FAREWELL, MICHAEL
Bernadette Miller
When you first told me, I felt as if my whole body exsanguinated. There was a loud ringing in my ears and I seemed distant, far away.
“I have a big mass in my lung,” you said.
I sat down, immediately weakened and numb, trying to assimilate your words. “No! n I protested to myself. “You’re only forty-seven years old. All you have is pneumonia and you’re better now after taking the antibiotics. Soon you’ll be all right, just fine.” But I knew the implication.
“Did they tell you anything else?” This was all I could say, my voice strained and fearful.
“They say I have an obstructive pneumonia caused by the mass.” You were in control but your voice was as fearful as mine.
I came to you then, took hold of your hand, your arm, and wrapped myself around you. We cried together, softly, a gentle mixing of our tears. We didn’t know anything for certain yet, nothing was confirmed and nobody, including ourselves, had mentioned the “C” word. It was fear that made us cry.
But a biopsy confirmed it was cancer and our fear was made real. You were scheduled for surgery, a thoracotomy to remove the mass, a lobe and possibly the entire right lung. Looking back now, I find this time the most difficult to accept--your surgery and its recovery period, our futile interference with the inevitable disease process. Your pain, physical, mental and emotional, our separation during your hospitalization, these things were agonizing to both of us and gave this time an aura of estranged unreality. Thank God you never had to be hospitalized again. Together at home we gathered the strength to recuperate and face the ordeal which lay before us.
Your surgery was a success though, the tumor was excised with clear margins and the surgeon only had to remove your right upper lobe. You recovered well at home, regaining much of your previous strength. They recommended a course of radiation to your mid chest nodes which you followed with relatively minor side effects. During this time we held on to a false hope, even knowing the statistics were against us. This was our form of denial, a defense mechanism we’d been perfecting. But the fear still hovered menacingly around every corner of time, waiting to jump us with the ultimate bad news.
I remember vividly one afternoon you sitting in your recliner, shaky and tearful after hearing new dismal statistics. n I’m so frightened, n you said. It was brave of you to admit this openly. “I don’t know where it’s going to hit next.” I wanted so badly to take away that fear but I was frightened too.
There was no more denial when you started having severe back pain and a bone scan revealed the cancer had spread to your bones. I remember that devastating phone call.
“The bone scan is positive in Michael’s spine and left humerus,” the oncologist said. “You need to come in so we can talk about the future.
It was the final blow. There was no future. You had three to six months to live. We clung to each other desperately then with open hearts. We cried for days, holding and touching, taking comfort in each others presence. We’d hit bottom now, with no more bad news they could give us. And curiously, that menacing fear dissipated, that fear of the unknown. We were now certain what lay before us though not of the details.
There is more than one way to beat cancer. For you and me, it was by not letting it defeat our spirit. This didn’t mean there was no heartache or tears, there was plenty, but together we faced the cancer squarely and endured the pain, emotional and physical. The experience, fierce and horrible as it was, confirmed and strengthened our love; it didn’t break it. Because we did not run from it and the cancer did not destroy our love or spirit, we were winners.
You did not give up or let go prematurely. This was your way. We spent more quiet and reflective time together, going for walks, taking day trips to Mt. Lassen and Burney Falls, and we had another Christmas together. We even made one more trip to Mexico where we’d been vacationing every winter. But mostly we reminisced and talked, talked about us, talked about your death and dying, and talked about what I would do afterwards. This comforted you, to hear my plans. You offered suggestions ar helped me prepare. You had a need to feel a part of my future and I had a need for your involvement. You gave me courage to continue on and an unspoken permission to begin a new life. It’s true, we frequently cried together freely and openly, but we also still found time to laugh together and moments of fun to share.
It was after our trip to Mexico that you started to look ill, like you had cancer. You began to lose weight and your color became pale. Your attention span decreased and you fell asleep frequently, often slipping into what you called the “red zone”, a dreamlike state in which you spoke nonsensically.
Your bone pain increased. You showed too much stoicism I believe and endured more physical pain than was necessary. But you did have a couple short courses of radiation, to shrink the bone tumors, which eased the pain and you started taking morphine continuously into your subcutaneous tissue via a battery-operated pump. The only treatment you accepted was pain relief. This was also your way, no oxygen, no blood transfusions, no forcing of food or fluids. You would die as naturally as you could. There were no more tests, even to confirm the further spread of the cancer. It wasn’t necessary. Your appearance and physical decline were evidence enough and in short time I could see and feel the enlarged liver in your abdomen.
The last thing people can do for someone they love is to care for and comfort that person as he or she passes from this life. I was honored to do this for you, Michael. Your dying and death did not repulse me but drew me closer to you. I know it wasn’t easy, you wanted death to come sooner. Towards the end, there were many mornings you woke up crying because you were still alive. I could only hold you and tell you how much I loved you. And though it broke my heart, I had to admit that I wanted your death to come soon too. One morning between tears you looked at me and asked, “Do we ever laugh any more?” I answered you with more tears because at that point, no, we didn’t laugh any more.
The hardest times were when your mind wasn’t clear, after you’d become so physically weak, and you’d forget you had cancer. “I’m in bad shape,” you said once between gasps of breath. “You’ve got to take me to the doctor.” My heart ached as I had to say you had cancer and there was nothing more we could do. It was like telling you for the first time all over again. The anguish on your face was nearly unbearable.
Fortunately, these days did not linger long. You could tolerate little food and I remember your last. I’d fixed some hot applesauce with whipped cream and cinnamon. You took a couple bites then weakly protested, “Why do I have to eat applesauce?”
You didn’t have to and you stopped eating anything after that. A few days later you were having difficulty swallowing water and when you stopped drinking, I knew your death was near.
On your last day, you couldn’t even get out of bed, though you tried. You knew me, you knew I was there and you knew that I loved you. Your final request had been to die at home where you belonged and to be with the woman you loved. This request was fulfilled.
I was with you the moment you died and I sensed your spirit ascend into heaven. You didn’t have cancer, Michael, your body did. I take comfort in knowing your spirit, the real you, is safe now in the presence of God. You won.
