The world lost an astoundingly good man today. We mourn his death and celebrate his life.
William C. Beecheler
June 22, 1944 to February 23, 2010
He died peacefully in his home with Linda and Heather by his side.
Scott, the kids and I will leave for Ohio today. The services for Bill will be Thursday and Friday. I will keep you posted on the details.
Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for following this story, which continues with Bill's legacy being left with so many people touched by him.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dadddy
Bill is in quick decline. The hospice nurse asked Heather today if Dad was the type of person who likes to get things done. YES, she replied. That's him. He's dying just like he lived.
Heather and I are amazed at the providence involved at this point. When Mom died, I was there for 8 weeks taking care of her. Heather came a few weeks later and stayed after I left, a few weeks before Mom died. I was eight months pregnant, having early contractions, and I left to have the baby back in Nebraska where Scott and I lived. (Mom died Jan. 14, 2001, and Anna was born Jan. 24.) Heather was there with Mom at the time of her death. I don't know that I could have handled it like Heather. She's a quiet angel on earth. And here she is again with Dad at the end. I don't know if I'll make it there in time, but Heather will be there with him and Linda. And that comforts me. I'm also comforted to know that I was there last week for Dad, during a trying emotional time for him. I'm a jabber-mouth, so I talked and listened to Dad's worries and tried to calm his fears. Heather and I each have roles to play. Not that we like these roles, but we'd do anything for our parents.
Just like they did everything for us. Dad's gifts to his children are immense. He's our hero. But let's not sugar-coat it too much, even at this point. Dad, like the rest of us, has his faults. And my relationship with him is far from perfect, like all relationships. In fact, at times it was downright difficult. We're both stubborn and opinionated and we sometimes think we have all the answers. Dad used to have quite a temper, and he settled for nothing less than perfection in many areas. We locked horns frequently through the years.
Heather and I are amazed at the providence involved at this point. When Mom died, I was there for 8 weeks taking care of her. Heather came a few weeks later and stayed after I left, a few weeks before Mom died. I was eight months pregnant, having early contractions, and I left to have the baby back in Nebraska where Scott and I lived. (Mom died Jan. 14, 2001, and Anna was born Jan. 24.) Heather was there with Mom at the time of her death. I don't know that I could have handled it like Heather. She's a quiet angel on earth. And here she is again with Dad at the end. I don't know if I'll make it there in time, but Heather will be there with him and Linda. And that comforts me. I'm also comforted to know that I was there last week for Dad, during a trying emotional time for him. I'm a jabber-mouth, so I talked and listened to Dad's worries and tried to calm his fears. Heather and I each have roles to play. Not that we like these roles, but we'd do anything for our parents.
Just like they did everything for us. Dad's gifts to his children are immense. He's our hero. But let's not sugar-coat it too much, even at this point. Dad, like the rest of us, has his faults. And my relationship with him is far from perfect, like all relationships. In fact, at times it was downright difficult. We're both stubborn and opinionated and we sometimes think we have all the answers. Dad used to have quite a temper, and he settled for nothing less than perfection in many areas. We locked horns frequently through the years.
In April 2009, just weeks before he was diagnosed with brain cancer, we had one of our disagreements. Dad was in Madison for Easter. He was putting French doors on our office. The project was intense and required a lot of woodwork and calculations. Bill was getting tired. The kids were loud and rowdy and getting in his way. "I should have hired this out to someone else," I thought while making dinner as I listened to Dad cursing in the next room. "Dad, for God's sake watch your mouth. The kids are right here!" I told him. "Well, do you want these damn doors on or not?" he replied. But eventually the doors were hung -- to perfection. And they look lovely. And Dad felt proud and we hugged, and I took his picture in front of yet another home improvement triumph.
The beauty of our relationship is that we work through the conflict, we don't hold grudges, and there's never been any question about the extent of our love for each other. I'm sure Heather would say the same thing.
Below is an essay I found in a box of old stuff while at home. I think I was in junior high when I wrote this. Dad always signed his name "Dadddy" on cards, with three d's. Not sure where this originated but we'd often call him "Dadddddddy," stretching out the word as some kind of quirky family joke.
