GRANDFATHER LOST
On April 30th my maternal grandfather died. This was my grandfather who was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2006. This was the man who, after having a tumor for 20 years and then receiving a diagnosis of cancer, chose to do nothing for two more years. He chose to believe what the ignorant VA doctor had told him years ago -- that men don't get breast cancer.
In 2008 he finally had the tumor removed. The pathology reports indicated that the cancer had spread - a sharp contrast to the biopsy's pathology report from 2006 which indicated the tumor had not spread yet - and then he opted out of further treatment. He felt that quality of life was more important than quantity. The family respected that decision and didn't give him a hard time about it.
The shame of it was that Grandpa's cancer was mucinous carcinoma, a rare form of breast cancer that grows so slowly that it almost never kills anyone.
We know the cancer metastasized to his lungs. I suspect it was in his liver, too, given his lack of appetite and the way his body wasted away. Since he had no private health insurance and no curiosity about the extent of his disease, he opted out of any kind of scans that would have given us more information about where or how much the cancer had spead.
When his health went downhill in April, the symptoms quickly snowballed. He went from frail but stable health to dependecy upon an oxygen mask within mere weeks. Once in the hospital and on oxygen he remained mentally alert and lucid, though continually exhausted from breathing.
I entered his hospital room on a Wednesday afternoon, not knowing he would be gone in less than 24 hours. I cheerfully said, "Hi!" as I came in, happy to see that my mother and my uncle were there with Grandpa. Grandpa answered, "Hi for the last time." His response shocked me and he smiled.
I was there for several hours. I got to hold his hand and tell him that I loved him. I got to give him one last hug. It was a gift to see him just before he died. I treasure the memories even though it was difficult to see him like that. His feet were horribly swollen, with toenails turning black. His dentures kept falling from the top of his mouth to the bottom, making it difficult to understand him when he talked. But he was the same old Grandpa, bluntly asking, "What do you want?" when hospital personnel entered his room.
My mom and her brother and sister took turns staying with him around the clock, gently adjusting his oxygen mask back in place when it slipped off. My mom ended up caring for him overnight two nights in a row, so she was exhausted when she made The Call to me at 8:30 in the morning just minutes after he passed.
He died on a Thursday. A few days later on Saturday I delivered the eulogy at his funeral - something I'd never done before. I struggled with what to write. I interviewed my mom and took notes. Then I wrote a eulogy that I think honored him without making him sound unrealistically angelic. I think it went well. People smiled in the right places. Nobody said I was weird for calculating exactly how many days he had lived - 30,991.
I retold a story of Grandpa and a group of baby ducks. One of the ducklings ran up to him. He picked it up, then tossed it into the air. The duckling fell. Then it ran to him again. He picked it up again and tossed it into the air. This time it began to fly. Then all the ducklings in the group took turns running to him and he tossed each one into the air. It became a great game that they all enjoyed. That was my favorite memory to recount, even though the memory wasn't my own.
We brought 3-year-old Kelric with us to the funeral. I carried him up to the flag-draped coffin. (Grandpa was a World War II veteran and the flag was a fulfillment of his wishes.) My intention was to help Kelric understand why we would not be visiting his great-grandfather anymore. I thought he might want to say good-bye. Kelric seemed completely disinterested in the body and just wriggled to get down.
Weeks later in a private moment with Daddy, Kelric confessed, "I don't want Mommy to lie down in a box with a flag over it." It broke Guy's heart to hear this, and later broke my heart when Guy told me. There was more to the discussion which I've forgotten, but in essence Kelric realized that I had once been sick, that his great-grandfather had been sick, and since his great-grandfather had just died the little boy was terrified that I would soon die as well.
Kelric is still struggling with the loss of our family dog Wendy from last December. I keep trying to gently explain that Wendy died because she was very old for a dog; that death is part of the circle of life and all living things die one day. Kelric randomly tells us he's very sad and he doesn't want to miss Wendy. Where did Wendy go? Why did she die? Why did her body quit working? And so on... Now he's asking questions about why Grandpa Behne died. I'm worried that the next time I get a cold he'll be terrified for my life because he'll associate "getting sick" with dying.
Kelric noticed my lumpectomy scar recently and asked, "What's this?" I've already forgotten exactly what I told him, but I know it was short yet truthful and didn't lead to more uncomfortable questions. Now that he's three it's time to begin introducing him to this little part of our family history so that he won't learn it one day as a Big Secret Revealed. We need help learning the vocabulary to explain things to him.
I know that Wonders and Worries can help us learn to talk to our young son about serious illnesses and death.
My cancer is long gone. My family has moved on. But it seems that part of moving on means going back and revisiting the past in a language that soothes the fears of a young child. We will do this for his sake, even though it has an emotional cost for us.
FARE THEE WELL
I'm going to close with a reprint of the last two paragraphs from Grandpa's eulogy.
I sat next to his hospital bed three days ago, and adjusted the oxygen mask for him. I held his hand. I looked at him with worry and concern, and he happened to look up in time to see that expression. He was frail and weak. He was struggling to breathe. But when he was awake he was lucid and aware. He saw the look on my face and did something that surprised and delighted me. He tenderly reached up, and brushed my cheek. That single touch conveyed with absolute clarity his message of, “Have peace, child. I love you, too.” He never could have said it. Too many words remained unsaid. But I saw his eyes as he touched my face, and I knew.
Grandpa John Behne, you went softly into that good night just as you wished to go, on your own terms, in your own time. We wish you peace. Accept our honor and respect today, and fly with your little ducks now that sickness and frailty are behind you. Thirty thousand, nine hundred and ninety-one days… I loved you, too.
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