Diary #20 (5-31-23)

The Cancer Diaries

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Not a ton to report on today. Yesterday was exciting, as you’ll recall. Dad then slept most of the day, after the hospice nurse left and after we gave him more Morphine. He was no doubt exhausted by the lack of sleep the previous night and by his blood-vomiting and gasping for air for 90 minutes after he’d torn his oxygen mask off and refused to wear it again until my mom asked him to stay alive for me and that I was on my way down. (I don’t know if that was the only reason he stayed alive and put the mask back on but it was certainly a part of it.) We both really thought he was gone for good this time. We got lucky.

He slept clean through the night. I tossed and turned but slept much better than the previous night when I’d had a premonition—or something—and had been in Lompoc. I got up around 7am. I went upstairs and checked on Dad, who was asleep. Mom was sitting in her big white cushioned chair, as always, eyeing her iPad. (She does everything on that thing.) I made some English Breakfast tea and eggs and sat down in my usual orange chair in the room with them and continued reading Rousseau’s On the Social Contract, differentiating between civil liberty and natural liberty and the differences between might and right.

Dad for most of the early morning was very quiet, sleeping. The few times he awoke he was groggy and non-responsive or barely responsive. His eyes would be open, halfway or fully, and yet if you asked him something he’d either remain silent, shrug, say something indecipherable, and use one or two words. Perhaps he’s beyond giving a fuck about much at this point. I wouldn’t blame him, of course. Several times looking at him he seemed like he was frowning and vaguely crying, but I couldn’t be precisely sure and I didn’t want to ask him.

The conundrum is this: Last night we got the call from the pharmacy; evidently the lab is taking longer than expected, and only one of the three pharmacists is willing to mix and send the med—apparently many pharmacists refuse to create the aid-in-dying med because of the moral implications—so they’re saying it’ll hopefully be ready by Friday…which means realistically it’ll probably be more like Monday or Tuesday next week. Five or six more days. That’s bad news. Dad is not doing well, and he’s not anything like happy or content. He’s done. He wants out. He wants freedom. Relief. And we want that for him too. But this is the system we’re working with. All we can do is give him Morphine and try to make him as comfortable as possible.

Britney was in Goleta for her son’s baseball game so she thoughtfully picked up dinner for us and brought it to the house around 6:30pm. Dad didn’t want visitors. My mom and I both got spaghetti with meatballs. Britney arrived and I walked her up the stairs. She greeted my mom and we all chatted for ten, fifteen minutes. Mom finally played, for both of us, the recording she’d taken on her iPhone of Dad gasping for air yesterday morning, for those atrocious 90 minutes (she only played about five minutes or so). It was incredibly hard to listen to. He was truly gasping for air, desperately. It was the exact thing we’ve wanted to avoid for him: That feeling of drowning. He called out the names of family animals—his dogs, my cat. Mom said at one point on the recording, “Honey, there’s an easier way,” and “Don’t die before Michael gets here; he’ll be devastated.”

I finally asked her to stop the recording. Britney and I were both deeply disturbed. It was diabolical; grotesque. A deep upwelling of compassion, sympathy, empathy, fear and love rose up for my father within me. Mom went back into the room and Britney and I took a half-hour walk up and down the steep hills of the neighborhood. A little exercise.

It's so weird, the calm before the storm I had for those three, four days in Lompoc. Everything almost seemed normal. My tuxedo cat, Lucius, was so glad to see me; he was all over me like white on rice, headbutting me, purring, play-scratching. It was great seeing all three of our cats, and our Border Collie, Franky (who I walked for the first time in two weeks). We did some hikes. Ate at a restaurant. Went to Britney’s family event at Lake Cachuma over off the gorgeous, windy Highway 154. I had a solid, lengthy conversation with Britney’s step-dad’s cousin’s son who, at 27, lost both his legs via train in a total alcoholic blackout. (Now that’s a story.)

And then, just like that: Boom; hurled back into The Fire, the pit of pain and suffering and incredible love and loss. Don’t get me wrong: We’ve been very, very lucky. Dad claims he still has no pain. Yet he does experience a lot of physical discomfort. The tumor is breaking down his lungs and other organs. The vomiting blood and the blood in his port hole are telltale signs of physiological entropy. My fervent wish, honestly, is that he’ll slide lazily into death in his sleep one of these coming days or nights. Mom thinks not because of the oxygen assistance. She might be right. He has a strong heart, and as long as he can still breathe one would think he’d keep living. We can do a lot with the Morphine for his comfort. We have the hospice nurses. But man: Five or six days’ wait for that fucking med? That’s just really a shame. He needs it now.

Around 9pm last night I went downstairs. I changed into shorts and used the stationary bike for 35 minutes, listening to the absurdity of The 5^th Column as I rode. I did 7.3 miles, which is short for me (I usually do an hour-plus and hit 10-15 miles) but I was emotionally exhausted, as I have been the past few weeks, and in many ways the past two years, and so I stopped then. I took a scalding hot shower and then got into bed, did some Substacking, read a little, and then passed out. Oh, and yesterday guess what else I finally did: I finally completed my I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings Maya Angelou essay. I’m going to reread and revise, edit, etc tomorrow and go from there. (This will be for my other stack, Sincere American Writing.)

Right now I’m as usual sitting here writing on the deck. Watching the 18-wheeler trucks and cars trudge a mile away along Highway 101. It’s been a weird mix of gray and foggy mixed with random sunny patches all day. Like the city can’t make up its mind on the weather. Capricious. Oh, and my sister. Mom said she came with my niece and nephew. As I said: I left to walk the dogs. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to risk having to smile and play the psychological games my sister can’t seem to help but play. My mom said they had a good visit, and that all three of them cried and the four of them did a nice big bear hug/cry together in the kitchen after they were done seeing Dad. That made my heart sing with joy. I’m glad. For my father, but also for my sister and the kids. It’s important. And I know my anger towards my sister is my own shit and I’ll have to deal with it at some point but right now isn’t the time.

Tomorrow is Thursday. Pray for that med to come Friday. I doubt it. But who knows. Maybe God will be merciful. Or maybe he’ll die in his sleep. What surreal dream-nightmare this has been and still is. Days pass in a sleepy sludge like wet mud slowly sloughing down a tree’s bark. I’m tired. So goddamn tired. I can only imagine my mother’s fatigue. And my father? Unimaginable. What that man has been through the past 23 months is nothing short of jarring, shocking and out of this world. He is one strong, brave, stoic human being. And yet I’ve seen this man cry more over the past month than all my life before that, including when his own parents died. (Although I just recalled when my dads’ dad died, in 2000, when I was a wild 17-year-old punker, finding my father, after the funeral in LA, passed out across the seats of his beige Dodge Ram truck, an empty bottle of Bourbon in his fingers.)

Life is short, people. Don’t take it for granted. Love the people who love you. Let go of the bullshit as much as you can. (This goes for me too.) Death really puts things into stark perspective. I don’t feel angry at all; I feel loose and soft and heavy and syrupy and yet full of adrenaline. This is Go Time. The end of the road. A new path beginning soon for my mom and I. A post-Dad world.

Love to all.

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