DADDDDY
by Lisa Beecheler
My dad is a great father who has taught me a lot. I remember when I was only five years old and my dad was running beside me teaching me how to ride a bike. Even though I fell into a ditch full of water and cried and complained he never gave up on me. Eventually I learned how to ride that bike and when I did my dad smiled and said "That's my girl!"
A few years later my dad took me skiing. After barely conquering the bunny hill he decided I was ready for a "real hill." He took me to the top of what I thought was a huge hill. It was snowing hard up there, but my dad gave me a reassuring smile and said, "See you at the bottom!" and was gone! As I stood there bewildered, tears running down my frozen cheeks, I tried to remember everything my dad had taught me. At first I thought I'd never make i t down, but needless to say, I did! When I finally reached the bottom, there was my dad. Standing there, he smiled and said, "That's my girl!"
My dad always has had a lot of confidence in me. Because of the feeling he gives me when I 'm around him I feel I can conquer anything. Not only has my dad taught me practical things like riding a bike and skiing, he has also taught me things about life. For instance, he has taught me to work my hardest in school and to give 100% in everything I do. He enforces his beliefs by attending all of my school activities. I'll never forget the feeling I had when I had to give a speech in front of all my classmates and their families. Before I got up to the podium I was so nervous but then I remembered who was sitting right beside me, my dad. As I stood up there, all eyes on me, my knees knocking, I could almost hear my dad's reassuring voice, it gave me the confidence to begin my speech. After finishing my flawless speech [Note from 38-year-old Lisa: Wow, I wish I had that confidence today!] I stepped down from the podium and there was my dad. Looking so proud, he gave me a big hug and said, "That's my girl!"
I'll always know that no matter how old I am my dad will always have something new to teach me, and when I accomplish any new goal I'm sure that when I look over at my dad he'll have a big smile on his face and he'll say, "That's my girl!"
The beauty of our relationship is that we work through the conflict, we don't hold grudges, and there's never been any question about the extent of our love for each other. I'm sure Heather would say the same thing.
Below is an essay I found in a box of old stuff while at home. I think I was in junior high when I wrote this. Dad always signed his name "Dadddy" on cards, with three d's. Not sure where this originated but we'd often call him "Dadddddddy," stretching out the word as some kind of quirky family joke.
DADDDDY
by Lisa Beecheler
My dad is a great father who has taught me a lot. I remember when I was only five years old and my dad was running beside me teaching me how to ride a bike. Even though I fell into a ditch full of water and cried and complained he never gave up on me. Eventually I learned how to ride that bike and when I did my dad smiled and said "That's my girl!"
A few years later my dad took me skiing. After barely conquering the bunny hill he decided I was ready for a "real hill." He took me to the top of what I thought was a huge hill. It was snowing hard up there, but my dad gave me a reassuring smile and said, "See you at the bottom!" and was gone! As I stood there bewildered, tears running down my frozen cheeks, I tried to remember everything my dad had taught me. At first I thought I'd never make i t down, but needless to say, I did! When I finally reached the bottom, there was my dad. Standing there, he smiled and said, "That's my girl!"
My dad always has had a lot of confidence in me. Because of the feeling he gives me when I 'm around him I feel I can conquer anything. Not only has my dad taught me practical things like riding a bike and skiing, he has also taught me things about life. For instance, he has taught me to work my hardest in school and to give 100% in everything I do. He enforces his beliefs by attending all of my school activities. I'll never forget the feeling I had when I had to give a speech in front of all my classmates and their families. Before I got up to the podium I was so nervous but then I remembered who was sitting right beside me, my dad. As I stood up there, all eyes on me, my knees knocking, I could almost hear my dad's reassuring voice, it gave me the confidence to begin my speech. After finishing my flawless speech [Note from 38-year-old Lisa: Wow, I wish I had that confidence today!] I stepped down from the podium and there was my dad. Looking so proud, he gave me a big hug and said, "That's my girl!"
I'll always know that no matter how old I am my dad will always have something new to teach me, and when I accomplish any new goal I'm sure that when I look over at my dad he'll have a big smile on his face and he'll say, "That's my girl!"
