Two Weeks to Live

I used to talk to my dad several times per week on the phone — he lived in Kentucky, and I lived in North Carolina at the time. The last time I spoke on the phone with him on a Saturday morning in June 2005, he strangely was having a hard time remembering things like where he had lunch the day before, etc. He was getting very agitated about it.

Fast forward to the following Monday, he was supposed to meet my mom for lunch near her office in Louisville from 12-1 p.m., but he didn’t show up at 12. He instead arrived 12 minutes before 1 p.m. Apparently, he was acting strange at lunch, so strange my mom, a long-time RN, called his cell to see if he arrived home from lunch and to see how he was doing. He answered the phone but wasn’t talking. My mom promptly called 911. Little did my mom know that lunch would be the last time she’d ever hear him speak.

When the ambulance arrived, he was standing on the front porch holding their small white dog Sophie on a leash, but he couldn’t speak. Sophie was barking like crazy at the paramedics.

That night my mom called to tell me my dad had glioblastoma. I rushed to Louisville the next day to find his prognosis to live was likely two weeks if we didn’t perform immediate surgery.

The surgery caused a stroke. He went through about six months of treatment but never really got any better. My mom spent hours with him every day during care. My pregnant wife and I (often just me as she got further along in her pregnancy with our first child) would make the 450-mile trip as much as we could to visit in between preparing our lives for our first baby.

Dad was never able to go home again, and worse, he never was able to communicate through writing or verbal communication after the fateful day in June when he lost his voice.

My dad turned 65 about one month before he died on June 22, 2006. His first grandchild was born on April 18, 2006. Strangely, my dad’s sister also died of glioblastoma down in Houston, TX, about four months later, October 21, 2006. Needless to say, glioblastoma has left an indelible mark on our family.

Opinions expressed within this story belong solely to the author and do not reflect the views or opinions of the National Brain Tumor Society.