From my friend John:
Cindy,
I wanted to talk to you about this in person but I couldn’t wait. I’m not sure how much you know about what happened to me this last weekend but I want to tell you because I think it will help you with what you are going through with your father.
I killed my self this last weekend by slitting my wrist. I’m not going to go into the reasons why or the act itself but I want to tell you about what if feels like to die.
I was lying on the floor in the entry way of my house watching the blood, which earlier had been a fountain, now trickle out of my wrist. My head got so heavy I couldn’t hold it up any longer and laid my head down on my hands.
You know how you can hear you heart beat when you lay in bed at night in some positions. Well I could hear mine.
THUMP,THUMP, THUMP,THUMP,, THUMP,,,,,THUMP,,,,,,THUMP,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,THUMP,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,THUM
And the world slipped out of my eyes. The throbbing in my wrist stopped, every care you ever had in the world is gone, it is by far and away the sweetest, greatest, most unique experience you can ever imagine. Every muscle in my body relaxed, and a tremendous sense of RELIEF, feels every part of your body.
I could still hear the sirens coming, but from very far away, I heard like a voice fading in the wind, HE’S GOT NO PULSE, NO RESPERATION, BAG HIM. And then just complete peace.
The next thing I knew I was looking up at the ceiling of the ambulance through the clear breathing mask, and heard the EMT say He’s got a heart beat, respiration, and the mask went away and I knew I was going to live.
Dieing is the greatest feeling you will ever have. It’s almost like a reward for living.
I hope this helps.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Sunday, May 28, 2007
As Nick and I sit in the restaurant of the hotel, I marvel at the surroundings. The omelet bar at the buffet where the white-shirted chef stands waiting to customize your order, the array of fresh fruit, skinless and seedless, ready for effortless consumption. The patterned carpet designed to hide stains and serve as decor to the dark furnture, white linens, glittering glass. From the window we can look out onto the grounds - pathways lined with glorious flowers, fountains with sprays of water in beautiful arcs. It has become almost a tradition for Nick and I to sneak away while everyone else is sleeping and go to the hotel restaurant for early morning coffee. Last summer at Treasure Island we met every morning, having rich, dark coffee and playing keno before anyone in the family was even awake.
There is a beautiful pool area with a hot tub and an exercise room, countless cafes and a gift shop. The hotel room is like an efficiency apartment - a living room, cable on two TVs, a small refrigerator, the bathroom with stone-lined walls found in luxury spas. As we walk down the hall to our room, we pass the gold-leaf mirror that reflects the ornate vase filled with silk flowers so real you want to reach out and touch them.
Occasionally you have a dream so familiar and real you don't know you are dreaming. Then you see or feel or hear something your mind recognizes can't be reality and you think to yourself "I must be dreaming - this isn't real".
As we turn the corner I see it, and my heart is gripped by a fear so intense that I feel physicl pain. My mind processes the wheelchair at the end of the hall with the same fear that I felt watching The Shining when the twin girls would appear. In a twisted reverse of awareness of dreaming, I am forced to admit to myself our reality.
We are at MD Anderson, not in Las Vegas. My dad is dying of cancer.
Whether it is the intense feeling of deja vu of a lifetime spent vacationing in luxurious casinos or my mind's intricate form of denial, I have convinced myself that we are on another family vacation.
Don't look at the woman pushing her masked, bald, frail husband up to the table in the restaurant.
Ignore the abnormally high number of people walking around in white coats.
Admire the old woman with the walker inching her way toward the pool - my, how she gets around. Never mind the fact that her face looks 40.
Think how cool the young girl's parents are for letting her shave her head like a goth princess and marvel at how beautiful her eyes are.
We're in Vegas, we're in Vegas, we're in Vegas and everything is fine.
There is a beautiful pool area with a hot tub and an exercise room, countless cafes and a gift shop. The hotel room is like an efficiency apartment - a living room, cable on two TVs, a small refrigerator, the bathroom with stone-lined walls found in luxury spas. As we walk down the hall to our room, we pass the gold-leaf mirror that reflects the ornate vase filled with silk flowers so real you want to reach out and touch them.
Occasionally you have a dream so familiar and real you don't know you are dreaming. Then you see or feel or hear something your mind recognizes can't be reality and you think to yourself "I must be dreaming - this isn't real".
As we turn the corner I see it, and my heart is gripped by a fear so intense that I feel physicl pain. My mind processes the wheelchair at the end of the hall with the same fear that I felt watching The Shining when the twin girls would appear. In a twisted reverse of awareness of dreaming, I am forced to admit to myself our reality.
We are at MD Anderson, not in Las Vegas. My dad is dying of cancer.
Whether it is the intense feeling of deja vu of a lifetime spent vacationing in luxurious casinos or my mind's intricate form of denial, I have convinced myself that we are on another family vacation.
Don't look at the woman pushing her masked, bald, frail husband up to the table in the restaurant.
Ignore the abnormally high number of people walking around in white coats.
Admire the old woman with the walker inching her way toward the pool - my, how she gets around. Never mind the fact that her face looks 40.
Think how cool the young girl's parents are for letting her shave her head like a goth princess and marvel at how beautiful her eyes are.
We're in Vegas, we're in Vegas, we're in Vegas and everything is fine.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
It's what feels like my millionth doctor's appointment.
