Update - Helping Grandpa

“Can I help fix Grandpa?”  

"Yes, Carly, you can. What would you like to do?”

Given the authority to choose, Carly became Doctor Carly and I could tell she was taking this job seriously. She retrieved the play stethoscope from the toy box downstairs then reverently entered Harold’s room. She gently “listened” to his heart then tentatively looked up at Grandpa. Next she helped me feed him, directing the delivery of each spoonful. Finally she patted lotion onto his legs and rubbed in all the love she could muster.

So what would you say to a four year old granddaughter who just wants to make grandpa better?
  
This was just one of the many bright moments that have lifted us as we've transitioned to caring for Harold in our home. 

Harold started the month in physical therapy with hopes of resuming racquetball. Today he is quietly resting in bed, weakened beyond the ability to take care of his most basic needs and sometimes, even too weak to talk. He has always taken care of us by providing, protecting, and leading. Now it is our privilege to reciprocate. Harold humbly lets us. It is a tender time.

The transformation happened quickly. We received the bad news of his PET scan on Thursday, June 6th. By the next day Harold was officially signed up for hospice care, allowing nursing staff to come to our home to help with pain management and other medical issues. That same day Harold met with a team of doctors in radiation oncology. They scheduled radiation treatments to be administered over the next five working days. The plan was to  treat a tumor threatening his eye sight and to reduce a large tumor mass in his liver which was causing him considerable pain. The goal in palliative radiation treatment is to improve quality of life, not to cure.

Harold became noticeably weaker over the next few days. By Saturday he could no longer chew food. On Sunday one side of his face and tongue were numb, and by Monday he had lost the ability to drink through a straw. It was determined these latest symptoms were caused by new tumor growth putting pressure on the fine nerves in the brain stem area. We shifted the radiation plan to target this area of concern. Then, if he still had the strength, Harold was scheduled to receive the liver radiation treatment on Thursday. We were very anxious for him to have it because he was experiencing regular bouts of intense pain in that area.

Thursday finally arrived, but by then Harold was totally spent. He had nothing left to give. It had been one week from the day we heard the PET scan report. Instead of receiving that final radiation treatment he slept, too weak to eat or talk or move. Throughout the day I sat by his side, watching him breath. I’ve witnessed a loved one pass from this life before, so what I saw with Harold seemed all too familiar. He was slipping away. As much as I hated to acknowledge it, I shared the observation with our daughter, Megan, who was with me for support. She notified the family.

At some point I went to the kitchen to eat. I remember standing at the counter gazing through the sunroom into the backyard. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a feeling of lightness, of happiness. It seemed strange in these circumstances, but that’s what it was. I had a peaceful heart as I returned to Harold and looked deep into his face.

 “Megan, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think Dad’s leaving us today.”

And he didn’t. Harold rallied to the point where he was able to have the final radiation treatment the next day. Five days later, he's very, very weak but he's still with us, sense of humor and all.

In all the ups and downs of Harold's battle, we continue to count our blessings. Here are a few:

Radiation

There was no guarantee radiation treatments would have the desired affect but we’ve seen some positive signs. The numbness on Harold’s face subsided right away and on Saturday Harold regained his ability to drink through a straw. Megan was so excited that she bought him a huge milkshake. He downed most of it. This is a huge improvement over our painstaking efforts to spoon feed him small amounts of nourishment.

Up until Friday when Harold received the final radiation treatment, he required more and more pain medication to cope. It may be too soon to say conclusively, but I think the treatment worked.  Harold hasn’t had any intense episodes of pain for the last three days.

Dog Pile

When our kids were small they would dog pile on our bed early Saturday mornings so Harold could toss them around and tickle them. Last Thursday evening as they gathered in our room, it felt like the tradition was back. Harold was in his recliner and I was on a chair beside him. Out of necessity our grown children were positioned all over our large bed. Their tickling and teasing reminded me of those early days. I guess in some ways we have not changed. Then I was overcome by how how truly blessed Harold and I are. We have wonderful supportive children.

Since that day they've figured out a system so I'm never alone. My children rotate caring for Harold during the night so I can sleep, and one of the family is always here with me during the day. Their summary of the plan is simple:  Mom’s job is to take care of Dad and our job is to take care of Mom.

None of us know what the next hours or days will bring. We take it as it comes. As I look back over the last couple weeks I realize we've essentially had a "dog pile" or convergence of support as each child, spouse, extended family member or friend, brings their unique strength to add to the whole. And the help has come just as we need it.

Rebecca, our only child living out of the area, surprised us by coming home in time to help during the radiation treatments. She took over the meal planning and cooking. She also accompanied us to the radiation appointments, serving as my brain trust and sounding board.

Rebecca had to go home on the Thursday Harold gave out, but by nightfall Harold’s brother Leonard, who had already driven from California to Arizona that day, was on a flight to Denver to help. We hadn’t asked, but he had anticipated our need.

How could we not recognize our Heavenly Father's hand in our care.

A Final Tender Mercy:

During Harold’s early rapid decline we were visited by a hospice nurse who wasn’t afraid to say what she really believed. We had been discussing Harold’s various symptoms and attributing them either to radiation recovery or cancer tumor takeover. I mentioned our oncologist’s estimate that Harold had about a month to live and wondered how his symptoms fit that timeline. Her response was immediate. She knelt in front of Harold, looked him directly in the eye and said, “Doctors don’t give the orders.” Then pointing upward continued, "He does."

“Harold you’ve got to have faith! I’ve had patients who entered hospice with an estimate of two weeks to live. They are still with us two years later. You’ve got to have faith.”

I just started crying at her words. What a timely reaffirmation of the choices we have made. And of course she’s right. Heavenly Father cuts the orders. He has a plan. Harold’s days will not be numbered less. We still choose faith.