The Big C

"Yes, that was part of it."

"We will...I mean I will have to stop. I suppose I should never had started."

"We can't change history, but yes, WE have to stop," I agreed, it takes two to tango.

Sandy realized her attire was perhaps not in keeping with the sober mood and left in the direction of her bedroom. I continued with my breakfast and tried to massage the kink out of my neck. Sandy appeared more modestly dressed with her smile back.

"Jack's awake," she said brightly.

"And he's..." I started.

"In a very good mood," she finished, "but apparently you started a book last night and he wants you to read some more, before the doctors appointment today." Sandy gave me a quizzical look.

"I'll tell you later," I answered, finishing my tea. Then getting a big glass of water before heading back to the bedroom.

I read eight more chapters before Sandy kicked me out to wash and dress Jack for the doctors. They requested I tag along again, but this time I wasn't much help. The doctor spent thirty minutes explaining options from morphine pumps to meditation. Then he asked Jack to rate his pain on a scale of one to ten. With one being easily bearable, to ten being excruciating. Jack came up with a three, mostly, and sometimes a five.

They decided the best thing to do was to stay with the heavy oral painkillers for now. The doctor said they could reassess in a week, if there was any major change. He wouldn't give Jack a big amount. Instead he gave him enough for two days saying he would drive past and pop in with some more after that. It was common practice not to give terminally ill patients too much medication at once, in case they tried to end it early.

Back at the house, I once again read aloud. Only this time it was in the lounge room. Sandy came in and sat with us for a while. Jack caught her up on the story, but she wasn't as enthusiastic as we were for it. She adjourned to the kitchen to organize some dinner, and I got up to get a drink.

He allowed me to stop to eat, but while sitting around the table Jack laid down the law.

"You know Allan, you can't leave until you finish that book."

I thought he was joking. "Don't worry mate, I'll be back next weekend."

"Allan, I know it's a lot to ask, but would you stay? While I was getting Jack dressed, we talked about it and um..." Sandy asked her face flushed with embarrassment.

"Do you mean till the end of the book or the end?"

"The bitter end," Jack said, hope on his face. "If you can't, we'll understand, but it really helps us out when you are here. Both our stress levels go down," Jack added.

I was blindsided by this and I wasn't able to give an answer straight away. "I'm not sure guys. Um...can I let you know tomorrow? I just haven't even...you know...ah... the idea has never entered my head. These situations are usually private things."

I spent a restless night thinking over Sandy and Jack's request. It was only going to be a couple of weeks and I could easily get the time off work. Except I wasn't sure I wanted to be in this highly charged emotional zone. Did I really need to sit and watch somebody else die? In the end, Sandy and Jack's needs won out over my own misgivings. I told them my decision over a late breakfast.

"I can hang around, but I want you to tell me to piss off if you want some privacy, okay?" They nodded. "Alright, first thing tomorrow, I'll go home to get some clothes and ring my boss."

"Will that be a problem?" Sandy asked, uncertain again.

"No, I'm not indispensable and he owes me some time."

After breakfast, we all went for a drive and a walk. In Jack's case, a wheel around the riverside park. After a refreshing dose of the outdoors, it was back home to the story. We finished it that night before Jack fell asleep. Then I went to bed.

That became a pattern. A late breakfast, followed by all of us or sometimes just Jack and myself, going to see his friends and relatives. The afternoons were for resting and reading. I had many books that I could read on my iPad. We stuck to the fiction books,alternating between the action hero of Jack Reacher and John Rebus, Ian Rankin's drunken detective from Edinburgh. I slept in the guest room without disturbance, but I did wake twice and thought I sensed somebody in the room with me. That may well have been my over active imagination.

For the first ten days, there was little outward change in Jack's condition. However on the next Thursday morning, a panicked Sandy woke me.

"Allen! Allen!" I sat up pushing away Sandy's shaking hands.

"What's wrong?"

"I was getting Jack dressed and he started shaking. Then he had some sort of fit and fell off the bed. He won't wake up!" She almost screamed the last bit.

"Call the doctor," I said grabbing a dressing gown and hurrying to Jack and Sandy's bedroom.

