Before I get to the content of today's post, I want to give you some reassurance. No, I will not make every future post about my dad or his death. Yes, I will soon move toward lighter content. I know you don't need to think about this as much as I do, so I'll do my best to make my public musings more relevant to the rest of you. This will hopefully be a bit of a transition piece to move in that direction.
Death is hard, although I don't know what it's like to experience it first hand. We'll all learn that experience someday, but until then we can only speculate. My statement is about the second hand experience: permanently losing contact with a loved one, being near them when they lose the ability to respond to those around them, and watching as moving and breathing becomes more and more difficult for them. This is hard.
I've heard some very "traditional" Christians make comments about death that I still can't understand. They have said (or implied) that death shouldn't be hard for Christians. They have said that because we believe in life after death that far surpasses life on earth, we have nothing to be sad about. To this, I call BS. And this is where my crisis of faith begins.
The above statements are more of a half-truth, and the half isn't always easy to believe in the heat of the moment. The other half is about a person being permanently absent from your life, and for me, the second half tried hard to overshadow the first half during the days after my dad's passing.
In the heat of the moment, when we went from a world with my dad to a world without him, I was flabbergasted by comments made by those around me (alternative reading: those with stronger faith than mine). The comments seemed to ignore the pain of the moment. As I knelt beside his hospital bed, unable to take my hand off of his arm, physically shaking from fear and sadness, they made what could almost be described as jokes.
I remember my aunt saying that dad is in Heaven dancing now (his legs hadn't worked well in over a year, and he hadn't been out of bed in over a month), and my mom's response that his dancing wouldn't be a pretty sight given his dancing skills. She actually laughed just moments after he passed, saying how glad she was that he was finally done being stuck in this stupid, broken body that had held him back for so long. I could not comprehend the joy that was expressed in this moment.
I remember my brother's commentary on watching his final moments. We had both watched him after he took his final breath, and we saw the physical signs of life taper off. He said that this was a neat thing to see, when I had watched it unblinkingly like a train wreck, terrified that his life would end yet knowing there was no other way. I could not comprehend the sense of awe that was expressed in this moment.
I remember the following morning, just hours after he passed, right before we settled into my mom's living room for the skyped church service that had been set up for my dad just a couple months ago (the whole extended family would join in this time). We disassembled the hospital bed and got it out of the living room, but there was a big "Happy Birthday" balloon still tied to the bed from my dad's 56th birthday celebration just 2 weeks before. I remember vaguely hearing of an idea to use the balloon in some form of memorial, but I didn't fully understand until 2 big bags of helium balloons showed up at our door. I watched as children, grandchildren, siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, and great nieces and nephews wrote final thoughts of encouragement to my dad, then stapled their notes to the balloon ribbons. I watched as everyone, young and old, brought their balloons into the front yard, and I watched as everyone released their balloons to the sky yelling a "Happy Birthday" to celebrate my dad's first day in heaven. I could not comprehend the excitement that was expressed in this moment.
I did not comprehend what I saw, but I was glad I saw it, because in the hours and days after these moments, understanding finally set in. While I was still filled with pain from the loss of my dad, I was encouraged as person after person shared their faith with me. With each act of faith, my own was restored bit by bit.
I began to have faith enough to believe that dad was in heaven dancing and running, but hoping that he focused more on the running to spare other Heaven-dwellers from the sight of his dancing.
I began to have faith enough to see that signs of life on earth are fleeting, and that the end of your heartbeat isn't the end of you.
I began to have faith enough to celebrate my dad's new life in Heaven.
We talked a lot about the "cloud of witnesses" last week, as mentioned in Hebrews 12:1. Others said that my dad joined the great cloud of witnesses and was now speaking up on our behalf, but that's not how I saw it. As I saw the great acts of faith in the wake of my dad's death, and as I saw the sheer number of people who were so touched by his life that they took off work on a Tuesday afternoon (even rode a motorcycle 5+ hours each way) just to attend his funeral, I saw a great cloud of witnesses surround my family and me, and this cloud of witnesses has restored my faith.
Because death is hard, and because I needed so much support to get through this week, to everyone who surrounded us during this time, thank you. You probably didn't know it, but you restored my faith. I sincerely, wholeheartedly thank you.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Monday, August 12, 2013
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Thursdays
Most people would say that Thursdays aren't all that special. They would say that Thursdays are just the day before Friday, another work day, and maybe the night they catch their favorite TV shows. They would say that Thursdays mean nothing. I wholeheartedly disagree.
