and wash it down with milk. My co-ordination and balance got steadily poorer. I had so much trouble handling utensils at the dinner table that Mom spoon fed me. I started to use a cane when I was outside. In the house I used the walls and furniture to help me get about.

Trying to communicate wore me down. Since my lips were paralysed I couldn’t press them together to pronounce letters like “b”, “m” and “p” properly. In time I learned to pronounce all letters fairly well with my tongue. But my tongue was getting slower. I was frustrated day after day as I lost my ability to communicate through speech. Not being able to make facial expressions like raise my eye brows, frown or smile added to my communication problem. Now not only was my smile gone but my mechanical speech as well. Mom and Catharine were the first two people to catch on to my new way of speaking. I called it my accent. Dad and my friends took a bit longer. Dad seemed more disheartened than me at not being able to understand what I said. It didn’t take him long to catch on.

I felt trapped. My world was caving in on me. Many of my days were filled with desperation and helplessness as I succumbed to my declining health. I was heartbroken having to let people do more and more of the things for me that I used to do for myself. I could at least have bowel movements again by September but somebody, usually Mom, had to clean me up. I had the humiliation of becoming incontinent and was wetting the bed at night. There I was 14 years old and wetting the bed. I was so embarrassed. In the back of my mind was the fear of what my uncertain future may bring.

Only one activity lifted my spirits. Dad took me out for a drive every evening after supper. It gave Mom a breather after taking care of me all day. We often stopped at Chippewa Park. Arm-in-arm Dad helped me slowly walk around as much as I could which wasn’t very far. We often stopped at a Dairy Queen on the way back and I’d get a Dilly Bar, my favourite. I looked forward to our drives every evening. Dad and I shared our thoughts about a current event or Dad told me a story about his youth in England. It took my mind off my desperate situation and kept a glimmer of hope in me that one day I would overcome this.

When we returned home I told Mom about my adventure. We watched TV or I just said good night to her and make my way to my room. Dad helped me get ready for bed. I sat in the chair beside my bed and Dad, often assisted by Catharine, gave me my tooth brush and held a bowl for me to spit in. When that was done I crawled into bed. Then Dad sat in the chair beside my bed. As I lay tucked tight with the room light off and just the light streaming in from the hallway Dad read to me. Dad liked reading to me as much as I did listening. It was soothing to both of us.

Dad chose several wonderful books. Farley Mowat became my favourite author as I listened to many of his works. My favourite was the warm and funny story of Mutt in The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be. By the time Dad had finished the book I felt as close to Mutt as if he was my dog. Dad introduced me to Stephen Leacock’s colourful wit and humour in Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town. He read The Mapmaker about David Thompson, who surveyed much of North America in the 1800s and who kept many of the maps he drew in Fort William right where we lived.

I can’t recall when Dad stopped reading to me every night. When I started to feel better and more confident with life he tapered off. In my mind I can still see and hear Dad reading to me as he sat by my bedside illuminated only by the light from the doorway.

My parents were distraught by my failing condition. The doctors said it was likely the result of neurological damage caused by the radiation therapy. My health would stop deteriorating when the radiation therapy reaction subsided. If my brain tumour was the reason they were at a loss for options as to how else they could treat it.

Was the radiation therapy the cause of my declining health? If my brain tumour was still growing could the doctors find another way to deal with it? Would my brain tumour prove to be untreatable? Only time could provide the answer. For the time being my only option was to stay the course of the long months of decadron treatment. As it turned out, time showed the radiation therapy to be the cause.

Decadron irritated my stomach which made me feel hungry all the time. With a good appetite and decreasing mobility I quickly put on weight. During the year I was on decadron I doubled my weight from 80 to 160 pounds. I have the stretch marks and flat feet to prove it.

Decadron also promoted premature closure of the ends of my long bones. When the long bone ends close normally after the growth spurt in adolescence you stop growing taller. A doctor in Thunder Bay took angled X-rays of my leg. He told me I should have been 5’10” instead of 5’4”. It’s safe to assume I should have been at least as tall as Dad who was 5’9”. A few more inches would have been useful but it’s hard to miss what I never had.

A week after got back from the Toronto ordeal I went back to school excited to catch up with friends and finish Grade 8. A month after I returned to school the radiation therapy reaction set in. I could no longer physically attend school. I was upset. My friends came to see me at home but as my condition worsened they stopped coming. They couldn’t handle seeing my health decline. I couldn’t blame them because I would have done the same thing in their place. The school board arranged for supply teachers to drop off text books and assignments at the house in the morning on their way to work. This didn’t work out. So the school board found a teacher, Olga, who had retired to raise her family. She came twice a week to help me with her four year old son, Lornie. Lornie kept Mom entertained with his stories while Olga taught me my lesson. Between Olga’s visits I worked on the assignments she gave me. Olga made schooling both interesting and fun and with her guidance I finished Grade 8. In those few months Olga became more than my teacher. She is a good and valued friend that I stay in touch with to this day.