Jack was on his side on the floor, I got down beside him realized he was still breathing, but he was unconscious. His colour was still good and his pulse was strong, so I was hopeful it wasn't the end. By the time the doctor arrived, he was semi-conscious. Sandy and I had him back on the bed. The doctor looked him over, then motioned for us to follow him outside.

"He's had a seizure. Probably the tumor at the base of his skull has grown and is putting pressure on the brain itself. Now it's up to you. We can get him to hospital, do the scans, and confirm that, or we can let him rest here. I think in a couple of hours, he will be back as normal."

"So you're saying not to take him to hospital?" I inquired trying to clarify his statement.

"No, what I'm saying is, my professional advice is, to take him for scans. However as a friend and given the scarcity of time left for Jack. Do you really want to be waiting around in a hospital for three quarters of the day?"

"But what if he has damaged himself?" Sandy asked a quite reasonable question if we weren't talking about a man with a week to live.

The doctor sighed. It was tough for him. He had taken an oath to do everything to preserve life. He had a legal obligation to do much the same. He knew the score in this situation, he just couldn't spell it out.

I put my arm around Sandy. "We will keep an eye on him for a couple of hours and if he starts to deteriorate, we will call you," I explained.

Sandy gave me a look, but I tried to act reassuring. The doctor said "thanks," and left.

"Why no scans. What if he has a fractured skull?" Sandy was agitated.

"I'm sure he checked him thoroughly. If Jack hasn't improved in an hour, I'll take him to the hospital. Although we both know he is sick of all that stuff, getting poked and prodded, and the interminable waiting."

Sandy still seemed unsure. Come on," I said. "Let's go in and sit with him."

We didn't need an hour. In ten minutes, he was a lot brighter. I started reading again and he lay back holding Sandy's hand. He didn't get out of bed that day and his excursions out became less frequent and shorter in the days to follow. The seizure had started something, it also jogged my memory of something that Sandy and Jack might want sorted. Over dinner, I asked them about what type of a sendoff they wanted for Jack.

"What do you mean?" Sandy replied.

"Well, there's the big one, burial, cremation or a Viking burial?" I said trying to keep things light.

"Viking burial?" Jack looked confused.

"We will throw you in the tinny, pile in some timber, set you alight and let you float down the river." We all giggled at that and after that subsided I asked, "have you thought about it?"

"No, didn't you say I was supposed to concentrate on living?" Jack seemed annoyed.

"Yes, I know, but I'm not always right. I remembered the other day that I hadn't done anything before my wife died. In the state that I was in after her death, I don't think I did her justice with the funeral."

We went through everything that I could think of regarding a memorial service. They selected a funeral director and we contacted him to firm up the details. We spoke about other funerals we had been to, what we liked and what we didn't. I recounted how one of my old work colleagues, a football nut, had requested when they carried him out of the church, for a recording of "Dropkick Me Jesus, (through the goalposts of life)" to be played.

The Wednesday following Jack's first seizure, we took Jack on what was to become his last outing. We went to the cemetery and he watched as Sandy placed flowers on his parents' graves. On the way back to the car, Jack had another of his fade-outs. He slumped in the wheel chair almost falling out. After getting him back to the car, I rang the doctor and he said to come straight to the back of his surgery. When we got there his practice nurse was waiting. She helped us get Jack into one of the examination rooms through the back door.

The doctor came in and went through his routine checks. Jack was still breathing and had a strong pulse, but wasn't conscious. We stayed for two hours and the doctor checked back, in between other patients. Jack hadn't regained consciousness and his pulse had slowed. The doctor took Sandy and I into his office and closed the door. We sat down and the doctor moved his chair out from behind his desk, closer to us.

"I think we have reached the endgame," he said quietly,. Sandy choked back a sob. "As always with these things, I don't know for sure, but you have to decide how to proceed." We nodded and he continued. "I'll organize an ambulance to take Jack from here, but where he goes is up to you. He can go to the hospital or he can go home. In hospital, there will be interventions to slow down the process, oxygen mask, etc. At home, the end will be quicker, but having a person die in your house isn't for everybody. So it's up to you."