12 years ago, I turned 15. As most teenage boys in America, I was excited to start driving. I even had my first car lined up. It was a blue 1992 Oldsmobile Achieva, and it was awful. The car was handed down from my brother, who started driving the car 3 years prior when he first got his license. Before that, it was handed down from my cousin, who drove it from a rural town (and I mean really rural, with a population just in the double-digits), racking up plenty of rough miles on farm roads. Before that, a pair of twin girls in the same area drove it as their joint first car. I was the 5th first-time driver to use this car, but still I was excited to get behind the wheel.
I turned 15 in the middle of the school year, so it took some time to figure out scheduling driver's ed. Instead of signing up with a corporate driving school, coordinating yet another ride to and from an after-school activity, and potentially losing all of my excitement about driving, we chose another route. Dad researched homeschooling the driver's ed course, and realized it wasn't all that difficult. He signed me up, and we started the course.
Our driver's ed plan was simple. We sat down to go through the textbook every Thursday evening. We started at home, but when we needed to avoid the usual distractions (lessons learned the first couple of weeks), we relocated. Every Thursday, we drove to Daybreak Coffee Roasters to work through the course. I would drink a Cafe Mocha, he had black coffee, and we shared a slice of Black Russian Cake. If neither of us felt like cake, he would splurge and drink a Cafe Royale, a breve flavored with honey.
As you've probably guessed, this is where I first honed my love of coffee. After a couple months, I started to experiment with other drinks on the menu. There was the Caramel Machiato (the Starbucks type, not the traditional version), the Nutty Irishman (latte with hazelnut and irish creme), the Nirvana (cafe mocha with caramel), and the Mudslide (espresso shake - yes, it was made with real ice cream - with chocolate and hazelnut). It wasn't until college that I learned to enjoy black coffee, but my first love was Daybreak on Thursday nights.
The more chapters we finished, the more comfortable we became with our Thursday routine. Many weeks, we would finish the chapter early and burn some time at the coffee shop. We found the chess board on their shelf of board games, and Dad and I would play a couple of matches. Once I learned the game, we found that we were pretty evenly matched. We would sometimes stay long enough to play 2-out-of-3, and it was always a 2-to-1 finish, the title always bouncing back and forth between us.
Driver's ed only lasted about 4 months, even when we only covered a chapter a week. I don't remember ever discussing what we would do with our Thursdays when it was over, but Dad and I somehow made it back to Daybreak every Thursday. When the curriculum no longer dictated our plans, we got more use out of the chess board. We would sometimes make it up to 4 or 5 matches in an evening, and we still didn't have a clear winner.
While we played, we talked through our weeks. I heard some of his work stories, and he heard all about school, band, and Katie (who I had dated for almost 2 years at the time). There was never an evening that we didn't feel like talking, and there were never grudges between us (over chess or anything else) when we were at Daybreak.
As the months went on, we sometimes brought others into our little circle. Mom would occasionally come with us, and so would Katie. Daybreak felt so much like home to me that I started to go to Daybreak on my own time. Most often I would take Katie after school, and we would relax, catch up on homework, and do that disgusting kind of lovey-dovey talking that young couples do. By junior and senior year of high school, Daybreak had become the place to be for school projects, big research papers, and cram sessions before major exams. But as many people as I met at Daybreak, Thursday was always the night that Dad came with me.
After high school, I left my hometown for college. Schedules changed, visits to the coffee shop were replaced with phone calls, and we relied more and more on my weekend visits to catch up. A few years ago, Daybreak closed the location on our side of town and rebranded the remaining location. Years went on, and dad had trouble getting out of the house for coffee. Thursday nights weren't Thursday nights anymore, and Daybreak wasn't Daybreak.
But the great thing about Thursday nights at Daybreak was that their effects continued long after Thursdays and spread far beyond the walls of Daybreak. Thursday nights at Daybreak were the catalyst that started something great. After Thursday nights at Daybreak, Dad was no longer just a parent or an authority figure. After Thursday nights at Daybreak, Dad was my friend.
Earlier this week, I was let in on something Dad told Mom over and over during the last 12 years. He told her that teaching me driver's ed was one of the best decisions he's ever made, because it started Thursday nights at Daybreak. I wholeheartedly agree.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
12 years ago, I turned 15. As most teenage boys in America, I was excited to start driving. I even had my first car lined up. It was a blue 1992 Oldsmobile Achieva, and it was awful. The car was handed down from my brother, who started driving the car 3 years prior when he first got his license. Before that, it was handed down from my cousin, who drove it from a rural town (and I mean really rural, with a population just in the double-digits), racking up plenty of rough miles on farm roads. Before that, a pair of twin girls in the same area drove it as their joint first car. I was the 5th first-time driver to use this car, but still I was excited to get behind the wheel.
I turned 15 in the middle of the school year, so it took some time to figure out scheduling driver's ed. Instead of signing up with a corporate driving school, coordinating yet another ride to and from an after-school activity, and potentially losing all of my excitement about driving, we chose another route. Dad researched homeschooling the driver's ed course, and realized it wasn't all that difficult. He signed me up, and we started the course.
