Thursday, December 25, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Context of the Season
It seems that keeping life in context these days is becoming harder and harder. Today PinF spent the day trying to find the Christmas spirit that's been lacking as of late by taking his daughter shopping for her mother and friends. As I was driving I was thinking of what it meant to be ten years-old, full of anticipation, joy, and awe over the promise the holidays hold. Sophie and I had a good day hustling here, fighting traffic there, looking for parking spots at the mall. Of course as a ten year-old you're inoculated to the realities of the world in general, and the economy specifically. So you do what you must and push on, always remembering it's really about the kids.
Thirteen months ago my good friend and neighbor Don told me during one of our daily interactions at the mail box that he had been diagnosed with cancer of the throat. I remember as he teared up and I tensed up, how he told me he was going to beat it; I had no reason to doubt such a robust and strong eighty year-old man. Don had been an instrumental presence in my life during my father's illness and was in fact from Springfield, Pa. as well, something that gave us a commonality of reference in our many chats and sports talk.
Things took a turn for the worse for Don after an initial rally. Seems Don's cancer had spread as evidenced by his gaunt appearance when i last saw him three months ago. Always upbeat and more worried for me he was in fact, dying. He knew it, I knew it and yet neither of us ever spoke it. Instead it was on to the next chemo, or radiation. I hadn't seen Don for almost two months but I noticed home nurses coming by with greater regularity. Whether it was out of respect for his privacy as I kept telling myself, or out of fear of looking another dying man in the eyes I didn't go next door, choosing instead to get the news from afar.
As wonderful as the hospice experience is in allowing a person to die with dignity and grace while surrounded by family and friends, I wasn't sure I was up to it; fully aware that my own experience with my father in many ways haunts me still with profound sadness.
This all changed today. I saw Doris, Don's wife today and though I knew things were worse, her eyes said it all. I asked if it would be alright to come and see Don. She said she thought he'd love that. With that I told Sophie I had to go next door to see Don and then I steeled myself for what I knew I would find. Still, my fear of not saying good-bye runs deeper than looking death in the face an with that I went.
Don lies in a hospital bed in the living room. Physically depleted, emaciated and unshaven I offer to shave him, he declines. Cognizant and accepting best describe his demeanor. Though the body is tired and ever so steadily closing down, the mind remains sharp and focused. We talk Dolphins, Eagles, and things to do with Philly. I decide I can no longer make small talk and ask Don if he's ready to die. He nods he is. He tells me he doesn't want to die, but that he's given the fight all he had and he is accepting of his fate. I can feel the tears wanting to well up but I will them back and keep the conversation as light as possible. We again return to his imminent fate and I ask if there's anything he wants me to do? Don just asks that I keep doing what I am doing with regard to Sophia and that I check in on Doris from time to time.
I thanked Don for all he did for me when my father was dying and for being such a good neighbor and friend. He thanks me back for visiting, he says. I told him the honor is mine, and I assure him that it's in his peaceful and serene acceptance of his fate that I now draw my strength from him. He gestures me to come closer, grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a hug. He's due to be transported within the hour by ambulance to the hospital just next door to spend his last hours or days in the hospice wing as his breathing symptoms are becoming worse. I told him that I'd be there with him again like I was when he nearly died there 9 months ago and that we'd watch his beloved Dolphins game. Doris sits sobbing. Don clutches me as hard as his once strong but now skinny arms can.
The trip to hospital is symbolic of his trip to the next life, a fact that is neither lost on he, Doris or myself. I compose myself on the walk to my place before seeing Sophia. The last thing I told Don was for him to look my old man up when he gets to heaven and have a beer with him when he gets there, he chuckled and said he would. He thanked me again for the tenth time for coming to see him. I slowly make my way out the door and into the warm Florida evening, the sky a light bluish-black hue sprinkled with the first gleaming stars of the evening.
In the short walk from Don's house to mine the context of my life became much clearer. The financial worries, the stresses of single parenting, the hustle here, the hustle there all seemed so minor. I just looked a man in the eye who knows when he leaves his house tonight it's for the last time ever. I felt a wave of sadness and wisdom at the same time. This being maybe the fifth person I've visited with prior to their dying; I thought how my emotions and behaviors had matured and varied during the various stages of my life I had confronted death. Maybe because I know I'm not that far removed from his path or maybe because intellectually you kind of grow into the notion of death. Either way, it was an extremely powerful visit that I'm glad I made; one that put my life and the Christmas season back in context.