My body, which I am normally unaware of, has been the focus of my attention for the last three months. I have gone from a size 6 to a 0 since Christmas. I found lumps in my groin area and had surgery to remove and biopsy one in my armpit - benign. I have had a pap smear, lung x-rays, blood tests, surgery, more blood tests and am still losing weight. I have been tested for Lupus, AIDS, cancer, anemia, and have Epstein Barr. I have been told I look anorexic, been told I look great, been told I need to eat, been told to quit smoking. I need a CT scan of my intestines and pelvis. And I don't really care.
All I can think about is my dad. For every time I've had blood drawn, he's been punctured ten times. For all of the fear I have of doctors and hospitals, his is ten times worse. While what I am going through is scary and uncertain, I have no pain. It's been less than two years since my grandmother's death of the same kind of cancer. I can't stand the thought of my dad going through the agony and pain of it.
So, I will go back to the doctor and try to care about finding out what is wrong with me. Hope that it's stress or menopause or my eating habits. But it just doesn't seem to matter anymore.
My body, which I am normally unaware of, has been the focus of my attention for the last three months. I have gone from a size 6 to a 0 since Christmas. I found lumps in my groin area and had surgery to remove and biopsy one in my armpit - benign. I have had a pap smear, lung x-rays, blood tests, surgery, more blood tests and am still losing weight. I have been tested for Lupus, AIDS, cancer, anemia, and have Epstein Barr. I have been told I look anorexic, been told I look great, been told I need to eat, been told to quit smoking. I need a CT scan of my intestines and pelvis. And I don't really care.
All I can think about is my dad. For every time I've had blood drawn, he's been punctured ten times. For all of the fear I have of doctors and hospitals, his is ten times worse. While what I am going through is scary and uncertain, I have no pain. It's been less than two years since my grandmother's death of the same kind of cancer. I can't stand the thought of my dad going through the agony and pain of it.
So, I will go back to the doctor and try to care about finding out what is wrong with me. Hope that it's stress or menopause or my eating habits. But it just doesn't seem to matter anymore.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
He bought the Nano to help him through the hours and days of treatment and testing to come. My father has been diagnosed with inoperable and terminal cancer. What we thought was a localized tumor in his duodenum has, in two weeks, become an invader of his vital organs - liver, pancreas, stomach. My father is dying. Chemotherapy, at most, will simply extend his life.
He sits in a chair in my brother's living room listening to a song that only he can hear. His eyes are closed and, at first, I think he is sleeping after a turbulent weekend of sickness and emotion. Then I notice that his feet are moving slightly. Dancing? He has a half-smile on his face and I wonder if he is nostalgic for the past or wistful for the future. I stare at him - what song is he is listening to? Where is he? As if my thoughts were spoken aloud, he opens his eyes and looks at me directly. He stands up and puts the Nano in the portable speakers. His private world opens and engulfs us as the music fills the room - The Texas Waltz.
My sister walks toward the front door to get coffee and my dad intercepts her. He takes her right hand in his and puts the other around her narrow back. In her white eyelet shirt, she looks at once like a small child dancing on dad's feet and like a grown woman, a bride perhaps, dancing at her wedding.
Like a bolt of lightning followed by crashing thunder that is startling even though we should expect it in a thunderstorm, I am struck by grief and begin to silently cry. My dad walks over to me and holds out his hand and I stand up to dance. With my hands on his shoulder and in his tight grasp, I am unable to wipe away the tears streaming down my face. He acknowlegdes my sorrow, looking into my eyes without trying to wipe away my tears, and we dance.
My life has suddenly become a scene from a movie that never fails to bring me to tears. Meet Joe Black has always fascinated me and I watch with the rapt attention of a first time viewer every time I see it. The idea that Death is intruigued by, and comes to love, life. Anothony Hopkins coming to terms with Death as a companion and then as a friend. And the oldest daughter as she is dancing with her father, looking into his eyes and blinking back tears in the moment of realization of who Joe really is.
The song ends and my dad lets me go and I want to grab him like a child and never let go.
He sits in a chair in my brother's living room listening to a song that only he can hear. His eyes are closed and, at first, I think he is sleeping after a turbulent weekend of sickness and emotion. Then I notice that his feet are moving slightly. Dancing? He has a half-smile on his face and I wonder if he is nostalgic for the past or wistful for the future. I stare at him - what song is he is listening to? Where is he? As if my thoughts were spoken aloud, he opens his eyes and looks at me directly. He stands up and puts the Nano in the portable speakers. His private world opens and engulfs us as the music fills the room - The Texas Waltz.
My sister walks toward the front door to get coffee and my dad intercepts her. He takes her right hand in his and puts the other around her narrow back. In her white eyelet shirt, she looks at once like a small child dancing on dad's feet and like a grown woman, a bride perhaps, dancing at her wedding.
Like a bolt of lightning followed by crashing thunder that is startling even though we should expect it in a thunderstorm, I am struck by grief and begin to silently cry. My dad walks over to me and holds out his hand and I stand up to dance. With my hands on his shoulder and in his tight grasp, I am unable to wipe away the tears streaming down my face. He acknowlegdes my sorrow, looking into my eyes without trying to wipe away my tears, and we dance.
My life has suddenly become a scene from a movie that never fails to bring me to tears. Meet Joe Black has always fascinated me and I watch with the rapt attention of a first time viewer every time I see it. The idea that Death is intruigued by, and comes to love, life. Anothony Hopkins coming to terms with Death as a companion and then as a friend. And the oldest daughter as she is dancing with her father, looking into his eyes and blinking back tears in the moment of realization of who Joe really is.
The song ends and my dad lets me go and I want to grab him like a child and never let go.
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