Down, but not out
Back in Madison. Numb. I wish I could say, "I was so happy to get home!" But it's bittersweet because I left Dad. Truth be told, I have no emotions and feel like I'm in shock. Like I just survived a plane crash. Maybe a good night of sleep will bring me around. Transitions are tough. And it was one helluva week.
A few hours after I posted my last blog, the hospice doctor told my dad, "It won't be days, but it probably won't be months," and that was shocking. What does a man do when told he has weeks to live? He cries. Holds his loved ones. He worries about who will take care of them, even though they're all adults. Although I respect that doctor, I wish he wouldn't have been so specific. I mean, why try to put a number on someone's days? He can't know. It doesn't seem to be comforting. Dad knows he's dying of cancer. Isn't that enough? Linda and I hugged Dad and wept and wept. The spirituality guide from hospice shared some peaceful thoughts. What can you say?
To add to this soup of depression, yesterday hospice delivered a hospital bed to Dad's living room. He can't go up and down stairs anymore. A little over nine years ago, Dad, my sister and I nursed my Mom through to her death on a hospital bed in that same living room, in the same spot. I had to leave the house when the bed was delivered. When I stepped in the room and saw it set up just like it was nine years ago, I had an out-of-body experience. My heart physically hurt. Is this a cruel joke? Then of course what made it worse was leading Dad in that room when it was time for bed.
"What?" was all he could say. He's lost a lot of thinking capability, but he sure as hell remembers what happened the last time a hospital bed was in this room. We might as well have put him to bed in a coffin.
I'm sorry if I sound completely negative. I advise you to go watch the Olympics or some comedy if you haven't already given up on this entry! I thought about not writing but then decided to keep it real. Some days are harder than others. Some days you feel uplifted even in the worst of times. Some days, you just don't. And that's okay.
But even today I can muster up some good stuff. Like Linda. Linda lost her first husband to cancer about 11 years ago. Her husband Phil and my Dad were going to start a business together before he died. While at first it was difficult to see my Dad with another woman, Heather and I quickly got over it and fell in love with Linda. She's a school nurse and has a son, Lee, who's a real gem. My bro. On that dreadful day they delivered the bed, Linda took charge. She plows through emotion and gets the job done. I cower in the corner or escape to run errands. Linda makes the bed beautifully -- like it's at a B&B. She gathers things from around the house to decorate the room -- family pictures, a lighthouse she and Dad got on vacation, a TV so they can watch movies together. She stays upbeat. "Lisa, look at this great wheelchair to use around the house. It's so lightweight and it folds up!" She wakes Dad up by smiling and kissing his cheek and sweetly saying, "Good morning, sleepy head! Time to get up!" Linda loves my Dad. Period. This is what you do for people when you love them.
Another positive thought: What I was able to do last week was spend a lot of time talking with, or mostly to, Dad. I recalled how he taught me to ride a bike and I swerved right in a muddy ditch. Dad laughed. He remembered. I pointed to the side yard and said, "Remember all those grounders you threw me over there?" He nodded and said, "Yeah. You worked." Yes, I did, because Dad was yelling, "C'mon, bend those knees and get the glove on the ground! Thatta girl!" I brought out some picture albums and pointed to family vacations, relatives, picnics. "There's Mom, your wife Sue. Look at those goofy glasses and hair!" He smiled. He laughed again when I pointed to this hilarious shot of him laying on his stomach looking face-to-face with one of our pet cats. Bill: always hamming it up.
And to end this blog on a high note: When I walked in the door of our house in Madison, I picked up the kids and squeezed them. I achingly miss them when I'm away. They are my rays of sunshine. And MJ's first comment? "MOMMY! You look younger and your neck looks longer!" I'll take it.
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's been a while. I wish I had better news.
Anybody have an elixir for a broken spirit? Aside from a cure for cancer, Captain Bill could use a shot of that.
