No Slave To Destiny

"Pretty clinical," I observed. "Here, take a seat and I'll check in at the desk."

Peg was casually flipping through a news magazine when I returned. "The nurse said she would call us in about 15 minutes. We go through those doors to the right. Nervous?" I asked, trying to act casual.

"A little," she smiled at me. "They were pretty good about telling us what to expect today. What I'm more nervous about is how I'll react to the drugs. I'm really not looking forward to adding nausea and hair loss to my pain and fatigue."

"I know, hon." I tried to sound encouraging. "But some people do quite well with the chemo and don't have many side effects at all. Who knows, you may be one of the lucky ones."

Peg nodded almost imperceptibly. "Sure," she said. "Why not?"

We passed the next few minutes in idle chatter about unimportant things. The time passed slowly until at last a nurse came through the double doors and called out our names. We dutifully followed her into the large treatment room which was curved in a horseshoe layout.

Beds and chairs were stationed at intervals on either side of the wide aisle. Some were already occupied, cancer patients hooked up to machines delivering their prescribed quotient of drugs. Several patients called out greetings as they welcomed us to the Center – "Good morning." "You new here?" "Don't worry, you'll get used to the routine after a while." "It's not so bad, actually. This is my fifth visit." And so on. They all seemed in remarkably good spirits. 'Now that's courage,' I thought to myself.

"Take a seat here please. May I call you Peggy?" asked our nurse. "We'll get to know each other quite well over the next little while."

"Yes, by all means," replied Peg. "And you are?"

"Oh, I'm Ruth," she replied, pointing to the name tag pinned to her lapel. "I'll be setting you up for your treatment and monitoring everything. So if you'd please remove your jacket and sweater and just make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a few minutes." With that, Ruth spun smartly on her heel and walked across the aisle to busy herself with another patient.

"How you feeling?" I asked Peg.

"Stop asking me that Dave," she replied. "I'm fine. Really. See, there's another chair. Pull that over and sit beside me. I'm sure the nurses won't mind. Read a magazine or something. They said the treatment is going to take three hours or more so you might as well try and relax."

That was so like Peg, trying to put me at ease when she herself must have been anxious about what was about to happen. I did as she suggested, marveling at how calm she was keeping. Ruth ignored me completely when she returned, focusing all her attention on Peg.

She went about preparing the central and IV lines with practiced efficiency, plugging them into the main delivery port which Peg had had implanted into her chest the week before. All the while Ruth chatted about the three medication mixtures Peg was going to receive and in what order, how the saline flush between each infusion would be done, and what she might physically experience over the next few hours.

As she prepared to turn on the med pump she got down on her haunches before Peg and said: "If you have questions, or need anything, don't hesitate to call me, okay? I'll be at the end of the corridor making some notes in your files. Remember, anything at all. Just shout. Or your husband can come and get me," said Ruth, looking at me for the first time. With that, she started up the machine, made some adjustments to the lines, smiled, offered Peg one final word of encouragement and left to take up her other tasks.

We sat in silence, listening intently to the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of the machine as it dispensed its toxic concoction. There was no need for talk. Everything that needed to be said between us had already been covered. After several minutes Peg laid her head back and closed her eyes.

I kept glancing at her over the magazine I held before me. I wasn't sure what to expect. Images of her suddenly crying out, vomiting or going into spasms raced unheralded and unwelcome through my mind. Seeing her instead reclined and at ease was strangely comforting.

Feeling totally redundant to the entire proceedings I turned back to the magazine, flipping the pages and mindlessly taking in the contents without really comprehending what I was reading. Ruth came to Peg's side on several occasions to look over electronic charts and make notes in a file.

Towards the end of the treatment Peg's oncologist came by to spend a few minutes with us. Handing me a stack of literature, he advised Peg to stay out of the sunlight as much as possible now that the chemo treatments had begun.

