Tomorrow will mark exactly one year since Lee died from pancreatic cancer. When I first agreed to contribute to this site last February, I said that these weekly musings were mostly for me. The statement remains true as far as it goes, but today my words also are intended as a tribute to my wonderful and brave wife.
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As I have mentioned in past postings, last June I removed Lee from the hospital as soon as her oncologist gave us the startling bad news that she only had a few weeks left to live. Lee got angry when she heard the news. Her anger was a signal I took to mean that she was not ready and was glad for it.
But the awful truth was that her condition had been deteriorating since at least March. It was around that time that Lee first admitted to me that she was feeling discomfort in her abdomen. Ever the optimist, and protective of me, she naturally sought to downplay the cause for this condition as a simple matter of scar tissue from colon cancer surgery she underwent the previous year. I was not convinced.
I could see her frustration when no one on her medical team had an adequate explanation for her symptoms. Meanwhile, the physical discomfort persisted, then intensified. Lee’s repeated calls to the medical team for help disturbed me as she had never previously complained. Despite multiple serious medical issues, multiple major surgeries and numerous intrusive or painful treatments, ranging from chemo to radiation to ablations with liquid nitrogen that she had endured, Lee was stoic. Indeed, over the years I occasionally would have to remind her, sometimes quite harshly and in no uncertain terms, that the “squeaky wheel” gets oiled. This approach was never her personal style, however, so I found the fact she suddenly was taking the initiative unnerving.
Indeed, the true cause of her discomfort was the explosion of deadly and rapidly metastasizing pancreatic cancer, which was eating her life away from the inside-out, but we did not know this at the time because Lee’s most recent scan had been clean. Unfortunately, soon enough her discomfort was tinged with some occasional pain. This occasional pain would intensify to the point that I would awaken at night because the pain had forced Lee to gasp or audibly moan. I would observe she sometimes wrapped her arms tight across her stomach and around her sides as if doing so could suppress the pain. These episodes were painful for me, too, since I could only watch her suffering, helpless, unable to stop it. They must have been terrible for her, and frightening, too, though she never would have admitted this to me, being fearful she might alarm me.
Fortunately, these episodes passed. Eventually, Lee’s face muscles would relax. She would take a deep breath. Then she was herself again.
Lee and I enjoyed a wonderful relationship, but like every couple we had our share of disagreements and minor squabbles. We were together nearly 30 years, and in all that time I rarely ever saw her truly angry. The last time occurred the day that I suggested we consult a palliative care specialist to address her pain and discomfort. I think Lee got angry with me because she interpreted my suggestion as a “white flag” of surrender. This was not my intention but looking back now I can understand her angry reaction to my clumsy efforts to be supportive: Lee would never meekly surrender.
* * *
Of course, there eventually came the day when Lee’s pain did not subside. It was constant, excruciating, and required further hospitalization, which would prove to be her last. It must have been around early June. I could not give you an exact date or time without the hospital records, but this turn marked the start of her final illness, though we could not have guessed. Before the oncologist’s dire prognosis, we had not been informed that the latest tests and scans now revealed Lee’s pancreatic cancer had spread into her abdomen, kidneys, possibly even her liver.
Before I could get her discharged, Lee was convinced to undergo one last onerous and demeaning medical procedure involving the insertion of a drainage tube into her stomach, which caused her to suffer additional discomfort and pain. Lee was discharged home with powerful painkillers, including liquid morphine.
For me, her decision to undergo this final procedure was a further signal that she was not ready to die. Despite her own doctor’s assessment that there was nothing left to do, Lee assigned two friends the task of searching databases for any clinical trial that that might offer us some glimmer of hope.
Unfortunately, no miracle was forthcoming; it was only then, when Lee accepted that she was out of viable options, that she began to embrace impending death. Nine days after being discharged from the hospital, she would be dead.
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All I have written so far is precursor.
* * *
Lee’s special kindness and generosity of spirit just came naturally to her. She genuinely cared more for the well-being of others than her own. To the end, this was her rarest gift. I am nothing like Lee in this regard, but every day I try a little harder in her honor.
As intimate as we were, I had no idea how many lives she had touched for the better until the word went out that she was dying. To give you some idea, on June 25th, Lee’s friends set up a Caring Bridge site in her name, which garnered more than one thousand hits through July 2nd, the date of her death. Many respondents had memories of her simple kindnesses: A co-worker with a cancer diagnosis, whom Lee had befriended in her time of need having been there herself so many times; an old school chum, who never forgot Lee’s sage advice when her marriage teetered; the nephews who could talk to “Aunt Lee” about any subject, including things they did not feel comfortable discussing with their folks.
On the night that Lee died at home, Paul and Joanna, her brother and sister-in-law, Mont, our long-time tenant and friend, an assigned hospice nurse whose name escapes me, and I gathered outside to await the arrival of the funeral home people who were to remove Lee’s now empty shell of a body from our bed. Suddenly, a car hurriedly approached down my street and stopped near where we were sat. Without even bothering to turn off the engine, the car’s driver, a young man who appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties, whom I did not know, hopped out, looked around, then asked us if we knew where Lee “H.” lived. He said he had a letter for her that he had meant to deliver, then misplaced. I informed the young man he had the right place and took the letter from his hand. He thanked me and departed. I noticed a woman and at least one small child were with him inside of the vehicle.