Our driver's ed plan was simple. We sat down to go through the textbook every Thursday evening. We started at home, but when we needed to avoid the usual distractions (lessons learned the first couple of weeks), we relocated. Every Thursday, we drove to Daybreak Coffee Roasters to work through the course. I would drink a Cafe Mocha, he had black coffee, and we shared a slice of Black Russian Cake. If neither of us felt like cake, he would splurge and drink a Cafe Royale, a breve flavored with honey.
As you've probably guessed, this is where I first honed my love of coffee. After a couple months, I started to experiment with other drinks on the menu. There was the Caramel Machiato (the Starbucks type, not the traditional version), the Nutty Irishman (latte with hazelnut and irish creme), the Nirvana (cafe mocha with caramel), and the Mudslide (espresso shake - yes, it was made with real ice cream - with chocolate and hazelnut). It wasn't until college that I learned to enjoy black coffee, but my first love was Daybreak on Thursday nights.
The more chapters we finished, the more comfortable we became with our Thursday routine. Many weeks, we would finish the chapter early and burn some time at the coffee shop. We found the chess board on their shelf of board games, and Dad and I would play a couple of matches. Once I learned the game, we found that we were pretty evenly matched. We would sometimes stay long enough to play 2-out-of-3, and it was always a 2-to-1 finish, the title always bouncing back and forth between us.
Driver's ed only lasted about 4 months, even when we only covered a chapter a week. I don't remember ever discussing what we would do with our Thursdays when it was over, but Dad and I somehow made it back to Daybreak every Thursday. When the curriculum no longer dictated our plans, we got more use out of the chess board. We would sometimes make it up to 4 or 5 matches in an evening, and we still didn't have a clear winner.
While we played, we talked through our weeks. I heard some of his work stories, and he heard all about school, band, and Katie (who I had dated for almost 2 years at the time). There was never an evening that we didn't feel like talking, and there were never grudges between us (over chess or anything else) when we were at Daybreak.
As the months went on, we sometimes brought others into our little circle. Mom would occasionally come with us, and so would Katie. Daybreak felt so much like home to me that I started to go to Daybreak on my own time. Most often I would take Katie after school, and we would relax, catch up on homework, and do that disgusting kind of lovey-dovey talking that young couples do. By junior and senior year of high school, Daybreak had become the place to be for school projects, big research papers, and cram sessions before major exams. But as many people as I met at Daybreak, Thursday was always the night that Dad came with me.
After high school, I left my hometown for college. Schedules changed, visits to the coffee shop were replaced with phone calls, and we relied more and more on my weekend visits to catch up. A few years ago, Daybreak closed the location on our side of town and rebranded the remaining location. Years went on, and dad had trouble getting out of the house for coffee. Thursday nights weren't Thursday nights anymore, and Daybreak wasn't Daybreak.
But the great thing about Thursday nights at Daybreak was that their effects continued long after Thursdays and spread far beyond the walls of Daybreak. Thursday nights at Daybreak were the catalyst that started something great. After Thursday nights at Daybreak, Dad was no longer just a parent or an authority figure. After Thursday nights at Daybreak, Dad was my friend.
Earlier this week, I was let in on something Dad told Mom over and over during the last 12 years. He told her that teaching me driver's ed was one of the best decisions he's ever made, because it started Thursday nights at Daybreak. I wholeheartedly agree.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
Friday, August 2, 2013
Perfect in Weakness
Right now I'm sitting next to a hospital bed in my parents' living room, my feet propped on the bed next to my dad's. I keep looking over at my dad to check on him, reaching over to squeeze his hand or feel his pulse. The hard truth is that he is on his last leg.
For the last 6 months, our family has been dealing with this difficult progression. With each visit and each conversation, we delve deeper into the very real facts and emotions involved. We talk through the pain, and we reminisce over great memories that will never be erased.
I keep remembering little things, like the way dad wrestled with us as kids or his food preferences. We've laughed about his favorite movie (The Princess Bride) and re-told his favorite joke (Duck Food, see footnotes). All kinds of anecdotes were revisited, and we relished the looks on the faces of friends and family who were hearing the stories for the first time.
There was the time he brought the wrong lunch to work. My dad, the least picky eater in the world, was always happy to bring leftovers to work for lunch to save a buck. He never complained about reheated meat loaf or spaghetti, but one day he accidentally grabbed a tupperware full of his least favorite food: lima beans. Rather than making the drive home to trade them in for a real meal, or even eating out for once, he suffered through an entire lunch of lima beans. Lima bean jokes followed him for years, pointing out his sheer commitment to frugality.