But I'll back up a bit. First, apologies for the long hiatus from blogging. I know many of you have asked for updates (even offering to write for me). Although we all suspected this wouldn't be a fairy tale, it's been tougher than I thought to live through and write about it. I'll do the best I can at this point. (Props again to my dear friend Janel for her blogging courage and prowess ... http://all4ally.blogspot.com. Sometimes I read her words and feel like she's saying what I need to say. So thanks, Babe.)
Dad's tumor is growing. It originated on the left side of his head, above his ear. After two brain surgeries, radiation and chemo, summer in Madison, setbacks and seizures, and intermittent batches of good news, an MRI showed that the tumor was under control. Captain Bill's shipmates breathed a sigh of relief. Could we actually beat this? No such luck. A few weeks ago, when Heather was in Ohio, Dad had another seizure and ended up in the hospital. Another MRI showed that the tumor had in fact grown into the frontal lobe. The doctors told Dad that his original prognosis of one year from May 2009 is a reasonable estimate.
The frontal lobe. This is where we mammals derive our higher mental functions. This is the place we park our long-term memories that are not task-based. The frontal lobes are considered our emotional control center and home to our personality. One study from the Centre for Neuro Skills said, "It has long been known that some patients with frontal lobe damage have significantly changed personalities." We're seeing that. This ugly tumor in Dad's frontal lobe is raising hell. His emotions are all over the map. One minute he's irate about the smallest detail -- a light left on too long. The next minute he's weeping and apologetic about his condition. His speech and understanding are severely limited. And the bitch of it is that he's fully aware of his losses. This is a recent conversation we had -- sitting face-to-face as I held his hand:
Dad: How am I gonna do this?
Me: I don't know, Dad. It's so hard. You're doing the best you can.
Dad: No, how am I gonna DO this? I don't know how to DO it.
Me: It's not your fault. We didn't ask for this. There's nothing you need to do, Dad.
Dad: But just laying in a bed ... I don't know how to do that. How can I DO that?
Me: Let's not look too far ahead. Let's think about being together. We'll do what we need to do together -- you, me, Heather and Linda.
Dad: I just love you.
Me: I know. I love you, too. You've told me you love me my whole life. So I know.
After my conversation with Dad, I said, "Dad, can you give me a massage?" So I sat on the floor in front of him, in his chair. He gently rubbed my shoulders and commented about the left one being tight. "Yeah, it is Dad. It's sore." I think helping me was the highpoint of his day. He seemed content -- and himself -- for a minute or two.
He's devastated about losing his independence. Bill is a man of action. He wants to "do" something about this. He does not want his daughters or wife putting on his socks or having to give him a shot of Lovenox in the gut every morning. (Who would?) Bill still wants to be the guy to fix your car, take you for a boat ride, take you on his motorcycle, haul wood for the fire, tease you in good fun. He dreads people hovering over him, feeding him and giving him pills and shots. He's spent 9 months fighting this disease like hell, only to get to this point of hopelessness. My Dad's courage, his optimism and humor, his fierce determination -- it's drying up. He just wants, in his words, "To go outside. To look at my woods."
He can still walk, but the gait is turtle slow and it's tough for him to get out of his chair. He still eats on his own, still takes care of his basic needs. But he sees what's coming. And I hate it as much as him. Linda and I met with hospice on Tuesday. They marched in like an army of angels -- nurse, social workers, spirituality guide, doc. As much as I dread that "H" word, there's nothing else in the world like that organization. You feel like you have another extended family to care for you and your loved one.
And speaking of family, I know many of you are concerned about my lovely step-mom, Linda. She's holding up amazingly well. Because she's an amazing woman. But she could sure use your words of encouragement. Same for my strong and beautiful sis.
I should mention that I'm writing this from Ohio. I got in on Feb. 12 and will leave tomorrow. Scott was in last weekend and left Monday. (Heather comes in next week.)