I opened the letter and read it. The young man was writing to thank Lee for her support some 10 years earlier when he was still a newly minted lawyer, being bullied by a boss to the point that it had started to destroy his self-confidence and sense of worth. Now, hearing that Lee was sick, he wanted to tell her that he never had forgotten this kindness and her encouragement. He wanted her to know that he was okay, that he had a satisfying job, that he was married and that he was himself a proud dad. I still have no idea who he was, but I think Lee would have been pleased to know.
Lee never stopped making time for others. Near the end, I started getting phone calls from a neighbor, who seemed to be increasingly desperate to see her. In truth, I could not understand his persistence since we had no more than a passing relationship with this fellow in all the years we lived together on the same block. Indeed, I found these repeated calls irritating as Lee’s time was very precious and in short supply. Nonetheless, when I told her about his badgering calls, she had insisted that I tell him he to stop by, which, of course, he unhesitatingly did. We three sat together on our front stoop, whereupon he proceeded to talk about how fucked-up his own life was these days. After nearly 40 minutes of listening to him wallow in self-pity, I got pissed-off and terminated this “session.” After he left us, Lee simply shrugged, and said he just needed a chance to vent a bit.
* * *
Out of the hospital and now back at home, Lee had a steady stream of friends, family and neighbors stop by to visit. I recall that our June weather was splendid, and Lee enjoyed their company while remaining outside, seated among her plants and gardens. She gave every visitor her special attention. She was typically gracious, but not shy now to cease interacting if she needed quiet rest. I observed how physically diminished she had become in such a short time; it was painfully evident to me that Lee’s health was rapidly failing. Her store of energy was depleted. The awful pain now required increasingly frequent dosages of the morphine that possibly provided Lee temporary, if fitful, relief, but I do not think she was ever again pain free.
As I say, always ready to please, especially in the presence of friends and family, Lee stayed fully engaged for long as possible, but the morphine would eventually do its business. Then, Lee had no choice but to close her eyes and disengage.
A few days before she died, these visits had to be restricted to the house as she weakened. Even with so many willing hands to help, it required more energy than Lee had left to stand on her feet and walk the several steps to the rear porch that overlooked the gardens. Thereafter, Lee held court while lying on the divan, situated so she could still enjoy parts of her garden visible through the bay windows, which were opened wide to take advantage of any soft or warm breezes.
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One morning Lee called everybody over the divan and announced that today was the day that she planned to die. She said that she wanted to a share a few moments individually with every family member or friend then in attendance – there were maybe 10 or 12 of us at the time—and shooed the rest of us to the rear porch so she could have privacy.
However, after conducting several such private meetings, Lee suddenly announced that she was hungry and no longer thought she was going to die this day. She said she felt sheepish about the fact she would go on living today, almost apologetic. So, instead of dying, she ate some warm broth.
Lee and I never spoke privately.
* * *
One day before Lee died, friends and family were in attendance, as usual. Over the course of the day, Lee’s condition continued to deteriorate. I remember she was in terrible pain. I administered morphine and we moved her into her bed. By then, apart from me, the only people left to keep vigil were Bob and Linda, who had traveled from Ohio to see her one last time. Linda, who was Lee’s best friend, sat close by on the edge of our large bed. There was no way to know if Lee would ever open her eyes or take another breath.
Toward evening, Bob had an inspired moment. He grabbed his guitar; I followed suit. In the bedroom together with Linda and Lee, he started playing, the old classic, “Stand By Me.” It is one of the songs we still play whenever we meet up for a jam.
Lee loved to sing, and she had a lovely singing voice. We began to play and sing the song:
When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we’ll see
No, I won’t be afraid
Oh, I won’t be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me…
And suddenly, here was Lee, eyes closed, still in a morphine-induced haze, softly singing right along with us –old times revisited.
* * *
Lee would never again get up from her bed. I went to sleep that night uncertain whether my wife would still be with me alive when I awoke.
* * *
The day Lee died started much like recent ones. These days had acquired a strange rhythm to the beat of pain and morphine. I administer the drug. I sit by at hand while it takes hold. I get up and move about the house. I attempt to work or to perform a few simple chores that will not require me to leave the house.
I rush to the bedroom whenever I hear Lee stir, quietly talk to her. My wife only acknowledges me with grunts. She either is unable or unwilling to speak for herself, except to suddenly demand “more morphine” as wracking pain surges throughout her damaged body.
This pattern persists throughout the day. Around dinnertime, I go to the kitchen and fix myself a meal. I try to relax for a few minutes. For an instant, I nearly forget that Lee is still in our bed, still in our bedroom. It is now nearly 7 p.m.
I return to my chair and resume the vigil. Fortunately, I see that Lee is still breathing. She must hear me come into the room. Perhaps for the first time the entire day, Lee opens her soft, big eyes. Our eyes meet one last time.
* * *
The morning after my Lee died, I went on the Caring Bridge site to announce her passing. Here is what I said:
“Early last evening, July 2d, my best girl and sweetheart moved on to her next phase. I’ll always be grateful for the privilege of being there at the precise moment she crossed the road. Just the two of us. No words spoken. None necessary. Together in a room filled with love, among the private nick knacks and surrounded by our most cherished photographic memories, Lee just decided that it was time to go. And so she left.”
* * *
Now, almost one year to the day since Lee died, I re-read my words and realize how wrong I was. Lee never left. She is alive right now in my heart, still alive in my mind.
Time passes. I know new adventures await but have no firm idea what the future holds for me. I think it is this mystery that keeps life exciting and makes it worth living. Yet, I am firmly convinced today that wherever the future might take me, I will hold Lee tight in these places. Forever sweet, forever kind, generous, loving me.