We recalled the planning session for my brother's wedding, which was to involve some level of fireworks. We found sparklers and verified their legality within city limits, but a few artillery shells during their walk out of the church would've really made it special. We made calls to the Fire Marshall's office to find out what we needed to do or who we needed to involve to make this happen, but the Fire Marshall wouldn't have it. We sat down, a little dejected, to decide what to do. My dad, the quintessential rule follower, gave the first response: "Let's do it anyway! We can just run away really fast after we shoot them off." This briefly debunked his goody-goody status and earned him the nickname "sparky," and yes, we did shoot off the fireworks in the middle of town (and yes, the Fire Marshall caught us).
There were plenty of funny quips to go around, but the real stories weren't funny at all. While some people weren't in on the inside jokes, we all have clear memories of the great character my dad has displayed.
Everyone talked about his strength during the last few months while his condition deteriorated. We were all impressed that, whether his weak legs forced him into a walker or his pain bound him to the hospital bed, he always tried to make his visitors at home. He would let others choose the TV channel, minimize his own pain to avoid awkward feelings, and keep himself awake to keep conversation going. His constant selflessness was like a shining beacon, and it repeatedly convinced others to pay it forward.
But what I noticed wasn't his selflessness during the last few months. Instead, I thought of the time he spent with our family after a long day's work or a long week of school projects, and I thought of the constant positive energy he gave us no matter how tired he was. I remembered all the times he pursued my interests instead of his own, just because he knew it would bring us closer together. I cherished every time he told me he was proud of me, but more specifically the finish line of my marathon, when he stood by a rail between hundreds of spectators, watched for me to run past, and waited almost 30 minutes in the cold rain just so he could yell "YOU'RE MY HERO!!!" at me as I made my final sprint to the finish line. After 27 years of knowing him, I knew these memories were nothing more or less than the outflow of his selfless character and his drive to be a great father.
Everyone talked about his godly pursuits during the last few months. We heard of discussions over Romans 8, when my dad expressed his desire to find joy in suffering through his symptoms, yet we all saw this joy in his eyes every time his disease progressed. We were told about my dad's laments that, once he was house bound, he might not be able to reach out to people in meaningful ways anymore, yet the fruits of his spiritual labor were never so prevalent as they were during his house bound months.
But what I noticed wasn't his godliness during the last few months. Instead, I remembered the countless mornings I came to the breakfast table to see dad during his morning Bible study, taking notes for his next study group. I pictured the missionaries he supported (by friendship, not only finances), who became lifelong friends in Brazil, and who became such strong friends that they made international calls just to let my dad hear their voice during what seem to be his last days. I felt the ever-steady drive of his faith and morals, never bending to fads or compromising to meet his own desires. I looked back on the 27 years of godly life that I have been blessed to witness, and I knew they were nothing more or less than the outflow of his faith.
Everyone talked about the last few months, and I heard over and over that they were extraordinary. I knew there was more to the story, but they were right. The last 6 months, even the last 4 years of my dad's life have radiated a good, godly, strong, faithful, and loving man, moreso than any other man I've known. He has shown faith in fear, hope in despair, and love in pain. I have been amazed at what I've seen, so I wondered what changed in recent months.
But then I remembered the last 27 years. While the last few months have been extraordinary, they are no more extraordinary than every other month of his life. He has always been faithful in fear, even when his fears involved the future of his kids. He has always been hopeful in despair, even when the future reeked of suffering and loss. He has always loved in the midst of pain, whether the pain of rejection or the pain of his disease. Even more amazingly, he has always been humble, never letting attention to be drawn to his own good works.
Looking back at his amazing life, I want to say that he didn't deserve his disease. I want to say that he didn't deserve the atrophy in his legs, the weakness in his hands and shoulders, or the pain throughout his body. I want to say that the world would be better if great men like him didn't suffer, but I've learned better in the last 24 hours.
Through the suffering of his disease, my dad has been given the opportunity to display the fullest extent of faith, hope, and love. Through his suffering, my dad has shown the light of the Lord. It is truly brighter than he could ever reach by his own strength, more than any flawed person could attain. This light is more brilliant than anything man-made; it is the light of perfect love, made perfect in human weakness.
As I contemplate the life of this great man, I delight in his suffering and the things he would call weakness, because he would tell you that these are the next-to-greatest gifts he has been given. The greatest being the gift of pure love, killed on a cross to cover the cost of our imperfection.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
*Duck Food:
A duck walks into a bar. He asks the bartender "got any duck food?" The bartender says "no, of course we don't have any duck food!" The duck leaves, but returns the next day asking "got any duck food?" The bartender says "I told you we don't have any duck food! Get out of here!" The duck leaves again, but returns again the next day asking "got any duck food?" The bartender says "That's it. This is a bar, not a pet shop. If you ask for duck food again, I'm going to nail your feet to the wall!" The duck leaves. He returns yet again the next day, approaches the bar, and asks "got any nails?" The bartender is confused and says "no, we don't have any nails." The duck nods, then asks "got any duck food?"