I knew from the moment I hit the ground in Cleveland that this would be a pivotal week. Dad's good friend Joe picked me up from the airport. Joe's an ex-Marine, soft-spoken and big-hearted. He's helping his single-parent son raise his granddaugther, 2-year-old Shyla, and she was in the back seat with me while Dad and Joe were up front. Dad had little to say, not even too excited to see me -- so uncharacteristic of the Bill who in the past would fly up to the terminal in his Spec B and give me a big bear hug, lugging my luggage and asking about my trip. In that back seat, my head suddenly felt like it was in a vice. I felt a pit in my stomach. I turned to Shyla, who just woke up from a nap in her car seat. I smiled at her sweet face framed by a pink coat and bouncy blond curls. She smiled back and reached out a fat hand, which I quickly grabbed, fully expecting her to snatch it away. But we held hands almost all the way to Oberlin.
And those are the kind of moments I'm hanging on to right now. Looking out at Dad's property, blanketed with snow. Trees stand at attention, getting ready to bud. Talking to my sis. Reading e-mails from friends: "Just checking in." "Hang in there." "Tell Bill we love him." "Nice to know you're smiling from time to time." Feeling Scott's love and loyalty -- and knowing his purchase of a block of 15-year-old Wisconsin cheddar awaits me! Talking to Dad's neighbors, who I've known my whole life, about elderberry pie and horses and winter trips to Florida. Hearing a friendly voice mail from my cousin Mel. Reading. Chatting on the phone with a friend/colleague about our book venture. Watching Lindsey Vonn tear up that downhill run in Vancouver. Music, like an awe-inspiring concert at Finney Chapel in Oberlin. Cousin Molly sending me hilarious Facebook IMs. Eating dark chocolate and drinking red wine -- daily. Running, running, running on a dumb treadmill in Dad's basement. Listening to Mary Jane on the phone: "Mommy, we played a fun new game in gym!" Getting a note from Anna about our upcoming hunt for a family dog: "Mommy, we need to check out the humane society."
Life in bloom.
Oh, and this prime example of family humor and loyalty:
Cousin Gary: Hey, Lisa. Calling to see if I can visit Bill this afternoon.
Me: Oh, we've got hospice coming. Can you call another day? Plus ... you should know that Dad's really been upset and hasn't been excited about visitors.
Gary: Well, I'll call back. But he's got no choice. I'm visiting. I'll have to come kick him in the nuts.
And I shouldn't neglect to mention that Dad's had his share of good moments, despite it all. His brothers-in-law and Scott took him out for breakfast last weekend. His posse. Scott and I took him to the botanical gardens in Cleveland, and I think he enjoyed the tropical heat and lush greenery. (I know I did!) We walked around Oberlin, and Dad shopped for Charlotte's birthday and stopped at an art gallery where he bought me a pair of earrings made of shiny old guitar picks. I took Dad out to lunch with friends, and he laughed a little. His friend Frank stopped by with ash Wednesday Paczcis ("poonch-keys"). We rode around in his sporty Spec B as, from time to time, Dad would mutter, "Punch it," and at the risk of getting a ticket, I'd put the pedal to the metal. "This car hauls ass," he'd quietly say with a slight grin.
When I go back to Madison, my goal is to get Dad's slides scanned on my computer. I hope for my next visit we can sit and look at old pictures. We're so lucky to have a boatload of happy memories. Thanks in large part to my Mom and Captain Bill, his hard work, his dedication to family, his zest for life.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Plowing
I'm with Dad in Ohio. The girls and I flew in on Sunday. We climbed the skies over Madison to look down at a white blanket across Wisconsin. We descended in Cleveland over a bleak, brown landscape. But last night and today the snow fell and brightened things up around here.
Even though Dad's doing well, re-entry into his world is always a bit of a shock. This whole situation still seems surreal. I can't help but think back 8 months when Dad and Linda came to Madison for Easter. Dad installed French doors in my office, we tooled around town, life was good. Then on May 2, I was at my computer doing some work. It was a Sunday. Scott had taken the kids to church and to run errands. He suddenly burst in on my peaceful moment and said, "Your dad had a stroke." Linda had called him. Of course the rest is history -- we learned it wasn't a stroke, it was brain cancer. Two brain surgeries, rounds of radiation and chemo, seizures, hospitals, Dad's move to Madison, tears, a long list of medications, doctors and nurses and therapists ... Did this all really happen?
It must have, because Dad has aged about 30 years since April.
