In May 2017, our lives changed forever when we woke up to a midnight phone call of my mom frantically telling us she thought dad was having a stroke. After arriving at our local smaller hospital, he suffered a seizure while having a CT scan and was quickly sent via helicopter to a larger hospital with a neurology unit.
My three siblings and I rushed to the hospital with my mom, waiting for the news that would change our lives forever. After what felt like a few lifetimes, a resident came in to inform us that “he has a golf-ball sized tumor in his brain. Cancer rarely starts in the brain so it’s most likely somewhere else, also.” The C word. What?!? Everything went foggy. It was now 4 a.m., and we waited. Eventually a neurologist came to see us and inform us that my dad, my kid’s grandpa, and my mom’s husband indeed had a brain tumor that had started to bleed, causing the stroke symptoms and seizures. The one miracle was that there were no other tumors found after the full body scan. He would be admitted to the neurology ICU that day, as soon as a bed was available.
Like zombies, we went up to the floor when he was finally admitted. He had been sedated and was unaware of the intense right turn our lives had all taken for at least two days. We stayed, all four of us as much as they’d let us, by his side. This couldn’t be happening, he was just on the golf course. He was newly retired and enjoying life to the fullest. He was ONLY 64.
They eventually did the surgery and told us they got “good margins” although with this type of tumor you can never “get it all.” My dad woke up and was so confused. Why was he in the hospital? Why did he have a massive headache? To wake up and learn that you just had brain surgery is not an experience I would wish on anyone. To everyone’s amazement and shock, my dad was there — physically and cognitively intact — for the most part and was home in a few days.
Rehab was helpful. Physical therapy came to the house, and it was humbling for all of us to see our strong dad need assistance walking, getting in and out of chairs, climbing stairs, etc. when just a week before he was living a “normal” life. But for just having brain surgery, we thought he was rocking it! Life was OK for a bit. We held our breath. We’re overprotective to a fault, but he was able to resume activities he enjoyed and had a chance to see how many people loved him.
Looking back, I think we may have not wanted to know the answers so we didn’t ask the questions. How much longer? What’s the prognosis? We just took it day by day, blissfully unaware of what the future held.
My dad died on February 18, 2018. He was 65 years young. Brain cancer and complications from the cancer, including meningitis, two more brain surgeries, fluid on the brain, confusion, and physical limitations eventually was too much for him. Radiation and chemotherapy gave him to us for eight more months. 242 days. 5,808 minutes. Not enough time…
Once we determined there wasn’t more we could do medically that would help my dad or leave him with the outcome of leading a productive and joyful life, we were moved to the hospice floor. It took him almost a week to die. I had no idea how awful of a process that dying actually is, and hope, beyond measure that he was at peace during the last week. We were with him 24/7 at the end, my mom staying and my siblings rotating. I had left hours before he passed to go get some sleep. I don’t think I was supposed to be there when he went. My kids were 5, 6, and 8. I found myself stuck in this horrible middle place of drowning in grief myself but looking after my devastated mom, my heartbroken kiddos, and husband.
Not a day goes by when I don’t wonder why this happened to our family, to such a wonderful person, but I am determined to honor my dad every day and fight so another family doesn’t have to endure this heartbreak.