"I'd suggest you wear sunglasses whenever you're outside," he advised. "And if you notice your gums bleeding when you brush your teeth, you can gargle with salt water to prevent infection. Other than that, I want you to check in with the office periodically between treatments to let us know how you're doing. Read the literature I've left with Dave. It's full of helpful tips on how to deal with any side-effects you might experience. There's also a helpful guide on what foods to eat and so on." With that he reached over, tapped Peg encouragingly on the arm and made to leave.

"Can we go now?" I asked.

"Shortly," replied the oncologist. The nurse has a few administrative things to do and then you can go home."

"Thanks Doctor," I said.

"Yes thanks," joined in Peg. "That wasn't as bad as I thought it might be."

Smiling, he said "stay in touch", turned and walked over to the next bed.

But Peg was not to be one of the 'lucky ones.' After the second treatment a few weeks later she experienced severe bouts of nausea and vomiting. By her fifth treatment her hair had begun to fall out in large chunks. She no longer had eyebrows. Her naturally robust complexion paled considerably to take on a chalky appearance. She could no longer tolerate bright lights so I removed several bulbs from their sockets in the house. Eventually, spending time in the sun-room was no longer an option for her and, for the most part, Peg sat instead in the dimly lit living room or stayed in bed until late afternoon.

As her health deteriorated the news from Norman's office and the oncologist only got worse. In one conversation, four months into the treatments, Norman volunteered that radiation therapy after chemo was now very unlikely.

"The specialists don't believe it will do any good," he explained. To Peg and I, the message was that the doctors were giving up. They felt they had done everything they could for her medically.

Towards the end of her life Peg spent short spells in the hospital so her condition could be more closely monitored. Her time at home was both emotionally painful as well as spiritually uplifting for me and the kids as we supported each other unreservedly through our worst moments of anxiety and rampant fear of losing Peg.

Eventually she was put on a self-administered morphine drip and one day, during one of his home visits, Norman called me into the kitchen. "You'll need to help her with the drip now," he said in a forthright manner. "I've shown you how to adjust the amount she's getting. You should feel perfectly okay about altering the flow needed to keep her comfortable. Do you understand what I mean?"

"I....I think so," I replied softly.

"No, I'm not sure you do," said Norm. "If she tells you to increase the dosage, do it. She will know how much she needs for the result she wants. And she will tell you when. Listen to her, okay? Be strong for her. You owe her that much."

"Okay. Understood." My throat hurt from trying to control my emotions, to choke back the tears. Norman had always had a soft spot for Peg. It was now clear what his instructions to me meant. I only needed direction from Peg.

Four days later, on a Monday evening in April, Peg made her wishes known. The house was quiet and I was seated at her bedside. We had not said anything to each other for over an hour. Reclined against a mountain of pillows, she turned her head towards me and whispered: "Darling, it's time to up my meds. I want to rest now, for a very long time. Please, will you do it? Please, for me. I know you know what I mean. Do this one last thing for me."

It was from her that I found the courage to make the final adjustment to the drip. I got into bed beside her, cradled her head on my shoulder and she died in my arms peacefully about an hour later. I stayed with her for a long time after she had stopped breathing. Then, gently, I laid her back once more onto the pillows and walked over to the phone to make the calls I had always hoped would not become necessary.

****

Mark accompanied me to the funeral home where Jen was already receiving condolences from the guests. As we pulled into the driveway it was immediately apparent that several hundred people would be attending the service.

"A lot of people have come to pay their respects," I observed.

"Nice to see," replied Mark.

"When it comes my time, just put me in a hole somewhere," I continued. "I mean, I know people want to say goodbye and all that, but funerals ... I dunno, I just don't see the need, you know."

"What else would you suggest?" asked Mark.

"In other cultures, funerals are an occasion to celebrate the life of the departed, to get together and ... well ... celebrate everything that was good about the person while they lived. I'm not explaining it very well. Yes, we talk about their qualities and what they did, but it's mostly lip service. 'Cause on the flip side we're wringing our hands, crying, hugging too hard, looking for solace and consolation. It's really our own loss that we're so-called celebrating. It's an enigma, really. It's more like self-pity than anything else." I stopped to draw breath, then realized there was no more to add.