For the last 6 months, our family has been dealing with this difficult progression. With each visit and each conversation, we delve deeper into the very real facts and emotions involved. We talk through the pain, and we reminisce over great memories that will never be erased.
I keep remembering little things, like the way dad wrestled with us as kids or his food preferences. We've laughed about his favorite movie (The Princess Bride) and re-told his favorite joke (Duck Food, see footnotes). All kinds of anecdotes were revisited, and we relished the looks on the faces of friends and family who were hearing the stories for the first time.
There was the time he brought the wrong lunch to work. My dad, the least picky eater in the world, was always happy to bring leftovers to work for lunch to save a buck. He never complained about reheated meat loaf or spaghetti, but one day he accidentally grabbed a tupperware full of his least favorite food: lima beans. Rather than making the drive home to trade them in for a real meal, or even eating out for once, he suffered through an entire lunch of lima beans. Lima bean jokes followed him for years, pointing out his sheer commitment to frugality.
We recalled the planning session for my brother's wedding, which was to involve some level of fireworks. We found sparklers and verified their legality within city limits, but a few artillery shells during their walk out of the church would've really made it special. We made calls to the Fire Marshall's office to find out what we needed to do or who we needed to involve to make this happen, but the Fire Marshall wouldn't have it. We sat down, a little dejected, to decide what to do. My dad, the quintessential rule follower, gave the first response: "Let's do it anyway! We can just run away really fast after we shoot them off." This briefly debunked his goody-goody status and earned him the nickname "sparky," and yes, we did shoot off the fireworks in the middle of town (and yes, the Fire Marshall caught us).
There were plenty of funny quips to go around, but the real stories weren't funny at all. While some people weren't in on the inside jokes, we all have clear memories of the great character my dad has displayed.
Everyone talked about his strength during the last few months while his condition deteriorated. We were all impressed that, whether his weak legs forced him into a walker or his pain bound him to the hospital bed, he always tried to make his visitors at home. He would let others choose the TV channel, minimize his own pain to avoid awkward feelings, and keep himself awake to keep conversation going. His constant selflessness was like a shining beacon, and it repeatedly convinced others to pay it forward.
But what I noticed wasn't his selflessness during the last few months. Instead, I thought of the time he spent with our family after a long day's work or a long week of school projects, and I thought of the constant positive energy he gave us no matter how tired he was. I remembered all the times he pursued my interests instead of his own, just because he knew it would bring us closer together. I cherished every time he told me he was proud of me, but more specifically the finish line of my marathon, when he stood by a rail between hundreds of spectators, watched for me to run past, and waited almost 30 minutes in the cold rain just so he could yell "YOU'RE MY HERO!!!" at me as I made my final sprint to the finish line. After 27 years of knowing him, I knew these memories were nothing more or less than the outflow of his selfless character and his drive to be a great father.
Everyone talked about his godly pursuits during the last few months. We heard of discussions over Romans 8, when my dad expressed his desire to find joy in suffering through his symptoms, yet we all saw this joy in his eyes every time his disease progressed. We were told about my dad's laments that, once he was house bound, he might not be able to reach out to people in meaningful ways anymore, yet the fruits of his spiritual labor were never so prevalent as they were during his house bound months.
But what I noticed wasn't his godliness during the last few months. Instead, I remembered the countless mornings I came to the breakfast table to see dad during his morning Bible study, taking notes for his next study group. I pictured the missionaries he supported (by friendship, not only finances), who became lifelong friends in Brazil, and who became such strong friends that they made international calls just to let my dad hear their voice during what seem to be his last days. I felt the ever-steady drive of his faith and morals, never bending to fads or compromising to meet his own desires. I looked back on the 27 years of godly life that I have been blessed to witness, and I knew they were nothing more or less than the outflow of his faith.
Everyone talked about the last few months, and I heard over and over that they were extraordinary. I knew there was more to the story, but they were right. The last 6 months, even the last 4 years of my dad's life have radiated a good, godly, strong, faithful, and loving man, moreso than any other man I've known. He has shown faith in fear, hope in despair, and love in pain. I have been amazed at what I've seen, so I wondered what changed in recent months.
But then I remembered the last 27 years. While the last few months have been extraordinary, they are no more extraordinary than every other month of his life. He has always been faithful in fear, even when his fears involved the future of his kids. He has always been hopeful in despair, even when the future reeked of suffering and loss. He has always loved in the midst of pain, whether the pain of rejection or the pain of his disease. Even more amazingly, he has always been humble, never letting attention to be drawn to his own good works.