By September, 1973, it was time to get off decadron. It was not just a matter of stopping the medication. My body had become used to it. I was hooked. The doctors started the process to wean me off decadron by first lowering the dose gradually over the next few months. They started me on cortisone acetate along with the decadron.

Cortisone acetate (glucortizoid): An adrenocortical steroid medication used to reduce swelling and inflammation.

The plan was to take me off decadron altogether by getting the cortisone acetate to take over keeping the swelling brain tissue in check. Then they would stop the cortisone acetate. The doctors examined me every two weeks for signs of ICP build up to see if things were going as planned. If this regimen didn’t work my brain tissue would swell, block the flow of CSF and make the ICP increase. They lowered the dose of decadron. If I said I felt all right they left me on the lower dose for two weeks. If I was still okay they decreased the dose some more.

I wanted to get off decadron. In my mind getting off it was the remedy for all of what was happening to me. I said I was fine when I really wasn’t. It didn’t hurt but my head just didn’t feel right. It was like everything was churning away inside.

“Soon I’ll be off decadron,” was all I thought about, “I can put up with my head until then.”

As they decreased the dose of decadron and simultaneously increased the cortisone acetate the worse my head was. But I wouldn’t give in. The cortisone acetate wasn’t keeping my brain tissue from swelling like the decadron had.

One evening in mid November Catharine and I were watching TV in the den. She noticed me becoming nauseous and ran to get Mom and Dad in the living room. When they got to me I was already throwing up. Mom being a nurse recognized the signs of intracranial pressure build up. My brain tissue had started to swell. They rushed Catharine down the street to the neighbours and me to Emergency at McKellar Hospital.

The doctor who had monitored me just a few days before examined me. He had no explanation. There was no sign of pressure build up those few days prior. My brain tissue suddenly swelled making the ICP spike. He admitted me, injected me with a big dose of decadron and hoped the medication would reduce the swelling to relieve the pressure. Dad went home to stay with Catharine and Mom stayed the night at the hospital. The big question now was – would I make it through the night?

The decadron did its job. This meant I was back on full doses of decadron and another attempt would have to be made to get me off it. The doctor quickly scheduled me for neurosurgery to have a CSF shunt implanted in my head to prevent this situation from happening again.

CSF shunt: A long flexible plastic 1/8 inch diameter tube inserted into a ventricle cavity in the brain that allows the CSF to flow even if its natural course is blocked. If the CSF flow is blocked the CSF accumulates in the reservoir of the shunt. The resulting increase in ICP opens a pressure release valve in the reservoir which allows the CSF to drain away into the abdomen to relieve the pressure.

On November 17, 1973, just over one year after my first neurosurgery, I was in the OR in McKellar Hospital. Surgery went smoothly. Again I hallucinated but not as much as before. I spent the next three weeks in the hospital. The shunt will be forever in my head. I no longer need it but it would be another surgery to take it out.

When I woke up the morning after being admitted to McKellar I couldn’t see clearly. Blinking and rubbing my eyes didn’t help. An eye surgeon was called to examine my eyes. The sudden ICP increase damaged the blood vessels in the backs of my eyes making them bleed which caused my vision to blur.  After examining me the eye surgeon expressed to my parents his concern that the damage could be permanent. Mom and Dad downplayed the news to me. They said that the eye doctor said it would take a while for my eyes to get better. I was disappointed by the news but I remained optimistic. It was yet another harsh blow in what had been a year of one heart break after another. Over the following year my eyes gradually healed.

One evening while I was in McKellar after neurosurgery a very thoughtful nurse named Laura from the neurosurgical ward gave me some large print books to read. She had gone to the library after work and picked out some books she thought I would like.

I made it home two weeks before Christmas. My time in that hospital bed left me unable to walk without a lot of help. We rented a walker from the Red Cross which I started using when I got home. It was a light aluminum frame that I lifted ahead of me with a clunk and stepped up to it. When it came time to trim the Christmas tree I had to sit in a chair and watch Mom, Dad and Catharine decorate it. With legs that wouldn’t support me, poor co-ordination, double vision and now blurred eye sight I was unable to help. Still I was home.

I did my Christmas shopping that year from a wheelchair with Dad pushing me around the malls. I quickly learned how hard it is to get around slushy parking lots and through narrow, closely-set double doors that many stores had in the 1970s. We celebrated Christmas as we did every year with all the cakes, goodies, roast turkey, and friends stopping by with their Season’s Greetings. I know they wondered if this Christmas would be my last.

On New Year’s Eve we raised a glass to toast 1974 with Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show as the ball dropped in New York’s Times Square. A new year had arrived and with it came renewed hope. Score!