God speed Don. I'll miss you. A lot.
Thirteen months ago my good friend and neighbor Don told me during one of our daily interactions at the mail box that he had been diagnosed with cancer of the throat. I remember as he teared up and I tensed up, how he told me he was going to beat it; I had no reason to doubt such a robust and strong eighty year-old man. Don had been an instrumental presence in my life during my father's illness and was in fact from Springfield, Pa. as well, something that gave us a commonality of reference in our many chats and sports talk.
Things took a turn for the worse for Don after an initial rally. Seems Don's cancer had spread as evidenced by his gaunt appearance when i last saw him three months ago. Always upbeat and more worried for me he was in fact, dying. He knew it, I knew it and yet neither of us ever spoke it. Instead it was on to the next chemo, or radiation. I hadn't seen Don for almost two months but I noticed home nurses coming by with greater regularity. Whether it was out of respect for his privacy as I kept telling myself, or out of fear of looking another dying man in the eyes I didn't go next door, choosing instead to get the news from afar.
As wonderful as the hospice experience is in allowing a person to die with dignity and grace while surrounded by family and friends, I wasn't sure I was up to it; fully aware that my own experience with my father in many ways haunts me still with profound sadness.
This all changed today. I saw Doris, Don's wife today and though I knew things were worse, her eyes said it all. I asked if it would be alright to come and see Don. She said she thought he'd love that. With that I told Sophie I had to go next door to see Don and then I steeled myself for what I knew I would find. Still, my fear of not saying good-bye runs deeper than looking death in the face an with that I went.
Don lies in a hospital bed in the living room. Physically depleted, emaciated and unshaven I offer to shave him, he declines. Cognizant and accepting best describe his demeanor. Though the body is tired and ever so steadily closing down, the mind remains sharp and focused. We talk Dolphins, Eagles, and things to do with Philly. I decide I can no longer make small talk and ask Don if he's ready to die. He nods he is. He tells me he doesn't want to die, but that he's given the fight all he had and he is accepting of his fate. I can feel the tears wanting to well up but I will them back and keep the conversation as light as possible. We again return to his imminent fate and I ask if there's anything he wants me to do? Don just asks that I keep doing what I am doing with regard to Sophia and that I check in on Doris from time to time.
I thanked Don for all he did for me when my father was dying and for being such a good neighbor and friend. He thanks me back for visiting, he says. I told him the honor is mine, and I assure him that it's in his peaceful and serene acceptance of his fate that I now draw my strength from him. He gestures me to come closer, grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a hug. He's due to be transported within the hour by ambulance to the hospital just next door to spend his last hours or days in the hospice wing as his breathing symptoms are becoming worse. I told him that I'd be there with him again like I was when he nearly died there 9 months ago and that we'd watch his beloved Dolphins game. Doris sits sobbing. Don clutches me as hard as his once strong but now skinny arms can.
The trip to hospital is symbolic of his trip to the next life, a fact that is neither lost on he, Doris or myself. I compose myself on the walk to my place before seeing Sophia. The last thing I told Don was for him to look my old man up when he gets to heaven and have a beer with him when he gets there, he chuckled and said he would. He thanked me again for the tenth time for coming to see him. I slowly make my way out the door and into the warm Florida evening, the sky a light bluish-black hue sprinkled with the first gleaming stars of the evening.
In the short walk from Don's house to mine the context of my life became much clearer. The financial worries, the stresses of single parenting, the hustle here, the hustle there all seemed so minor. I just looked a man in the eye who knows when he leaves his house tonight it's for the last time ever. I felt a wave of sadness and wisdom at the same time. This being maybe the fifth person I've visited with prior to their dying; I thought how my emotions and behaviors had matured and varied during the various stages of my life I had confronted death. Maybe because I know I'm not that far removed from his path or maybe because intellectually you kind of grow into the notion of death. Either way, it was an extremely powerful visit that I'm glad I made; one that put my life and the Christmas season back in context.
God speed Don. I'll miss you. A lot.
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