This article was published in the original Podium magazine on August 1, 2001, with the tag line, "A young man's father dies after more than two year's battle against leukemia."
by Rodney Porter
Today is August 1, 2001. It is a month since my dad died. He had acute myeloid leukemia for two years and five months. It had been diagnosed as terminal for around six weeks.
Nevin Porter
To me, the greatest tragedy is that he was only 54 years old and regarded his retirement from the Northern Ireland civil service as the light at the end of the tunnel. He never saw it. He was never free of the shackles of his job. He was robbed in one way, much like I sometimes feel I was robbed of a father.
Finally, things are falling back into a routine again and life is starting to gain a sense of normality. But it will never be the same for anyone in my family.
I feel like I’ve joined an exclusive club, membership gained only by having a dead parent. Much like when I got divorced, I developed a circle of male friends who were also separated and divorced. We could share secrets, feelings and thoughts that we knew no one else could ever understand.
What do you say to someone whose parent dies of cancer? Sorry to hear about your loss. Never say, “I know how you feel,” unless you really do, and you never will. It is unique in its ugliness.
The journey from when my father was told the cancer was terminal to his death was not unexpected. It resulted in my brother bringing forward his wedding to September. Still, too late. I was the first person my father told since I was living in Canada. I was off work and got the call at 11 a.m. on a Friday morning. After the call, I remember buying a packet of small cigars, a six-pack of beer and a pickaxe. I then dug up my garden and landscaped it. I needed the distraction and a channel for my emotions.
Questions that raged were: How long do you have? What was the point of chemotherapy or radiotherapy? Where is your god now? What will mum do? Do I move back to the UK? None of these questions were answered.
In the weeks that followed, I planned to move back to Northern Ireland temporarily for two months for August and September. Work had made some suggestions and I intended to do off-site work part-time. It seemed like a great idea at the time. Again, these plans never materialized.
Death is something no one can prepare for. No matter how much you expect it, it’s arrival will still shock you. I was house-sitting for a friend in north Toronto when my cell phone rang on Sunday, July 1. It was a nurse calling to tell me that my dad was in hospital.
“Rodney,” said the nurse, “I’m calling from the Royal Victoria Hospital. Your dad was brought in to us last night. It’s quite serious.”
“Should I come home?” was my instant response. I remember hoping the answer would be no.
“Yes, you should,” was her reply. “Would you like to speak to your mum?”
July 1 is Canada Day. And it was a Sunday morning. Buying a ticket was a daunting mission. I got friends to help me, to call around and just find a ticket agent who was open. I eventually got hold of United Airlines who could fly me out on a 3 p.m. flight that day via Chicago and London. The ticket was $2,000, but the cost was immaterial.
Sometimes concerns about other things fall into perspective.
Like my father’s comment about derogatory remarks we had made about fat people. He turned to us and, with a frown, said he give anything to be overweight. Being so frail and thin was an outer sign of the toll of the cancer. When he was once charged a pensioner’s rate for a haircut, my 54-year-old father, a former giant of a man, realized he had been reduced to looking like a tired old man because of the cancer treatment. It hurt him along with the stares he felt people gave him.
After I booked my flight, just after 11:30 EST the phone rang. My brother’s weeping was all I needed to hear as he uttered the words, “Daddy’s closed his eyes.” I didn’t cry outwardly. My tears would come later. After I got home then I could cry. It struck hard at my chest, and then I felt numb as I waited for the taxi to the airport.
The next morning I waited for my brother to pick me up at the airport in Belfast. On the flight home I remembered every aspect of my dad’s life. He was a good man, but also a human being. He had faults, weaknesses, and a bad side just like the rest of us. But most of all, I remember the last time I saw him. It was in April when I last hugged him goodbye at the airport and we said that we loved each other.
I believe he knew he was dying even then and that he had an idea of how long he had. I believe he chose to hide it deliberately. He wanted things to be normal. He didn’t want anyone to pity him, or to change their lives because of him.
The week of the funeral was a blur. Shoveling the dirt into the grave symbolized the end. My dad was dead. His life was finally over. It was then that I understood what my mum meant when she said that it felt like he was still in the house when the open casket sat in the living room.
My mother loaned me his diaries, which were so private, and confidential that reading them was difficult. It was evident from reading the diaries that my father’s Christian faith had remained constant throughout his illness. He even talked about having testified when the medical students came to examine him, poking and prodding at the living disease they wished to study.
What would I give up or sacrifice to bring him back? Anything and nothing both come to mind. While I would love to have him back, I would not wish cancer on anyone. I also believe that he was ready. He knew that death imminent and he had accepted this.
Someone once said I was being brave. No, I am not. Quite the opposite. My approach is much like my father’s view of life. I am pragmatic and realistic. I do not have a brave face, I just have an honest one.
A lot of people think my attitude is one of denial. Yes, it hurts. I miss my father a lot but I know that he will never leave me nor forsake me. He was a big man in many ways and he was generous in sharing his life with us.
I used to read about the latest drug treatments. I used to talk with his doctors about cancer, its causes and how he was progressing. But I stopped because it did no good. It got to the point where acute myeloid leukemia was becoming bigger than my father.
Quite simply, I wanted to enjoy my dad while I still had him. When I called home each day we seldom mentioned the cancer. It bored him and it was not the leukemia I was interested in but the man. He had fought so hard. And now there was nothing left to fight for. So I adopted his approach. His condition was openly acknowledged with his numerous weekly trips up to the clinic at the hospital for transfusions and check-ups.
How did he actually die? How do you die of leukemia? On his death certificate the cause of death is listed as acute myeloid leukemia and haematemesis.
On the Saturday before he died my mum tells me he was disconcerted. At one time in the day he turned to her and said, “Does Rodney know that Matthew is home?” I live in Toronto; my brother, Matthew, still lives at home.
He was confused, most likely due to a brain hemorrhage.
His confusion worsened. Later, on Saturday night, he neither knew where he was nor what he was saying. Even now, one month later, it makes me close my eyes in sorrow as I think of this chain of events. He vomited blood then slipped out of the bed, banging his head on the nightstand. An ambulance was called. He threw up more blood on the way to the hospital. He died on Sunday, July 1 at 3.35 p.m. in hospital surrounded by his wife, his son and daughter.
I wish I could have been there. But what use would that have been? My last physical memory is not of a sick man with sores, fighting for his last breath. Instead, it is of a man who drove me to the airport in Belfast, hugged me, told me he loved me and waved farewell. Later I learnt he was depressed after I left and confided in my mother, “I never knew how close I was to Rodney.”
Even my last phone call was normal. We talked of my life in Toronto, my brother’s upcoming wedding and about the best way to rid a lawn of overgrown cherry trees.
Do not remember the leukemia. Nor the pain. Or the sheer misery it caused both my father and my family. Rather, remember the man who was quite simply my dad.
Rodney Porter is an accomplished medical journalist and the Editor of The Ontario Fire Service Messenger. His personal website can be found at www.rodneyporter.com
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