My Memories of My Father's Journey Through Cancer and His Ultimate Death

My dad's cowboy hats were a staple in his wardrobe.

My dad was first diagnosed with brain cancer when I was only three years old. I was so little at the time, I hardly remember anything. I remember that he was often plagued with headaches, and that I would sit at the head of the couch rubbing his head to try to help him feel more comfortable. I remember the night of his surgery. I was not pleased with so many people in my house (nice people who had brought meals or family members who had flown thousands of miles to help take care of the kids) and so I was acting out. I ran in circles around the table, passing my baby brother's high chair over and over again until I stubbed my toe and had a minor meltdown. I remember seeing my dad for the first time after surgery and being scared. He was bald and bloody and had staples in his head. I thought he was Frankenstein. I cried until he knelt down and called my name. I recognized his voice and was happy to run into his arms. I remember playing with his radiation mask and not understanding why my dad was too tired to wrestle with us like he used to. 

I don't remember what my dad looked like without the scar on his head from the surgery or the scar on his nose from a too-tight surgery mask. I have seen pictures, but I don't remember. These scars were a part of my father. I can't remember how many times I traced the scar on his scalp, an everlasting reminder that he was so close to death and managed to defeat it.

My mom and dad's engagement photo. 

I remember thinking my dad was a superhero. He had defeated cancer. Cancer - an enigmatic force of nature that claimed people randomly and always won. But not against my dad. He was the strongest, the fiercest, the bravest. Sometimes his left leg would get stiff and tingly, a natural side effect of a goose egg sized tumor being removed from the right temporal lobe, and we would tickle his feet to stimulate his nerves and help him be more comfortable. This was a common occurrence in our house. He would read us Tin-Tin, and if we wanted to hear another chapter, we had to tickle his feet. We would be watching TV and we would tickle his feet. We would be in the middle of Family Home Evening tickling his feet.

When I was a senior in high school, he started having seizures again. Worried, he went in for a brain scan. At first, we weren't sure whether or not it was a tumor again, or if he was suffering from radiation necrosis. I remember praying that it was a tumor. A tumor was familiar - he had beaten a tumor before and he could certainly do it again! I wonder what would have happened if the diagnosis had been radiation necrosis. What would be different about our lives?

My dad was a goofball and he passed it onto his children

The tumor was small, especially in comparison to the last one. I remember asking my dad how big it was. He grabbed my hand and pointed to the top section of my pinky finger. 'No big deal,' I thought. 'We can get rid of that.' Then we got the news that the tumor was inoperable. It was too small and too integrated with his actual brain. Surgery would be too risky. Radiation was out of the question because he had done so much of it earlier, and any more would be dangerous. We turned to chemotherapy next. In some lab in Virginia, the still had my dad's old tumor. I imagine it in a jar filled with bright green chemicals, floating passively. They tested it to see whether or not chemo would diminish it. It didn't. We were offered the choice to do chemo anyway, even though it likely wouldn't do anything, or try to take care of it in other ways. He chose the other ways. We started eating clean. This was especially hard for my dad, who was a lover of grease, fry, and sugar. He started going to oxygen therapy (or something like that) where he would sit in a tent of sorts and breathe in pure oxygen. His arms and feet were severely scarred from getting poked with needles so much.. In the midst of this, my dad took me to the opera. It is one of the sweetest memories I have of him. We got dressed up, went to a fancy dinner, and got to experience the joy of Verdi's music together.

We had a lot of hope in the summer after I graduated high school. He seemed to be doing fine, and the tumor wasn't growing. He still had to walk with a cane,but he felt alright. We drove up to Logan that August and moved me into my first apartment. He couldn't carry very much, but he was there and he helped where he could. It was during that first semester that he had his first stroke.

One of my favorite pictures of the two of us, when I graduated high school.

I didn't really see the stroke for what it was until much later. The tumor had started to grow, I guess and put too much pressure on his brain. Almost a year after his diagnosis, he started to deteriorate. Every weekend that I would come home, it seemed like he was worse. I would call my mom daily for a report. I texted him often with stories from college, questions about my general education homework, or any thoughts I had about life. He would always end our conversations with "You da bomb" or just a simple "Love you!"

This continued for months. He would get a little better, and then a lot worse. At the end of my second semester at school, right before moving home, I was talking to my mom on the phone, who told me that I needed to start preparing myself for his death. I refused. The tumor was so small, and my superhero dad would defeat it. He always won. My neighbor saw me crying and brought me cookies.

