How is it that my dad beat cancer, but couldn't make it through pnuemonia?
The doctors said the chemo and radiation would be hard on his body, they said he'd be really sick..but they also said if he could make it through those things, he could make it through anything. Either they lied, or they just don't know what they're talking about!
One of his last nights, while I was at the hospital, his Oncologist called me. He was telling me we couldn't give up on my dad because he had fought so hard and pretty much beat the cancer. Didn't this man know, I would never give up on my dad! But as it turned out, it wasn't my choice. It would seem that the poison they injected into my dad over the course of the last few months is what ultimately ended his life.
The last time I saw my dad before his passing was August 29th. He flew home and spent the week visiting everyone and then was going home for his final radiation and to hopefully pack and move back to California. On September 11th I found out he was in the hospital. Pnuemonia and Septic Shock they said. My sisters went out before me and watched over dad. They were supposed to be taking care of him, making sure he got the best care. As it turns out, they were gutless idiots and had decided before I even got there on Friday that they wanted to turn off the ventilator.
When I did get there, I sat with dad for hours on end. Talking to him, telling him about my boys and life in the last few weeks. I told him to rest and let his body and the medicine fight the infection. I know he heard me. Several times he would respond slightly. He kept trying to lift his hand and tell me something. What? I'll never know? God, I wanted to believe I would talk to him again. Hear his voice, see his smile. I promised to take better care of him...I thought he would pull through. But he couldn't do it. Some time that weekend he had the stroke and it changed everything. He could live on life support for a long time the doctor said, because his brain stem was not harmed. But the part of his brain that was him, "my dad", was gone. This was Sunday afternoon.
My little sister left the next morning. She had to go home to her kids and job she said, she couldn't afford to take any more time off work. My older sister stuck around until Wednesday morning, but she was of no support. Pretty much since I'd got there on Friday, she'd been saying she just wanted to go home. She missed her husband and her son. My dad is dying and they want to go back to their meaningless lives!
The doctor told me Wednesday afternoon that dad wasn't going to recover and it was ok to consider withdrawing care. I signed the paper to remove the vent and sat with my dad for the next two hours. I sat with him and gave him as much strength as I could muster. His lady friend was in praying over him when I remember the Infectious Disease doctor stopping and looking in at his monitors. "With blood pressure that low, his brain isn't getting enough oxygen. It won't be long now."
I went in and held dads hand until the end. It was awful. He didn't seem to be in pain. But it wasn't ok. I know my dad didn't want to die yet.
I sit around waiting for him to call everyday like he used to. I can't stop thinking about him. I can't fall asleep at night because my mind races, running over and over the things I could've done to be a better daughter. My dad was only 53, he shouldn't be dead yet! I just want him back..This can't be real.
Am I ever going to be at peace? Will this ever get easier?
I amnso sorry for your loss. It will get esier. The pain will dull, and it will slowly subside and the good memories will remain. It takes time and it hurts like he*l. I lost my father and 5 weeks later lost my mother so I know how you feel, except I am an only child so I had no one else. I buried them alone. I still mourn. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't shed tears for one or both of them.
it may not feel like it but you are so strong! i am so sorry to hear you had to go through that. people react differently to stress and pain, not that i am excusing your sisters for leaving but maybe it was just to much for them to take in right then. sometimes its easier to pretend anything and everything is more important. my dad pasted in march after fighting cancer for 8 months and i would get so mad (sometimes still)at things "friends" or people in general would say, they just did not get it. my world fell apart when dad got diagnosed and then when he passed everyone told me i needed to keep it together and blah blah blah,nope i think you should do and feel what ever you need to at any moment (as long as you aren't hurting anyone).
The situation sucks but at least you were there. You filled your dads moments with love and caring, not just in the hospital but so many times before i am sure! he knew. hold onto that. On the positive i am sure your dad wanted to tell you a million and one things. things that he had told you a million times. and as time goes on you can change what he wanted to say to fit. i was the one who was with dad when he passed and i hope he heard me babbling to him about everything i could think of. i wanted to fit everything in, he was on tons of med so who knows for sure.
someone once told me that it wasn't that dad couldn't hear it was that when i talk to him or asked him questions he is just taking longer to answer. i kinda liked that. hang in there.
"This can't be MY life." That's how I feel, too. This just can't be real. How can my spouse be dead after being so alive this time last year? And being so young and full of potential? I know everyone tells me it'll all be less painful with time. And some days are so much better than others. But right now it all just feels lonely and unreal. I'm not sure how comforting it is to know you're not alone in your feelings. But trust me, you aren't.
I do believe it WILL get easier with time, but that doesn't ease the ache I feel now. There's no real option except muddling through. I look around at all the people I know who have lost loved ones and they're still functional and have actually found happiness. So I must hold out hope that I'm not unique--that I, and you, too, will recover.