Everything Changed

Two years ago on Thanksgiving morning (Nov. 27), two days after your 57th birthday, you went to the hospital.  It didn’t seem like a big deal and you were sure you would be back in time for dinner with the family.  Pneumonia is what you thought it might be.  You just woke up not feeling well and figured it would be best to get an antibiotic…just to be safe.

You spent two years battling Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.  Chemo became a regular deal.  The three months in Richmond doing the stem cell transplant was the worst of it.  But going through all of that had weakened your immune system.  So you had become really susceptible to pretty much everything.  But it never weakened your attitude.

Through all of that, you never complained.  You figured there were people who had far worse to deal with than you, so complaining just didn’t make sense.  Not to mention, your faith was stronger than it ever had been.  You always smiled and continued making people laugh telling stories that most of us had either forgotten or never heard at all.  You and your old friend Harvey got to spend a lot of time together.  We visited all the time during treatments and Kim even spent the entire three months in Richmond with you.  You beat it once, so we just knew you were going to beat this thing again.  You would be fine and back to your usual ways in no time.

We were right – you beat cancer for the second time.  After being home from Richmond for a short time you went back to work.  You seemed to be gaining strength and your appetite was getting back to normal.

But this simple visit quickly went in a different direction.  There was a lot of concern for your heart.  The doctors thought they found evidence of a potentially mild heart attack.  They decided it would be best for you to stay overnight just for observation and to run some tests.  This certainly wasn’t what you or anyone else expected on Thanksgiving.  But we went with it without much concern.  We figured you would be done with all this in a day or two.  Then life could resume as normal.

We didn’t know that “normal” was going to be very different from now on.

Something in you changed.  Over the weekend at the hospital you seemed to become more tired than usual.  You weren’t as positive as you had been.  You were tired of the stress tests and doctors coming in with worse news than the last time.  You just wanted to go home.  But we kept telling you that you had to stay and see this through.  Everything was going to be fine.

I knew things were getting bad with you on Saturday night (Nov. 29th) when I was there to visit.  It was just you and I and I had an appointment to go to that evening.  I kept stalling.  I was sitting with you on your bed when I decided it was time to go.  You reached up, grabbed my neck and pulled me to you.  You started crying and begged me to stay.  This wasn’t normal for you.  So it just didn’t sit right and I didn’t understand why.  I tried to be encouraging, but it didn’t seem to help you or me.  But I stayed nonetheless.

On Sunday (Nov. 30th) the news got worse.  They found your heart was 95% blocked and would require major surgery.  But you weren’t having it.  You kept saying you were going home.  I got upset with you and said you were being selfish; you needed to think about us and how not doing the surgery could be fatal.  Then what would we do?

But we weren’t thinking about you.  We didn’t fully understand why you wanted to go “home.”  We didn’t realize that, at the time, you knew what you needed.  And even though you never spoke the words, you knew what was going on better than any of us.

So when Monday (Dec. 1st) came, you seemed a little more calm but still  unwilling to go forward with things.  The doctors filled you in on the condition of your heart and what needed to happen from here.  You were still being a little bullheaded and were more visibly tired.  You just didn’t want to fight anymore.  You didn’t want to have surgery.  I was on my lunch break and needed to get back to work.  I told you I would come back after work and we would talk about it then.

Then the call came.  My sister was very upset and said you had an episode and they were rushing you to CCU. She was confused and no one was telling her anything.  So I left work and came in.

I met with what family was there in the waiting room and no one seemed to know exactly what was going on.  Then the doctors came in and started explaining the situation.  All I remember hearing was that there was nothing else they could do and they needed permission to stop working on you.  My mind went blank.  My heart raced.  Next thing I knew I was walking down the hallway well behind the doctors.  I didn’t even really know why I was going or what was going to happen.  But I got to your room and went to walk in and stopped.  I panicked and backed out.  I leaned against the wall with my chest pounding and I could hardly breathe.

But I found the strength to walk in.  Your eyes were open and there was a tube in your mouth.  A nurse was up on your bed beside you doing chest compressions.  The room was chaotic and all the air seemed to leave the room.  I walked up beside you and grabbed your hand.  Falling to the floor, I couldn’t contain the tears anymore.  This wasn’t supposed to be happening.  This wasn’t really happening, was it?

Then I felt a hand on my head.  My aunt spoke words I didn’t expect to ever have to respond to.  “Bud, it’s your call.”  Then I remembered how you had been talking for three days about wanting to go home.  You wanted your fight to be over.  You wanted be with Jesus.  So I let you go.  I told them to stop.  Then you left.  You went home for good.

Even after everyone cleared out, I stayed there on the floor – holding your hand.  It didn’t seem real.  Did I make the right call?  Is this really the way it was supposed to go?  I made my way to my feet and walked out of the room.  I was in an obvious daze and could barely walk.  But your fight was over.  Now ours would begin.

Thanksgiving will never be the same.  It will forever have the memory of you leaving us attached to it.  Thanksgiving day, for me, marked the beginning of your end here with us.  Yet, your new life with the Father had begun.  It doesn’t make the holidays less joyful, but it does bring the images back.

Tomorrow (Nov. 25th) would have been your 59th birthday.  I wonder what Thanksgiving would have been like had you been here this year.  But a day is coming very quickly when we will be together again eating the greatest meal of all time at the largest dinner ever.  For now, you can keep hanging out up there watching over us and cheering us on.  I’m not sure exactly what you’re doing right now.  But I have many images that make me smile.  And I look forward to that day now more than ever.

*Note to the reader: I realize that I wrote a blog not too long ago that may seem similar to this.  But I have learned that the more I write about some things the easier they are to deal with.  Losing my dad was the first big loss I have ever experienced.  I don’t write about it to forget.  Instead, I write about it to remember his face, his laugh and my love for him.  The greater the loss, the greater the pain.  But also the greater the memories.