Mark was silent as he pulled into a reserved parking spot. Then he turned to me and said: "We're here to honor Mom. Let the guests do the same. Let's not philosophize the whole event. Being here is tough enough as it is." He was right. This was not the time.

Peg had chosen a solid poplar casket with a walnut finish and white satin interior. The Funeral Home Director and staff had taken care of every other detail from pre-planning the ceremony during Peg's illness to writing the obituary notice and preparing a graveside committal service They even provided a book of condolence, a memorial tribute in which family and guests recorded their thoughts in the form of a biography, poems, stories and photographs illustrating Peg's life.

Jen met us at the door as we walked into the dimly lit interior. Dour, mournful classical music played lightly in the background, adding its somber beat resolutely to the morose ambiance.

"I know Dad," said Jen. "The music's a bit much. But the flowers!" Many of the mourners had sent elegant bouquets and decorative wreathes as a mark of final respect and expressions of their personal condolences. In front of the closed coffin stood a huge casket spray of Flame Lilies and White Orchids. "Look at them!" exclaimed Jen as she moved her arm in a sweeping arc across the displays. "They're so beautiful."

"Yes," I marveled, taking in the front of the room. "Kinda helps to lighten the atmosphere a bit. They add some grace and color to the occasion at least." With that Jen leaned into my embrace, sobbing gently. I held her close for a minute then pulled back, reached for my handkerchief and handed it to her.

"Here, take this. I brought two."

"Thanks," she said quietly. Then she turned to hug her brother. Together the three of us walked past rows of pews to the front of the hall and exchanged greetings with the Funeral Director. We took our places on the front row and the ceremony began with opening remarks by the Director, expressing his condolences to those gathered and, congruent to the occasion in a strange sort of way, explained the building's emergency regulations and exit locations in the event of a fire. He followed up his introductory remarks with a review of the proceedings and then gave the podium up to our parish priest.

Father Donahue said all the right things and somehow managed to convey to the assembled crowd that Peg and her family were a valued part of the Christian family, which was very kind of him given that we rarely attended Sunday services. Both Peg and I were agnostic. Oh, we prayed alright. Especially when trouble came visiting. Somehow we always came through okay so why jinx the habit? But that there was a supreme being looking out for our interests, well, that was more than we could countenance. We weren't important enough to warrant individual attention, we rationalized. At this moment, I believed in God about as much as I believed in total and lasting world peace.

"And so," he concluded, "it's into God's care that we deliver our beloved Peggy and pray for His forgiveness and His loving support in our hour of greatest need. God be with you all."

I leaned over to Mark. "Sounds like he's sending us off to do battle. He's read too much Churchill." It was my turn to say a few words to a roomful of people, most of whom I only knew in passing. I had no idea what I was going to say. I walked to the podium enveloped in the hushed silence of the hall. I desperately tried to collect my thoughts for the umpteenth time since Peg had died. Nothing formed. I was simply thankful that neither her parents nor mine had lived long enough to witness this day. And, so, that's how I began.

"It's so very hard to know where the blessings are to be found on occasions like these. Peg was such a special person, as you all know, and I'm only grateful that neither of her parents are alive today to share in this saddest of experiences."

I wanted to tell those present what a wonderful human being Peg had been, how much she gave of herself to others, and how important it was to her that she somehow enrich the lives of all those with whom she came into contact. I wanted to laud her skills as a parent, wife and friend. I wanted to remind them that Peg had shown as much courage in facing her death as she had exhibited in living her life – with zest, energy, imagination and always with compassion and understanding. I wanted them to know her as I knew her. Instead I stumbled through rambling thoughts about events and memories that had made our's an exceptional and enviable marriage.

"But," I concluded, "I am most grateful to Peg for giving me our daughter and son. In them, she remains with us. Through them we can continue to celebrate her life. Thank you all for being here today. Your presence is a fine tribute to a truly wonderful person whose loss we experience much too soon and feel so completely."

Jen leaped to her feet, no longer mindful of protocol, and hurried towards the podium to meet me with a rush of tears, arms around my neck. "Thank you, Dad. That was wonderful. So moving."