Today Dad had a good day. His pain from the cracked rib was minimal, he was in a decent mood and his speech and comprehension were at about a 75 percent. I know, I should be glad. But, like I said, re-entry is tough. Instead, today I couldn't help but focus on how much things have changed. This morning we took the kids to Toys 'R Us to spend their gift cards from Linda. HUGE treat for the girls. They wanted Grandpa to come help them find their loot, but he didn't even want to join us. The pre-May Bill would always be up for any activity with his girls -- even shopping! I had to practically force him to ride along. Then we get in Linda's Prius and dumb me forgot how to turn it on without using a key. It's strange enough that I'm the driver with auto-man Bill as passenger, but Dad couldn't quite remember how to run this car either. Pre-May Bill lived for cars, took them apart and put them back together, tinkered with engines as if they were toys.
It's just little things like this that illustrate the big losses. But even among the wreckage, you can still see bright spots ...
We got about 5 inches of snow, so I offered to plow Dad's driveway, which is long and large. Pre-May Bill wouldn't have dreamed of having me invade his space and take over his chores. But Dad just said, "Sure, go ahead." So I put on Dad's Carhartts and Linda's work boots, tromped in the snow to the barn and found the plow. The tractor wouldn't start but I knew from Dad's (nagging) lessons that I had to use the choke. Got it running, brought it up to the garage, and Dad put air in the front left tire. Started plowing and got stuck. "Go get the chains. You need the chains," Dad said. So back to the barn to look for the chains, which I couldn't find. Dad found them and brought them up to the garage. I jacked up the back of the tractor as Dad tried to explain how to put chains on the wheels. Between the two of us, we did it. Mostly I did it, with Dad's direction.
Then I plowed the whole damn driveway. And I was proud of myself. Dad stood in the garage watching me for the longest time. When I finished he laughed and said, "Lisa, you did it! You did great!" That's what made me proud, my Dad telling me that I did something well. You're never too old to be patted on the back by a parent. The rest of the day he smiled at me and mentioned how neat it was to see me plowing. "Lisa, I am impressed."
What was once second nature to him is now impossible, yet he's still such a great man that he's able to applaud me for doing a half-ass job.
So while I mourned the loss of that pre-May Bill, I was also grateful to have any kind of Bill. He may not be plowing driveways or driving me around in the snow or doing all the many manly things he used to do, but he's still an amazing man to me, and I love him.
Even though Dad's doing well, re-entry into his world is always a bit of a shock. This whole situation still seems surreal. I can't help but think back 8 months when Dad and Linda came to Madison for Easter. Dad installed French doors in my office, we tooled around town, life was good. Then on May 2, I was at my computer doing some work. It was a Sunday. Scott had taken the kids to church and to run errands. He suddenly burst in on my peaceful moment and said, "Your dad had a stroke." Linda had called him. Of course the rest is history -- we learned it wasn't a stroke, it was brain cancer. Two brain surgeries, rounds of radiation and chemo, seizures, hospitals, Dad's move to Madison, tears, a long list of medications, doctors and nurses and therapists ... Did this all really happen?
It must have, because Dad has aged about 30 years since April.
Today Dad had a good day. His pain from the cracked rib was minimal, he was in a decent mood and his speech and comprehension were at about a 75 percent. I know, I should be glad. But, like I said, re-entry is tough. Instead, today I couldn't help but focus on how much things have changed. This morning we took the kids to Toys 'R Us to spend their gift cards from Linda. HUGE treat for the girls. They wanted Grandpa to come help them find their loot, but he didn't even want to join us. The pre-May Bill would always be up for any activity with his girls -- even shopping! I had to practically force him to ride along. Then we get in Linda's Prius and dumb me forgot how to turn it on without using a key. It's strange enough that I'm the driver with auto-man Bill as passenger, but Dad couldn't quite remember how to run this car either. Pre-May Bill lived for cars, took them apart and put them back together, tinkered with engines as if they were toys.
It's just little things like this that illustrate the big losses. But even among the wreckage, you can still see bright spots ...