Sandy grasped my hand tightly,. "Jack didn't want to be kept alive by machines and I want his passing to be peaceful. I want him at home."

The doctor smiled and patted Sandy's leg. "Good choice. There is something I want to warn you about. Some patients, not all, have a sudden surge of energy. It's like the body and the brain give it one last shot. I had a case where a woman had been nursing her terminally ill son. He had been unconscious for two days. She went to the toilet and came out to find him standing at the fridge with the door open looking for a drink. It can be disturbing and lead people to believe a miracle has happened. Generally, it last less than five minutes and is followed by a very rapid decline."

"Okay," Sandy replied weakly.

The doctor rang for the ambulance and thirty minutes later, the ambulance officers were placing Jack on his bed. Sandy stayed with him and I made us something to eat. She stayed beside his bed all afternoon holding his hand. I walked in and out, trying to keep active. That had always been my coping mechanism, even during my wife's final days.

About nine that night, I'd made a cup of coffee in the kitchen when I heard excited voices coming from the bedroom. Walking in with two cups, I saw the end of the bed had been pumped up and Jack was sitting up talking to Sandy. She sat on the edge of the bed holding his hand and lightly touching his face.

"Thanks for the coffee mate, but I'd kill for a beer." Jack said to me, his voice raspy.

I put the cups down and returned to the kitchen for three beers,. I took the tops off and in the room shared them around.

I made a toast, "to good friends and true love!" We clinked the bottles together and each had a mouthful.

Jack smacked his lips and sighed laying back into the pillows stacked behind him. He closed his eyes and they never opened again. His body held on until, with one last rattling breath, he died at midnight. Sandy laid her head upon Jack's chest and sobbed. I left the room so she could start the process of grieving. I called the doctor to let him know the end had come, expecting just to leave a message, but he answered. He had been on a call for a road accident, and was just heading back home. He said he would swing by to do the formalities for the death certificate.

Next, I rang the funeral director. Unfortunately he was awake due to the same road accident. I explained that Sandy was still with Jack. He understood saying that he would take his time arriving and he would wait until Sandy was ready.

The last person I rang was Sandy's sister, she was going to come and stay. I only got her answering machine, but that would be fine as she would still get here tomorrow. Sandy came out with her face red from crying. I held my arms out and she walked to me, resting her head on my shoulder. She cried some more. The doctor arrived and did his thing, followed by the funeral director. He inquired if it would be all right to move the body, Sandy asked for another couple of minutes.

A little later Sandy came out of the room carrying the suit that she wanted him buried in. The funeral director and his son wheeled a trolley in and came back a short time later with Jack's covered body. After seeing them out I gave Sandy a couple more sleeping pills putting her to bed in the guest room. Exhausted I plonked down on the lounge to get some sleep myself.

The morning sun streaming in through a window woke me a few hours later. I sat up disorientated at first, then came back to the reality of the previous night's events. After checking in on the still sleeping Sandy, I went to the main bedroom. Switching on the light, I stared into the room. The unmade bed that Jack had previously occupied and the now redundant hoist were monuments to the previous two weeks. I walked to the small bedside table. The three partly drunk beer bottles sat forlornly amongst the pill bottles and lolly wrappers.

Pulling myself out of the maudlin mood, I began tidying. It seemed like the right thing to do. Taking the beer bottles out to the kitchen, I emptied the remaining contents down the sink. Returning to the room with a garbage bag I loaded it with any rubbish I could find. Next I stripped the sheets of Jack's bed, taking them to the laundry.

Going back to the bedroom, I wheeled the hoist to the front door. It would go back to the medical supplies place. I was pushing the hospital bed to the front door as well, when a disheveled Sandy appeared from the guest room. I stopped pushing and hesitated unsure what to do or say. Thinking back to my time straight after my wife died was no help, because I couldn't really remember anything until the day of the funeral. I had been a walking, talking zombie just going through the motions of life trying not to feel anything.

Leaving the bed, I went to her and gave her a hug. She didn't respond with her arms, they staying limply by her side. She merely rested her head on my shoulder. There was no point inquiring about how she felt, instead I asked if she wanted some breakfast. She shook her head, I led her into the kitchen anyway, sat her down putting the kettle on for a cup of tea.