We returned to our seats and Mark reached for my hand. "Well done, Dad. You never were very good at public speaking but this time you excelled. Mom would be proud."

The rest of the ceremony and the reception afterward went by in a blur. So many words shared between handshakes, tears and heartfelt embraces. As the last of the guests began to leave, I found I was emotionally drained. I could give nothing more. My only wish was to leave the Funeral Home and put the day's events behind us, if not erase them from our memories altogether.

"Jen, Mark. You're coming home, right? At least for a couple of days?" I asked, more as a reminder to myself that I was looking forward to their company, not wishing to be alone just yet.

"Yeah," replied Mark. "Remember, we talked about that. I can stay until tomorrow morning. Then I have to get back. But I can come home again next weekend to spend some time with you."

"And I'll be around for a while anyway," continued Jen. "I promised my boss I'd be back at work by Wednesday. We'll just take it easy for a couple of days. If you want I can help you finish up some of the paperwork and go with you to the cemetery before I leave. I never did say goodbye to Mom properly."

"Sounds good to me. Thanks you two," I said, relieved by their responses. Just how much I would need their company came as a rush of reality as soon as I opened the front door of the house. The physical absence of Peg's presence was almost palpable. My grief hit me like a sledge hammer to the chest, leaving me breathless. The children followed me into the living room. I was oblivious to the fact that they, too, would be suffering, overcome with sorrow.

"I'm going to fix a drink. Anyone join me?"

"I'll take a small one," said Mark, coming to stand at my side as I poured a generous shot of Jack Daniels into a tumbler and then poured a second for him. He placed his hand on my shoulder and we looked at each other for a moment before we simultaneously lifted and drained our glasses. Jen had gone into the kitchen to make herself some herbal tea. As I swallowed the liquid amber, I couldn't help but feel that I would have to rely on the whiskey a great deal to make it through this night with my sanity still somewhat intact.

I had hardly slept and eaten in days and the alcohol rushed straight to my head. After a couple of hours of refills it was all I could do to stand up. I do not recall what we talked about or how the evening ended. I awoke late the next morning to find myself fully dressed, lying on the master bed, with a hangover you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. The inside of my mouth felt like the bottom of a bird-cage from all the cigarettes I had smoked the night before.

Jen was up before everyone, keeping herself busy in the kitchen. She came through and tapped lightly on the bedroom door. "Dad, you awake?"

"Barely," I responded.

"Breakfast is ready."

"Ahhh... thanks. But no thanks. I'm not hungry."

"I think you should eat something. Mark is already tucking into the omelet I made. C'mon. Join us. If you don't want eggs I'll make you some toast. And you'll need lots of coffee."

I wanted to hurry through a shower and change of clothes, but moving was painful and I struggled to cope with the simple routine as though I was rowing in molasses. The advantage was that by the time I joined the kids I was feeling marginally more human again.

"'Bout time you showed up," quipped Mark, as he ran a critical eye over my still somewhat disheveled appearance. "How you feeling?"

"Don't ask," was my short reply.

"Are you going to be okay, Dad?" he asked guardedly.

"Physically? Yeah, I'll be fine."

Mark stood up from the table to bring his plate to the sink. As he began rinsing, he said over his shoulder: "It's Ten O'clock. I have to get going. It's a long drive. By the way, Dad, what's happening with your job?"

"I called my boss the day before your mother died," I explained. "I can't say they're happy about it but the company will give me an extended leave of absence on compassionate grounds. And so they should, considering everything I've done for them over the past 20 years. Arthur is a pretty reasonable guy. I don't know how long I'll take off. Even if it's a week or two, he'll be okay with that as long as I keep in touch."

"I just want to be sure you're gonna be okay, especially once Jen leaves," said Mark. "It would be good if you got back to work as soon as you can. You'll need something to occupy your mind. You can't just sit around the house moping and feeling bad about Mom."

"Don't worry," interjected Jen, picking up on the sensitivity of Mark counseling me on how to handle my grief. "I'll take good care of Dad until mid-week and then it's only two or three more days and we'll be back. Right? So that's something to look forward to, the three of us together for the weekend."