Looking back at his amazing life, I want to say that he didn't deserve his disease. I want to say that he didn't deserve the atrophy in his legs, the weakness in his hands and shoulders, or the pain throughout his body. I want to say that the world would be better if great men like him didn't suffer, but I've learned better in the last 24 hours.
Through the suffering of his disease, my dad has been given the opportunity to display the fullest extent of faith, hope, and love. Through his suffering, my dad has shown the light of the Lord. It is truly brighter than he could ever reach by his own strength, more than any flawed person could attain. This light is more brilliant than anything man-made; it is the light of perfect love, made perfect in human weakness.
As I contemplate the life of this great man, I delight in his suffering and the things he would call weakness, because he would tell you that these are the next-to-greatest gifts he has been given. The greatest being the gift of pure love, killed on a cross to cover the cost of our imperfection.
II Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
*Duck Food:
A duck walks into a bar. He asks the bartender "got any duck food?" The bartender says "no, of course we don't have any duck food!" The duck leaves, but returns the next day asking "got any duck food?" The bartender says "I told you we don't have any duck food! Get out of here!" The duck leaves again, but returns again the next day asking "got any duck food?" The bartender says "That's it. This is a bar, not a pet shop. If you ask for duck food again, I'm going to nail your feet to the wall!" The duck leaves. He returns yet again the next day, approaches the bar, and asks "got any nails?" The bartender is confused and says "no, we don't have any nails." The duck nods, then asks "got any duck food?"
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Cancer Sucks - Part 2
Last time I wrote about this topic, I had some questions asking if everything was ok. At the time, it was. If you read the earlier post, you know that almost 4 years ago my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. At the time he was diagnosed (June 2009), they already called it Stage IV, which is the worst it gets.
If you're like me, you've probably heard "stage IV cancer" in a negative context and just assumed it was bad. What it really means is that the cancer has spread. Stage I is a minor occurrence of cancer in a specific part of the body. For prostate cancer it's in the prostate, for breast cancer it's in the breast, etc. Stage II is when it starts to advance within the localized area, and there's some distinction in the type of advancement that moves it into stage III.
By the time you get to stage IV, the cancer has spread outside of the original spot. You'll hear these called "mets," because the cancer has "metastasized" to other parts of the body. The bad part about this is you can't contain the disease anymore. With stage I-III, you may have the option of surgically removing the affected part of the body, or directing radiation toward the small section of cancerous cells, but with stage IV those treatments almost entirely lose their effectiveness.
Once the cancer spreads, there's nothing holding it to one spot anymore. With my dad (and I assume with most prostate cancer patients), the mets went to the bones. CT scans (or bone scans) would find mets that showed up as dark spots on the bones, and the number and size of these spots would help the doctors gauge how well the treatments are working.
The treatments are the most difficult part, as I discussed in the earlier post. With the cancer not contained, the strongest treatment option is some form of chemo. In the first year they tried a hormone therapy, because prostate cancer is known to feed on testosterone. Limit the testosterone, limit the amount of fuel the disease can build from. It was great in that it had minimal side effects (at least compared to other cancer treatments), but it didn't work for long.
After about a year and a half of taking it slow, the chemo started. First every 3 weeks for about 8 months. Things got much better, and stayed that way for a good, long time. We got to stop worrying as much about the disease, and the treatments turned to trying things like short bouts of radiation on the most symptomatic areas. But this also came to an end.
In the fall, he went back to chemo. Again, it was every 3 weeks. This was a different formula that they hoped would make a more long-term impact on the disease, but after 8 treatments it had basically stopped working.
And this has been the last month of our lives. The chemo has stopped working. Radiation might give some symptom relief, but the likely side effects are just as bad as the symptoms they're trying to relieve. There are other kinds of chemo, but after 2 long tries with chemo they need to try something else. And that something else just isn't out there yet. Last week, the tests came back that the cancer hasn't just stopped shrinking, it's still progressing. Just weeks after ending chemo, it's hitting harder than ever.
Because of all of this, last weekend was one of the toughest my family has experienced. What started with a trip back home to hear the full story quickly progressed into discussions to prepare for end-of-life care and making sure my mom will be taken care of when he's gone. Our usual Sunday tradition of going to my parents' church (where I grew up) was filled with weepy hugs as the news spread. Even a piece of amazing news on the adoption account (to be detailed in a later post) was tear-filled in light of the emotions of the weekend.
Now, I hardly know what to do with myself. My brother and I agreed to do everything we can to help our mom be as ready as possible, and we both want to spend as much time with dad as we can. But every discussion gets harder, not easier. Even in sharing the news with a close friend, I could hardly get the words out. When I talk to anyone about this I have this overwhelming urge to tell them how great a man he is, and how much I've appreciated the life he has lived. Yet, every time those thoughts come out, I feel like I'm already attending his funeral.