What a goof.

I moved home for the summer, excited to start my new job as an Oakcrest Counselor. My dad had lost most of his ability to walk or use his left side at all. My mom would help him up from his beloved brown comfy chair - he named her Jenny because Jenny with the light brown chair - walk with him wherever he needed to go and help him back. My room held a hospital bed that we somehow got a hold of, so my parents and I switched rooms. I would sleep in their room, unless my sister and brother-in-law were there and then I would sleep in the basement. I couldn't stand seeing my father so sick. I felt like he wasn't even trying to get better. I was angry a lot. One time, I stole my mom's car and drove the local lake to cry and pray. The situation was frustrating and sad and I couldn't bear it. How my angel mother must have felt, when the brunt of the caretaking was on her shoulders. When she had to watch the love of her life dying. I still feel guilty for how selfish I was during the two months that I was home.

Eventually, the situation got bad enough that we had to move him to a care center. At the care center, he could have 24 hour surveillance and help from professionals. It was a heartbreaking day. One of the hospice workers spoke to my mom and myself, telling us to prepare for the worst. I still didn't believe that cancer could defeat my dad. He was going to win, even though the situation looked bad.

One of my dad's greatest joys was barbecue. This picture was taken exactly two years before his death at his favorite BBQ restaurant.

I was happy to escape to Oakcrest. The place was beautiful and full of wonderful people. I didn't have to think about the sadness at home. I called my mom every night to ask her how things were going, how my dad was doing, and whether or not she was okay. On the weekends I would come home and spend most of my time at the care center, sleeping, or helping my siblings to keep the house under control.

In the fourth week that I was at Oakcrest, I had really difficult girls. A couple of them insisted on wearing makeup that took hours to apply, and they would get mad at me when I locked the cabin and they had to carry their pajamas with them to breakfast. Most of the girls didn't want to cooperate or do any of the activities and just stood aside with cocked hips and sneers. After one of the activities, I was letting the girls use the bathroom and fill up their water bottles. I was thinking about how I was going to survive the week with such tough girls when one of the counselors came bounding out of the staff headquarters. She yelled to me that my mom was on the phone and needed to hurry. I told her to stay with my girls. I remember that I was wearing blue converse. I looked down at them crunching against the tan gravel as I ran to the phone.

On a trip to Moab, one of our favorite places to go. Of course, being a goof.

My mom told me that my precious father was near the end and I needed to come home immediately. In a rush of words and goodbyes, I was in a car with a member of the women's committee, making the hour and a half drive to my dad. We were in the midst of rush hour traffic, and I felt so much urgency to see my daddy alive for the last time. We were silent in the car for the most part. My heart pounding, and my breath catching, and I wanted to jump out of the car and run the rest of the way because I needed to be there. I needed to make it.

We were ten minutes away when my mom called me with the news. I don't remember anything else about the conversation or the rest of the drive. I was just crying. We got to the center and my sister was waiting for me. We hugged and cried and hugged. I saw my two brothers and we hugged and cried and hugged. I called Oakcrest to let them know that I would be taking the rest of the week and the next off. They were very understanding, giving my nightmare girls to a "floater," a counselor with no assignment. I saw my mom, who embraced me, and in her selfless way whispered "Who are you going to dance with at your wedding?" I am still amazed by this. Her true love, her sweetheart lay dead in the next room, and she was thinking about me.

In Moab, right before we got the diagnosis of brain tumor.

 I didn't want to go inside. I didn't want to see my dad's body. My family forced me inside the room where we discussed funeral plans and who knows what else. My dad lay in his bed, eyes half open, mouth slightly ajar. His skin was yellow and his body frail. That wasn't my dad. He was really gone.

I've already written a little about my grief and the funeral, and at this point I am crying too hard to write any more. Death is a part of life, I realize that. I know that it was my dad's time to go. My belief in God and His personal relationship and knowledge of each human on earth has given me comfort. My knowledge of the Atonement of Jesus Christ has given me comfort. For some reason, my dad needed to die. I miss him everyday. I pray for him often.

His last words were "I'm just curious," a fitting way to end a life full of joy, laughter, learning, and curiosity. 

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? ... But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." 1 Corinthians 15: 55,57

Signing out,

Mandie