The Aerie
They lied about the pain.
I guess it only makes sense. As Tatiana, the Russian nurse, so plainly
put it, "It's trying to grow, but there is no room inside the skull."
I thought I was tough, but that was a difficult mental image to
handle. Too many Wes Craven movies I guess. Okay, and I lied, I never
thought I was tough.
We visited with the kids on Wednesday night. I thought it was a good
idea at the time. When I'd seen him Sunday and Monday (or was it
Tuesday, I'm losing track) he had seemed okay. Terminally ill,
confused, and bedridden, but basically okay. He talked, he sang, he
laughed. I guess part of me had decided, "Well, if he's gotta go, this
isn't so bad.
On Wednesday night he was crying.
When we arrived he was peaceful enough. We announced ourselves and the
kids, and he kind of cracked one eye open for a moment, but there was
no recognition there. It's strange the rituals that are just coded
into the brain: we'd say "Hi," he'd say "Hi." Automatic. No actual
sign of recognition, just a call-and-response.
But shortly after we arrived he became agitated. I took the kids to
the family lounge down the hall, and shortly thereafter he started
crying.
My mother was there as well, and we tried to distance ourselves from
his pain by analyzing it, talking about how he could be in pain, or it
could be that he was fixated on a painful idea or image. He seems to
become fixated on certain scenes: when I was there Sunday it was
tomatoes, Moldy, and certain ideas about groups. My mother told me
that, during the period when his symptoms were growing and changing
and we didn't know why, he had become very upset at a news story about
three young boys who drowned in a backyard pond. Seeing as his both
his children and his grandchildren come in sets of three, I can see
why that would be upsetting.
Maybe, we hoped, that's what's behind this.
But then he started throwing an arm across his eyes (the room was
quite dim) and pawing at the side of his head, and we knew it was a
headache.
So we called Tatiyana and she inspected him and looked at her watch
and said it had been 2:30 hours since his 2:00 hour morphine shot.
So now he's on morphine, I thought, watching his bier sail past
another milestone on the river upstream of the falls.
It took a while for Tatiyana to fetch the morphine. During that time
my mother and I took turns stroking his hair, which seemed to distract
him a little from the pain, and trying to speak to him in order to
further distract him.
I don't know which ripped me up worse: watching my father cry like a
baby, watching my mother watch my father cry like a baby, or standing
there, stroking his hair as if he were my child instead of I his.
I said before that brain cancer strips away the shell. It does that to
relationships, too. Something that would have been difficult to
conceptualize three weeks ago was needful now. He was in pain, he
needed care. The role-reversal was nothing. Our past differences are
just so much dry history. I who always sought more than I got found
myself unable to give what was needed.
A week after the hospitalization the emotions are still out at a
distance. I can deal with these issues because I don't feel anything.
I suspect that is part of the design. I suspect that when he is dead
and has been buried that it will be safe to feel. I'm sort of scared
of that time. But right now there's too much to do.
I've always been a theoretical advocate of freedom in dying. But of
course I had nothing against which to measure my beliefs. Now,
however, I'm even more of the opinion that we need to permit these
things. My father is mostly gone. He's only still there a little bit.
My mother reports exchanges with him that have some content, some
familiar ring. So I wouldn't say "now". But from what I'm reading
there's a longish period between the last exchange, the last
interaction, and the last moments of life.
And as far as I can tell that period is going to involve the slow
torture of the sufferer and his family.
At some point -- not yet, but sometime -- it will become cruel and
needless to prolong life. If it's a life of confusion and pain without
hope of redemption or improvement, what's the point?
I only hope that time will be brief, for all concerned.
And I've really had quite enough brain cancer for now, thanks.
I'm an atheist. But if I die and it turns out I was wrong, I'm going
to have words with whoever is in charge...
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Posted by Albatross at December 12, 2002 12:00 AM