The one thing I want to say about my dad today is how amazing he is through this process. Since the diagnosis, he has always absorbed as much of the negative stuff as he can, and just showed love and respect to the family and friends who care about him. Even now, he talks down his symptoms as if they're no big deal, all the while chatting with family and letting his grandkids play in his lap. I know many people tend to shut down in his position, but I don't think he's ever going to stop treating us all with the love and respect that he has always shown. That's the kind of strength I will always admire.
So, with regard to my work and day-to-day life in the next few weeks or months, I might be a little unavailable. I'm going to try not to be, but I already find myself drifting and losing focus, and I'm sorry about that. Don't feel bad for talking to me about the responsibilities I'm ignoring, because I probably just need the reminder to get going again. And if you don't know what to say to me, a hand on the shoulder says more than enough.
I know it's going to get harder before it gets easier, but maybe someday it won't hurt so much.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
If you're like me, you've probably heard "stage IV cancer" in a negative context and just assumed it was bad. What it really means is that the cancer has spread. Stage I is a minor occurrence of cancer in a specific part of the body. For prostate cancer it's in the prostate, for breast cancer it's in the breast, etc. Stage II is when it starts to advance within the localized area, and there's some distinction in the type of advancement that moves it into stage III.
By the time you get to stage IV, the cancer has spread outside of the original spot. You'll hear these called "mets," because the cancer has "metastasized" to other parts of the body. The bad part about this is you can't contain the disease anymore. With stage I-III, you may have the option of surgically removing the affected part of the body, or directing radiation toward the small section of cancerous cells, but with stage IV those treatments almost entirely lose their effectiveness.
Once the cancer spreads, there's nothing holding it to one spot anymore. With my dad (and I assume with most prostate cancer patients), the mets went to the bones. CT scans (or bone scans) would find mets that showed up as dark spots on the bones, and the number and size of these spots would help the doctors gauge how well the treatments are working.
The treatments are the most difficult part, as I discussed in the earlier post. With the cancer not contained, the strongest treatment option is some form of chemo. In the first year they tried a hormone therapy, because prostate cancer is known to feed on testosterone. Limit the testosterone, limit the amount of fuel the disease can build from. It was great in that it had minimal side effects (at least compared to other cancer treatments), but it didn't work for long.
After about a year and a half of taking it slow, the chemo started. First every 3 weeks for about 8 months. Things got much better, and stayed that way for a good, long time. We got to stop worrying as much about the disease, and the treatments turned to trying things like short bouts of radiation on the most symptomatic areas. But this also came to an end.
In the fall, he went back to chemo. Again, it was every 3 weeks. This was a different formula that they hoped would make a more long-term impact on the disease, but after 8 treatments it had basically stopped working.
And this has been the last month of our lives. The chemo has stopped working. Radiation might give some symptom relief, but the likely side effects are just as bad as the symptoms they're trying to relieve. There are other kinds of chemo, but after 2 long tries with chemo they need to try something else. And that something else just isn't out there yet. Last week, the tests came back that the cancer hasn't just stopped shrinking, it's still progressing. Just weeks after ending chemo, it's hitting harder than ever.
Because of all of this, last weekend was one of the toughest my family has experienced. What started with a trip back home to hear the full story quickly progressed into discussions to prepare for end-of-life care and making sure my mom will be taken care of when he's gone. Our usual Sunday tradition of going to my parents' church (where I grew up) was filled with weepy hugs as the news spread. Even a piece of amazing news on the adoption account (to be detailed in a later post) was tear-filled in light of the emotions of the weekend.
Now, I hardly know what to do with myself. My brother and I agreed to do everything we can to help our mom be as ready as possible, and we both want to spend as much time with dad as we can. But every discussion gets harder, not easier. Even in sharing the news with a close friend, I could hardly get the words out. When I talk to anyone about this I have this overwhelming urge to tell them how great a man he is, and how much I've appreciated the life he has lived. Yet, every time those thoughts come out, I feel like I'm already attending his funeral.
The one thing I want to say about my dad today is how amazing he is through this process. Since the diagnosis, he has always absorbed as much of the negative stuff as he can, and just showed love and respect to the family and friends who care about him. Even now, he talks down his symptoms as if they're no big deal, all the while chatting with family and letting his grandkids play in his lap. I know many people tend to shut down in his position, but I don't think he's ever going to stop treating us all with the love and respect that he has always shown. That's the kind of strength I will always admire.
So, with regard to my work and day-to-day life in the next few weeks or months, I might be a little unavailable. I'm going to try not to be, but I already find myself drifting and losing focus, and I'm sorry about that. Don't feel bad for talking to me about the responsibilities I'm ignoring, because I probably just need the reminder to get going again. And if you don't know what to say to me, a hand on the shoulder says more than enough.