We got about 5 inches of snow, so I offered to plow Dad's driveway, which is long and large. Pre-May Bill wouldn't have dreamed of having me invade his space and take over his chores. But Dad just said, "Sure, go ahead." So I put on Dad's Carhartts and Linda's work boots, tromped in the snow to the barn and found the plow. The tractor wouldn't start but I knew from Dad's (nagging) lessons that I had to use the choke. Got it running, brought it up to the garage, and Dad put air in the front left tire. Started plowing and got stuck. "Go get the chains. You need the chains," Dad said. So back to the barn to look for the chains, which I couldn't find. Dad found them and brought them up to the garage. I jacked up the back of the tractor as Dad tried to explain how to put chains on the wheels. Between the two of us, we did it. Mostly I did it, with Dad's direction.
Then I plowed the whole damn driveway. And I was proud of myself. Dad stood in the garage watching me for the longest time. When I finished he laughed and said, "Lisa, you did it! You did great!" That's what made me proud, my Dad telling me that I did something well. You're never too old to be patted on the back by a parent. The rest of the day he smiled at me and mentioned how neat it was to see me plowing. "Lisa, I am impressed."
What was once second nature to him is now impossible, yet he's still such a great man that he's able to applaud me for doing a half-ass job.
So while I mourned the loss of that pre-May Bill, I was also grateful to have any kind of Bill. He may not be plowing driveways or driving me around in the snow or doing all the many manly things he used to do, but he's still an amazing man to me, and I love him.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Message from Linda
Dad fell a few days ago and cracked a rib. As if he needed that. But I just talked to him this morning, and he seems -- somehow -- to be in good spirits. He's looking forward to our visit in a few days. The girls and I fly to Cleveland on the 27th to stay for a full week! So let's hope that means more frequent updates on the blog.
In the meantime, Merry Christmas to all. Here's hoping my dad sees some good days. Here's wishing my friends and family and those everywhere who are sad or suffering find some light in their lives.
And here's a note to all from Linda:
"I could not get to Christmas cards this year, but I want to thank everyone for all their encouragement, contact and well wishes to Bill and to me throughout these past months. Our hearts are constantly warmed by the thoughts of our families and friends who love Bill and reach out to us with thoughts, cards and visits. While I did not get the cards sent I certainly want everyone to know you are a real blessing in our lives and have made our difficult times much better and our good days really shine. We warmly wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."
Thursday, December 10, 2009
News from latest appointment
On December 8, Dad had his monthly appointment at Cleveland Clinic. Always tense waiting for results. But results are good! The tumor is stable! No signs of growth and in fact a diminished size in the area that they are following.
The docs explained that Dad's symptoms of slight confusion and speech/comprehension challenges are actually lingering affects of radiation, which killed both good and bad cells. So three months out from his last radiation treatment, he should not be getting any worse in those areas, and may get better. More good news!
Medication regime continues to be complicated, and docs are doing their best to make a chemical cocktail for Dad -- his anti-swelling meds, anti-seizure meds, etc. -- that is therapeutic yet doesn't adversely affect him. He's been experiencing mood swings and muscle pain. And he lapses in and out of a good realm of communication. Some days he speaks so clearly and understands everything you say. Sometimes his speech is garbled and he can barely have a conversation. It's so tough to know why this is happening. Docs are trying to wean him off the steroid (Decadron) because that definitely has long-term negative affects. But decreasing that dosage has given him a variety of problems. It's a constant struggle.
Docs also gave him additional PT, OT and speech therapy. This is more good news! Dad thrives when he's working to improve himself. It makes him feel good, and that alone is worth it. We've also hired a nurse -- Nurse Larry -- to stay with Dad three mornings a week and help him with various chores and errands. Dad was quite resistant to this at first -- no one likes to lose their independence -- but he's getting used to the idea and I think has enjoyed Larry's company.
So all of the above is a nice Christmas gift for us.
