Watching a Friend Die Slowly
I mentioned in my weekend update that we visited a group of friends, one of whom is dying of cancer. I moved this discussion out to a separate blog post because it's going to get heavy in way that some people may find uncomfortable. I'm not going to be graphic about dying though I will be candid.
It occurs to me as I write this that I've mentioned this situation a number of times in my blog, but only in passing while describing something else. I'll provide a fuller context here. And I'll refer to my friend by the pseudonym "Del" to respect his wishes for not being identified by name in social media. Mutual friends will figure out quickly whom I'm describing by the details.
Del was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few years ago. Doctors operated and got some, but not all, of the cancerous tissue. The cancer seemed to be in remission for a while, and Del enrolled in a graduate program to earn a new degree and start a new career. But then the cancer spread again. It had metastasized. Doctors said it was inoperable.
It's worth stating here that pancreatic cancer is a tough type of cancer. Steve Jobs died of pancreatic cancer at age 56 in 2011. If a billionaire business titan cannot marshal the resources to beat pancreatic cancer there's not a lot of hope a working-class Navy vet will.
Del went through months of chemotherapy. Chemo, for those who don't know, is suspiciously like saying, "Let's fill this person's body with deadly poison, but try to focus the poison in a way that it kills the bad parts faster than the good parts."
Chemo wasn't improving things in Del's case. Del chose to discontinue it several months ago and receive only palliative care instead. At first his apparent health improved. Chemo puts an enormous strain on the body because, again, poison. With that stopped he had more energy and his appetite returned. But internally the cancer continued to do what it does. Choosing palliative care is a matter of choosing to die soon, but with dignity.
The script for what happens when a cancer patient ceases chemo and goes into palliative care is vague at best. Outward improvement like Del experienced is normal. And death from the cancer in the not-too-distant future is the standard outcome. But how distant or not-too-distant is it? That's where the script is vague.
Initially, doctors said "2 to 3 months". Del outlasted that warranty months ago. Now the doctors won't give a timeframe. They haven't since he beat what their script said.
While doctors won't comically won't give a timeframe anymore, it's becoming increasingly clear to the lay eye that the end is near. Visiting Del this weekend showed us that. He's noticeably weaker than when we saw him just 3 weeks ago. He rarely rises from bed now, he's gaunt, he has trouble speaking, and he fades in and out every 15 seconds or so.
It's tough seeing someone dying in slow motion. It's tough for Hawk and me, and we only see him every few weeks. We know it's way tougher on Del's spouse, D. We met D for lunch outside the house. D needs opportunities to get out. Anybody in that situation needs opportunities to get out. And to have an hour or two to take care of himself and not just his spouse.
After lunch we accompanied D to do some shopping then returned with him to the house to see Del and their housemates. That's where we saw Del's diminished condition. D forewarned us that it would be a noticeable change from 3 weeks ago. He was right. Del's in a hospice bed now in the living room, with dark curtains over the window and a tray table holding various remote controls and nutrient rich drinks over the bed. It looked every inch the "hospital room comes to you... minus the tubes and machines" setup that hospice care is.
On the plus side, visiting the house showed us that Del's household is pulling together tighter to help him now. For the past several months D has had to shoulder almost all the load, both physically and emotionally. Now the rest of the household, their family of choice, are pitching in to help. Or at least be sympathetic while staying out of the way. They even drafted us to help. Not that we minded. Hawk cycled some laundry while I prepped a few days of meals in the kitchen.
Del wasn't really able to talk, so instead we talked for him. Some of Del's family were concerned that we were expecting too much of him (to be able to talk). I explained how when my father was in a similar condition near the end of his life's journey, he also couldn't speak up in conversation but still very much enjoyed hearing loved ones talk about normal stuff next to him. I narrated the story of our visit to Bassi Falls the weekend before and played a few videos on my phone. Hawk and I told a few other stories, too. I could tell that this had the intended effect because afterwards my story about my dad got repeated back to me as if someone else were teaching me. 😂
We left after a few hours. It's not that there wasn't more we could've done. It's that our hosts were spent. Again, as sad as it is watching someone die in slow motion when you see them every 2 or 3 weeks, it's way harder being there 24/7.