We sat opposite each other without speaking, I held her hand as she stared off into space. Thankfully, there was a knock on the door and it was her sister, Angela. It meant a fresh round of tears, but I discovered Angela was a people person and she took charge of Sandy. It left me to do the mechanical things, which suited me anyway. I returned the hospital bed and the hoist, borrowing a truck from one of Jack's builder friends. In the process, I began spreading the word of the nights events through the various networks that existed under the surface of a small town.

When I was back at the house, Angela put me in charge of the phone. Taking calls of condolence and noting down names.The funeral director came in the afternoon and finalized the details of the burial and memorial service, to be held the following Tuesday. A few close friends came to visit, but Angela kept a tight rein on how long they stayed. I packed my things and was on my way to the front door, when Sandy saw me and called out to me.

"Allan? Where are you going?"

"Not far, I've booked into a pub in town," I explained.

"Why?" she asked walking towards me.

"With Jack gone...it just seems more appropriate. You know how gossip can start." Angela appeared behind Sandy and gave me a slight nod to show her approval.

"But...but," Sandy spluttered as she reached where I stood.

I put my hands on her upper arms holding her,. "I'll be back tomorrow, and I won't go home until after the funeral." I assured her, but she didn't seem convinced. I pulled her close and this time she clung to me.

"No, you have to stay!"

"I will. I'll only be gone at night time. You haven't got enough beds. The house will be full when Angela's family arrive tonight."

Reluctantly she let me go, only after I assured her yet again, I would be back for dinner. The weekend wasn't great. My room at the pub was dreary and I had no urge to spend extra time there, but Sandy's house wasn't much better. Waiting for a funeral is almost as excruciating as waiting for someone to die. There wasn't much to do, so was a lot of sitting around, reminiscing, and feeling sad. Angela's husband and I put Jack and Sandy's queen sized bed back together in their...her room.

On the day of the funeral, Sandy got her game day face on. She wore a simple black dress topped with a black hat. The church was full and the congregation spilled out the front and the sides. Large speakers had been set up outside so those out there could hear the proceedings. Sandy sat in the front row with her family while I sat in the pew behind.

It was a fitting service. Warren Martin led the eulogies, followed by one of Jack's building friends, and finally I read a short piece that Sandy prepared. As always, the lowering of the coffin at the cemetery caused the peak of the emotional turmoil for the crowd. Sandy stood up to it well, but I could tell it was taking a terrible toll.

The wake was at the local ex-serviceman's club. It was shoulder to shoulder at first, but after an hour the crowd began to thin. I stayed in the background. This was a chance for everybody else to share in Sandy's sorrow. When it was down to the hard core, who looked like they intended to see the next dawn before finishing, I suggested that I take Sandy home. Angela had left earlier with her husband and children.

At the house, I pulled up at the top of the driveway close to the house. Sandy made no move to get out, so I turned off the car. She turned in her seat to face me.

"You're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?" This wasn't a question, but an accusation with the severity of high treason.

"Yes."

"But why? I need you here!" Sandy pleaded.

"You have your sister. She is staying for another week. I have to get back to my job," I argued.

"That's bullshit!"

She had me there,. I had no desperate need to go back to my job. It was a flimsy excuse, but I felt I couldn't tell the truth. I was right that her sister was indeed staying for a week and Sandy could cajole her into another. Their days would be filled with visits from well-wishers and friends dropping in with casseroles or inviting them to share dinner elsewhere. However the nights, the long desolate nights alone, would be a different story. The need for oblivion would grow strong, and if I stayed the temptation would be too great. Not that I am an irresistible individual, but the need to forget would be unstoppable.

I harbored the thoughts of one day being with Sandy, forming a bond that could be love. The chances were slim, given I was ten years older and probably a polar opposite in personality and physical appearance to her precious Jack. I felt the probability would be zero if I took advantage of her in such an emotionally raw state. It would also set tongues wagging, the widow and the close friend who had been around a lot before Jack died. Sandy needed some time and space. The last four days had been torturous and the coming two weeks would be no better. Maybe I was just a scared.