Yeah. Something like that. Maybe this year I'll start by explaining our story.
My Daddy thought he was having residual pain from an injury he had as a teenager. His back hurt, that's all he knew. Just a couple days before Christmas (maybe even Christmas Eve? Some details escape me), I just knew something was up. He was yellow and acting funny. My parents both told me not to worry. It would be okay. The year was 2010.
By his 50th birthday, January 26, 2011, he had had the Whipple procedure done. This is when they cut out ... I remember going to St Vincent between every single class. I was at UALR. I skipped a couple classes, because I just wanted to talk to him. He didn't know, or he would've been way mad.
When he came home, he was of course weak. They started him on chemo not too long after. June, I believe. He was cold. All. The. Time. It was Summer and he would turn the heat on! Craziness. Also, chemo makes people grumpy. And it's hard to be super understanding when you're worried and also confused as to why you're being yelled at for your caring. I regret that. I'm sure most people do.
Daddy just knew the surgery and chemo had done it. He was good to go.
No scans showed anything. He looked cancer-free. However, he was steadily losing weight, hurting, couldn't eat or sleep...
They decided to do radiation and chemo again. I moved my wedding up a year so my Daddy could walk me down the aisle. He was my hero. He danced with me, even when he felt like he may collapse. I will never ever forget it.
Shortly after, he became sepsis. I thought that was it. He was completely out of it. Mind you, scans were still saying clear! His doctors were so confused. We were, too. The IV fluids eventually flushed him out and he came to. It was a huge surprise and a blessing!
Life wasn't the same after, though. Christmas wasn't the same. He was so frail. And still nothing in the scans. But we knew.
A huge ice storm came through in December 2012, just 8 months after my wedding. Daddy tried. He tried to participate in games and laughter during the black out. He eventually just couldn't.
I remember looking at him, all alone in the living room. He was like a child, curled up, frail, listening to his favorite songs. I knew it, then. He was too frail even to hug at that point, though. We just had to smile.
December 2012 we went to the ER with him because he was in too much pain. The fact that he suggested we should go meant it was bad. He was too strong to just go for anything, even with the threat of cancer on his mind. He never came home.
The investigative surgery he requested was his last. They found cancer. It had eaten him alive. We still have no clue why it never showed up on a scan. The surgery itself didn't kill him. We were given an all clear, and we're ready to see him and hug him. He aspirated on bile. Everything stopped, then. Well, not everything.
We had to make that decision. My mom looked at us all, each one of us, and asked, "What do you think?" We had to say "pull him off." She couldn't do it herself. We all did it, together. And I couldn't watch. I was the only one. I will forever wonder.
My sister tells me it was one breath. Just one. And he was gone. My brother tells me I should've been there. I know that, though.
That night, I had waited in the waiting room to hear he was gone. I was all alone. My siblings had gone home. I was awake, shaking, rocking. Alone. At 5a, I was finally allowed to join my mom. At 6a I was told to call my siblings and tell them to come. At 10a, I guess my brain just gave out. My heart never ever will, though.
And that's it. That's the story. I may have been very chaotic in its telling, but the entire experience felt that way.
Life isn't every organized. Especially during problems. But people need an anchor. I had pulled away from mine. It took a while to get back. The story may have been a lot different had I not.
This story was to promote Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month, and also to encourage any and everyone to find an anchor, and cling to it.
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