It occurs to me as I write this that I've mentioned this situation a number of times in my blog, but only in passing while describing something else. I'll provide a fuller context here. And I'll refer to my friend by the pseudonym "Del" to respect his wishes for not being identified by name in social media. Mutual friends will figure out quickly whom I'm describing by the details.
Del was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few years ago. Doctors operated and got some, but not all, of the cancerous tissue. The cancer seemed to be in remission for a while, and Del enrolled in a graduate program to earn a new degree and start a new career. But then the cancer spread again. It had metastasized. Doctors said it was inoperable.
It's worth stating here that pancreatic cancer is a tough type of cancer. Steve Jobs died of pancreatic cancer at age 56 in 2011. If a billionaire business titan cannot marshal the resources to beat pancreatic cancer there's not a lot of hope a working-class Navy vet will.
Del went through months of chemotherapy. Chemo, for those who don't know, is suspiciously like saying, "Let's fill this person's body with deadly poison, but try to focus the poison in a way that it kills the bad parts faster than the good parts."
Chemo wasn't improving things in Del's case. Del chose to discontinue it several months ago and receive only palliative care instead. At first his apparent health improved. Chemo puts an enormous strain on the body because, again, poison. With that stopped he had more energy and his appetite returned. But internally the cancer continued to do what it does. Choosing palliative care is a matter of choosing to die soon, but with dignity.
The script for what happens when a cancer patient ceases chemo and goes into palliative care is vague at best. Outward improvement like Del experienced is normal. And death from the cancer in the not-too-distant future is the standard outcome. But how distant or not-too-distant is it? That's where the script is vague.
Initially, doctors said "2 to 3 months". Del outlasted that warranty months ago. Now the doctors won't give a timeframe. They haven't since he beat what their script said.
While doctors won't comically won't give a timeframe anymore, it's becoming increasingly clear to the lay eye that the end is near. Visiting Del this weekend showed us that. He's noticeably weaker than when we saw him just 3 weeks ago. He rarely rises from bed now, he's gaunt, he has trouble speaking, and he fades in and out every 15 seconds or so.
It's tough seeing someone dying in slow motion. It's tough for Hawk and me, and we only see him every few weeks. We know it's way tougher on Del's spouse, D. We met D for lunch outside the house. D needs opportunities to get out. Anybody in that situation needs opportunities to get out. And to have an hour or two to take care of himself and not just his spouse.
After lunch we accompanied D to do some shopping then returned with him to the house to see Del and their housemates. That's where we saw Del's diminished condition. D forewarned us that it would be a noticeable change from 3 weeks ago. He was right. Del's in a hospice bed now in the living room, with dark curtains over the window and a tray table holding various remote controls and nutrient rich drinks over the bed. It looked every inch the "hospital room comes to you... minus the tubes and machines" setup that hospice care is.
On the plus side, visiting the house showed us that Del's household is pulling together tighter to help him now. For the past several months D has had to shoulder almost all the load, both physically and emotionally. Now the rest of the household, their family of choice, are pitching in to help. Or at least be sympathetic while staying out of the way. They even drafted us to help. Not that we minded. Hawk cycled some laundry while I prepped a few days of meals in the kitchen.
Del wasn't really able to talk, so instead we talked for him. Some of Del's family were concerned that we were expecting too much of him (to be able to talk). I explained how when my father was in a similar condition near the end of his life's journey, he also couldn't speak up in conversation but still very much enjoyed hearing loved ones talk about normal stuff next to him. I narrated the story of our visit to Bassi Falls the weekend before and played a few videos on my phone. Hawk and I told a few other stories, too. I could tell that this had the intended effect because afterwards my story about my dad got repeated back to me as if someone else were teaching me. 😂
We left after a few hours. It's not that there wasn't more we could've done. It's that our hosts were spent. Again, as sad as it is watching someone die in slow motion when you see them every 2 or 3 weeks, it's way harder being there 24/7.