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biography, I want to share his last moments <strong>with</strong> you.<br />
I’m coming to grips <strong>with</strong> the fact my grandfather was the patriarch of the family just five<br />
years ago, dad was the patriarch until Wednesday, and that role now rests <strong>with</strong> me. But<br />
that also means that dad isn’t 71 years old anymore. He isn’t old, or sick, or worried, or<br />
battling cancer. I see him reflected, as if he were still alive, in the things my daughters do<br />
day to day, in my brothers’ kindness, in my mother, and frankly in my drive to do the right<br />
thing no matter the personal cost – particularly when the right thing involves keeping my<br />
family happy and safe.<br />
We die as we live, and his last day told the story of his life.<br />
He lived as a strong man, a man who knew what he wanted. On his last day, he knew he<br />
was going to die, and he didn’t want to suffer. In the morning, he told mom he was in<br />
respiratory failure, and she called for an ambulance. As he left his home for the last time,<br />
even struggling to breathe, he was having a technical discussion <strong>with</strong> the paramedics<br />
about his condition, he liked the details of stuff and he loved medicine.<br />
Mom and I drove to the hospital and after a long wait they let her in to see him. Mom<br />
came out and said they only would give one pass and asked if I wanted to use the pass<br />
to go in. Mom was the love of his life and I knew he needed her by his side. I told her that<br />
and she just nodded. Of course, she knew it too.<br />
Mom is crafty, and eventually got the doctor to give me a pass. When I got back there, I<br />
insisted that the doctor talk <strong>with</strong> us about dad’s DNR wishes. Dad was a bit out of it, but<br />
immediately engaged. “I do not want to be resuscitated under any circumstances.” The<br />
doctor said intubation would help him breathe. Dad said “I refuse to be intubated. Instead<br />
of intubating me, just shut me down <strong>with</strong> morphine. I’ve just about had it. I’ve had<br />
enough.” This is a man who was wrote on his blog that he was going to shoot the last<br />
chemo arrow in his quiver days before – but today a man who had finally concluded he<br />
was beyond any reasonable chance for a meaningful recovery. I leaned in and promised<br />
him that we would take good care of mom no matter what happened. You could just see<br />
him relax.<br />
Dad always knew what he wanted in life, and it was no different in death. The greatest gift<br />
mom and I were able to give dad was making sure his wishes were honored. It was also<br />
the most expensive gift I ever gave, since I loved him so much and he was asking us to<br />
let the doctors let him die. But he was a good man, a good father, and he had long ago<br />
earned the right to have me fight to make sure he would be able to exit in the way of his<br />
choice. I gave him my word, and I made sure the doctors and nurses followed his.<br />
We waited for a chest x-ray. Dad was interactive, even smiled a bit. Then the results,<br />
pneumonia confirmed. The doctor offered a BiPAP mask, which is a non-invasive mask<br />
that covers the mouth and nose and when you breathe, kicks up the pressure to force air<br />
in. Dad was cogent and said he wanted it. They fitted him <strong>with</strong> it, and he couldn’t talk<br />
easily once it was on. Just as bad, he couldn’t wear his trifocals over the mask’s seal. I<br />
knew he expected this to be his last day when he refused intubation, but I saw<br />
impatience in his eyes when he realized he couldn’t talk or even see properly.<br />
They took him to the ICU, but didn’t let us in for a while. By the time we got in, dad had<br />
asked for Dilaudid painkiller. He was still cogent, but his plan was in action. He looked<br />
each of us in eye. He responded when we held him. The details from then on aren’t<br />
critical – he eventually lost consciousness. Dad would never wake up again, but this is<br />
where the real story of dad’s life was told.<br />
His left arm was covered <strong>with</strong> IVs, tape, and other medical stuff. His right arm was clear.<br />
<strong>My</strong> mom was standing next to his left arm, and I was holding onto his right. It didn’t seem<br />
right, and I asked her if she would switch so she could touch his skin more easily. She<br />
paused, then walked to the end of the bed and said “no, he always loved when I rubbed<br />
his feet. I want him to feel me rubbing his feet.” She knew him so well, and loves him so<br />
much.<br />
<strong>My</strong> <strong>Battle</strong> <strong>with</strong> <strong>Merkel</strong> <strong>Cell</strong> <strong>Cancer</strong>
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