I know it's going to get harder before it gets easier, but maybe someday it won't hurt so much.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Cancer Sucks
When I was growing up, I didn't know much about cancer. I knew my parents would get upset or sad when someone they knew was diagnosed with cancer, and I had a vague idea that there was something called Chemo that made these people lose their hair.
Later I learned that it was serious, mostly because it's more fatal than just about any other disease. Sure there are viruses that have a higher mortality rate, but these viruses are so protected against that they're only seen in rare outbreaks, mostly in third-world countries. Cancer is the one we have to worry about.
It wasn't til 2009 that I really started to learn about it. In June of that year, my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I think the initial shock was because of the mortality rates with cancer. My reaction softened over the next few months as I learned about the comparably lower mortality rates associated with prostate cancer, at least when compared against leukemia, lung cancer, colon cancer, etc.. I was even relieved when his doctor prescribed a hormone regiment. No radiation, no chemo, no surgery. I decided that if this was mild enough to be treated with hormone therapy alone, I didn't have much to worry about.
But this is where cancer really starts to suck. As much as I've learned about different types of cancer treatment, there's only one diagnosis that can be treated for a lifetime with a single drug: Hodgekins Lymphoma. With the miracle drug, Gleevec, these patients can keep their disease in check with nothing more than a daily pill. Every other diagnosis is met with a treatment plan that changes a couple times a year. And do you know why they keep changing the treatment plan? Because the last one stopped working.
That's not the end of it, either. When the new treatment is planned, the doctor has to help the patient decide how much quality of life they should sacrifice for the next attempt. Hormone therapies have minimal side effects, radiation mostly causes scheduling chaos, chemo turns your life upside down half way between each treatment, and the most radical treatments include surgeries with lifelong consequences. Worst of all, for leukemia patients, the doctor has to consider whether a 75% survival rate is good enough to attempt a bone marrow transplant.
Through all of this, the patient along with their friends and family have to hope. Hope that the next treatment isn't too hard. Hope that the next miracle drug works as well as the doctor says it will. Hope that it doesn't end too soon.
As much as cancer sucks, there's so much it can't do. So many parts of me it can't touch. Some of my favorite words about this came from the back of a t-shirt, and unfortunately I can't identify the author. The truth is:
Always moving forward,
Tyler
Later I learned that it was serious, mostly because it's more fatal than just about any other disease. Sure there are viruses that have a higher mortality rate, but these viruses are so protected against that they're only seen in rare outbreaks, mostly in third-world countries. Cancer is the one we have to worry about.
It wasn't til 2009 that I really started to learn about it. In June of that year, my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I think the initial shock was because of the mortality rates with cancer. My reaction softened over the next few months as I learned about the comparably lower mortality rates associated with prostate cancer, at least when compared against leukemia, lung cancer, colon cancer, etc.. I was even relieved when his doctor prescribed a hormone regiment. No radiation, no chemo, no surgery. I decided that if this was mild enough to be treated with hormone therapy alone, I didn't have much to worry about.
But this is where cancer really starts to suck. As much as I've learned about different types of cancer treatment, there's only one diagnosis that can be treated for a lifetime with a single drug: Hodgekins Lymphoma. With the miracle drug, Gleevec, these patients can keep their disease in check with nothing more than a daily pill. Every other diagnosis is met with a treatment plan that changes a couple times a year. And do you know why they keep changing the treatment plan? Because the last one stopped working.
That's not the end of it, either. When the new treatment is planned, the doctor has to help the patient decide how much quality of life they should sacrifice for the next attempt. Hormone therapies have minimal side effects, radiation mostly causes scheduling chaos, chemo turns your life upside down half way between each treatment, and the most radical treatments include surgeries with lifelong consequences. Worst of all, for leukemia patients, the doctor has to consider whether a 75% survival rate is good enough to attempt a bone marrow transplant.
Through all of this, the patient along with their friends and family have to hope. Hope that the next treatment isn't too hard. Hope that the next miracle drug works as well as the doctor says it will. Hope that it doesn't end too soon.
As much as cancer sucks, there's so much it can't do. So many parts of me it can't touch. Some of my favorite words about this came from the back of a t-shirt, and unfortunately I can't identify the author. The truth is:
Cancer is so limited...Next time you think of your loved ones who are going through this battle, don't give the disease too much credit. Remember who you are, and who they are. And know that you are bigger than this disease.
It cannot cripple love
It cannot shatter hope
It cannot corrode faith
It cannot destroy peace
It cannot kill friendships
It cannot suppress memories
It cannot silence courage
It cannot invade the soul
It cannot steal eternal life
It cannot conquer the spirit.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
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