Beyond the Needles, Machines and Pain

    Richard grinned like a kid at the fair when he saw Gracie, my little Brittany Spaniel. And her eyes brightened when she saw Richard, tugging hard on the lead to get over to him, toe nails barely finding purchase on the hard, institutional floor. Her excitement surprised me. They had only met once, back in the winter, when Richard went (somewhat unwillingly) down to Wade Plantation with me to photograph some pointing dogs. And Gracie about drove him crazy trying to get in his lap in the front seat. Finally, he and I conceded and let her come on up. And together they sat, quietly  watching the Georgia countryside roll by, his elegant fine fingered hand stroking her neck gently, but his mind far beyond the car seat, in some kind of deep reflection. Then a story rolled out of him about how he and his dad hunted quail and had dogs and how much fun it was.

    It was quite the joyous reunion. Gracie had come with me to the oncologist 's office to provide a little doggy therapy, but we had a bit of trouble getting past Richard. Though he was hooked up to needles and tubes and covered in a blanket, he leaned over in the big oncology recliner, gave her a few pats while telling his other chemo Warriors--with more animation than I thought his weakened body had in it--all about their adventure back in the winter. How she sat in his lap and later pointed a couple of birds and reminded him of his own hunting experiences. The grin only got bigger.  That broke the ice with the other Warriors scattered around and soon Gracie was visiting with everybody, but always with an eye on Richard.

    LeRoy only knew Gracie by reputation. Oh, he had seen her and damn sure heard me brag about her, but she was nothing major in his life, just another hunting dog. Cute, but so what? He ran one of  the farming operations at Wade Plantation. His life was corn, soybeans and peanuts. Planting them, weeding them, harvesting them. He operated huge machines as if they were sports cars, lending them a nimbleness you might never imagine. Combines and tractors, the kind of massive machines that can rob the horizon from a 600-acre field. He knew the soils as if they were his pets. He understood moisture and when to plant and when to harvest and when not to. If drought got one of LeRoy's crops, he suffered. Not just at the economic loss, but at the loss of life, the vitalness of soil gone to too little rain...or too many bugs.

    During the past two weeks, both Richard and LeRoy died.  And during that little slice of time both of them taught me something about dying. Something positive. About how to fight the best fight you can, but in the end, the very end, it is time to gather your memories and let go.

    That hardly means they went without a fight. Richard had been battling blood cancer off and on for more than 10 years; LeRoy, with lung/brain cancer, for more than one. Though they were both very sick men, to the end they could find their humor and their will to live, their need for another tomorrow. It wasn't the lack of  fight that killed them. It was cancer, that bullet from the body that, if circumstances are such, no man can beat...at least forever.

Gracie and Richard had their happy reunion only ten days ago today, four days before he died. LeRoy tried to work up until two weeks before he died. He would call in and say he would be late that day; most of the time he never got there. For LeRoy work was life. When he couldn't even make it to the farm, it was the loudest of signals. LeRoy may be past the post.

Richard and I were sitting outside the chemo room one day, waiting to be called in for blood work. He said: "When I go, I want to be sure to have seen all my children and grandchildren before I close my eyes."

The oncologist's chaplain, who was with him when he died, said Richard held on for at least a day until that parade of loved ones from across the South had been completed. And then he closed his eyes, took one more breath and died. For his life, there was nothing left to do. The future was elsewhere.

LeRoy's story is not much different. When he was conscious, he wanted to see his family. As I understand it, once his parade of loved ones passed by, he passed as well. In the end, and here I mean the very end, it is all about who we love. All else is, well, just is.

Many of us so far from death, even those of us rife with cancer,  talk about going to our maker "kicking and screaming," or maybe we push the very concept of our death from our minds, that just thinking about dying is a sign of weakness, of  "giving up."  I am somewhat guilty of that as well. Maybe a lot guilty.

But over a period of only 14 days, I learned so much about dying from these two fine, brave, well loved and gentle men. They did go kicking and screaming. Up to a point. Up to the point when the body and mind said it is time to go, what some call the quiet message of departure. But that resignation set them on a different fight, the last of their lives. To see their loved ones, to have the final hugs, kisses and tears--then pass on without fear, without remorse to what both seemed sure was somehow a better place. Told me so more than once. A place where hopefully they could remember their lives before cancer and pain and needles and machines and weakness and so much unwanted dependence on other people. Where the corn fields were deep green and stretched to the horizon. Where the dogs pointed often and a dad's hands were on their shoulders. Where even a wife's superficial kiss carried so much of a lesson about love, care and nurturing. And a little ball game with the kids that so often made better a crappy day.

Bon Voyage, guys. I do so wish you well.

Comments

[Robbie]

Beautiful!!!

[Jeanie]

Oh David, that story really touched my heart. I lost my son Sept. 1st to kidney, liver and pancreas cancer. What you wrote explained a lot of things he never talked about. The last words he said to me were "Momma I am so tired of the pain." I had always told him to not give in or give up. I knew at that moment he had to; I had to let him go. He gave it a good fight but that Beast was too overpowering for his frail body. I read your site every day, it really helps. You don't have to publish this to the site I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate you and what you do.

Jeanie

[Shaun]

Well Put Dave.
It makes perfect sense. We've all seen it before. My father in-law was a similar story. Wracked with bone cancer, in and out of coma, he held on till his last grandchild was able to get away from college and visit him. By that point we weren't sure he would even know anyone was in the room, never mind that it was his grandson. But somehow he gathered that last ounce of strength to open his eyes, give a little squeeze of the hand placed in his, and smile the most peaceful smile you can imagine. A man at peace. A man that had completed his life's mission. Right after that my mother in-law told him it was OK to let go now. She went to the kitchen for a moment to get some water and he was gone when she returned. While we often think of the person dying needing to find peace with it, I also learned how important it is for the survivors to find peace too. When it all clicks it can be beautiful. Let's all pray that we don't need to look for that peace for a long, long time!

[Mary]

Oh David what a wonderful tribute to your two friends. I agree totally that we must value those who are important in our lives and that we validate how much they mean to us. Your Gracie is one smart dog and I am sure she gave such comfort to your fellow Warriors. Thank You for sharing their story with us. We can all learn something valuable from their great strength to live life to the fullest.