However, Dad was depressed after that appointment. It's been difficult to explain to him his prognosis, and we haven't really done so -- why would we? Nobody can know for sure where this will go. But on Tuesday, the doctors talked in detail to Dad about the fact that he still has a cancerous brain tumor that they cannot remove with surgery. Dad wasn't fully aware of this. He said to the doctors, "I know I have a grade 4 tumor, and isn't that bad?" They responded that yes, it's not the best scenario, but that Dad's responding so well to treatment -- better than they expected. Docs put the MRI scans on the computer to show Dad the 1-inch area that's affected in his brain. This is the first time he'd seen any scans. Linda said he was pretty shocked. Nothing like being hit in the head with the fact that you have the worst kind of brain cancer.
But I talked to him yesterday evening, and he seemed a bit better. Still talking about the dire situation, but was able to perk up when I told him that the girls and I would be spending a week with him after Christmas, then Heather and Charlotte will probably come out for a week in January.
At Thanksgiving, Heather and I dug out old slides from the 50s through 80s. Dad has hundreds of them. What a tremendous gift it was to sit with Dad and see so many images of our happy life together. Skiing, boating, vacations, all our old pets, school days, work days, extended family, building a house, making a home together. Dad expressed over and over how happy he was to see those slides. So I brought the whole load of them back to Madison, bought a slide scanner and am going to put them all in digital form for him. Hope to have a bunch printed out and in a photo book for Christmas. Heather is doing the same thing with old pictures. I think we really feel a great need to tell Dad just how much he means to us.
The docs explained that Dad's symptoms of slight confusion and speech/comprehension challenges are actually lingering affects of radiation, which killed both good and bad cells. So three months out from his last radiation treatment, he should not be getting any worse in those areas, and may get better. More good news!
Medication regime continues to be complicated, and docs are doing their best to make a chemical cocktail for Dad -- his anti-swelling meds, anti-seizure meds, etc. -- that is therapeutic yet doesn't adversely affect him. He's been experiencing mood swings and muscle pain. And he lapses in and out of a good realm of communication. Some days he speaks so clearly and understands everything you say. Sometimes his speech is garbled and he can barely have a conversation. It's so tough to know why this is happening. Docs are trying to wean him off the steroid (Decadron) because that definitely has long-term negative affects. But decreasing that dosage has given him a variety of problems. It's a constant struggle.
Docs also gave him additional PT, OT and speech therapy. This is more good news! Dad thrives when he's working to improve himself. It makes him feel good, and that alone is worth it. We've also hired a nurse -- Nurse Larry -- to stay with Dad three mornings a week and help him with various chores and errands. Dad was quite resistant to this at first -- no one likes to lose their independence -- but he's getting used to the idea and I think has enjoyed Larry's company.
So all of the above is a nice Christmas gift for us.
However, Dad was depressed after that appointment. It's been difficult to explain to him his prognosis, and we haven't really done so -- why would we? Nobody can know for sure where this will go. But on Tuesday, the doctors talked in detail to Dad about the fact that he still has a cancerous brain tumor that they cannot remove with surgery. Dad wasn't fully aware of this. He said to the doctors, "I know I have a grade 4 tumor, and isn't that bad?" They responded that yes, it's not the best scenario, but that Dad's responding so well to treatment -- better than they expected. Docs put the MRI scans on the computer to show Dad the 1-inch area that's affected in his brain. This is the first time he'd seen any scans. Linda said he was pretty shocked. Nothing like being hit in the head with the fact that you have the worst kind of brain cancer.
But I talked to him yesterday evening, and he seemed a bit better. Still talking about the dire situation, but was able to perk up when I told him that the girls and I would be spending a week with him after Christmas, then Heather and Charlotte will probably come out for a week in January.
At Thanksgiving, Heather and I dug out old slides from the 50s through 80s. Dad has hundreds of them. What a tremendous gift it was to sit with Dad and see so many images of our happy life together. Skiing, boating, vacations, all our old pets, school days, work days, extended family, building a house, making a home together. Dad expressed over and over how happy he was to see those slides. So I brought the whole load of them back to Madison, bought a slide scanner and am going to put them all in digital form for him. Hope to have a bunch printed out and in a photo book for Christmas. Heather is doing the same thing with old pictures. I think we really feel a great need to tell Dad just how much he means to us.
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