Big Sister
Experienced user
Joined: 02 Nov 2006
Posts: 68
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 Posted: Fri Nov 23, 2007 12:49 pm Post subject: Hello Strangers --- What Do We Do Now? |
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I found this site over a year ago when my only brother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
There were only the two of us in our first family; each of us went on to marry and raise children.
We lived happy and productive lives, being good parents, good children to our aging mother, good partners to our chosen mates.
When our mother got cancer in the summer of 2005, Geoff and I were good caregivers. Even after she moved in with me for the final heartbreaking months, we always remained tight and together, on the same page with all facets of life despite the 7 years difference between us.
None of us was prepared for October of 2006, barely a year after the passing of our mother. My middle son had just gotten married, the whole family reunited and celebrated the union. At the reception my brother complained of slight back pain but then he always had one and so out came the heating pad and the Tylenol.
Two weeks later he was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. There were no other symptoms.
I think on these things today because someone just sent me the photos of Thanksgiving, 2006, the last time we were together. With the four winds at our backs and family togetherness in our hearts, we all traveled for hours from many directions across America to get to my brother's home in time for turkey.
Cornucopias of fresh fall flowers decorated the room. Meat, gravy and dressing were piled high on the tables; cranberry relish, fresh rolls, mashed potatoes, corn and squash rounded out the rest of the banquet. Pumpkin, apple, lemon and sweet potato pies made the sideboard groan.
My brother and I sat together holding hands while the activity swirled around us. Someone snapped a photo of that moment.
Side by side we watched our families talk together, him joining in occasionally with a laugh or two. He couldn't eat but just pushed his food around the plate, making it look as though he was enjoying his meal. When I finished I switched plates with him so no one would notice.
It was then that he asked me to help him to his feet.
"I thank all of you for coming today," he said softly. "We are a small family but we love each other very much. I won't be here next time you gather but I just want you to know how much your presence means to me today. I will cherish it always in my heart and someday we will be together again."
My oldest son stood, raised his glass, looked at his uncle and said: "Hear, hear!" The rest of the room stood respectfully, applauding in homage.
We did gather once more, two weeks later, when we shared another meal after Geoff's funeral. For one final time we made the trip from our homes to Central Pennsylvania where he lived to pay final final tribute to a man who had been a good father, a devoted husband, an honorable soldier, a friend to anyone who needed a friend, and a beloved brother to this big sister.
I write today because so many of you are beginning where others of us have already left off. You write about a mom or a dad, about a husband, a wife, a partner, an aunt, an uncle. You ask what to do, you ask about this drug or that surgery, you ask about eating, about sleeping, about whether to hospice or not.
Most of all you ask the most terrifying questions: Does this mean he is going to die? What are the chances for her? What do I do now?
We are all strangers here. Most of us have already lost the one who brought us to this forum. Some of our good friends who were PC sufferers themselves and who posted here have also gone as well. We occasionally peek in now and then just to see if anything has changed or to offer some counsel to those who so desperately need an answer.
Because it is 2007, almost 2008, we are incredulous that no one has found a cure, that no one can even detect pancreatic cancer before it has taken another life. Maybe in 5 years, 10 years, we will nod and say, "Oh, so that's what causes it." But not now. Now we wring our hands and hope against hope for answers that don't come, for an outcome different from the one we know is before us.
There are things you can do:
1. Understand that this is a terrifying road from which there is not much hope of escape.
2. Know that your loved one needs to whine, to deny, to cry, to worry about what's happening. Know also that these feelings will pass and that the comfort of sleep will help sooth her troubled soul.
3. Be sure that this "soul" is nourished, whether by spiritual counsel, by poetry, by music, by closeness, by the laughter of family. In truth it already belongs to Someone else and the days ahead, challenging though they may be, are just temporary stopovers on his next journey.
4. The medical people will try to help but will often be at cross-purposes. Conflicting diagnoses and mixed messages will be par for this course. Be patient with them. They know that in only rare cases is there any hope of recovery but are not trained to say those words. Let your loved one determine the extent of treatment but insist on pain relief.
5. Finally, let him go. The speed of this disease is incredible and we are left feeling that somehow there's more that could have been done. In truth, there is not. If we are lucky, as I was, as others who post here are, we have a long goodbye time, maybe even 4-5 weeks. Not like a heart attack or a traffic accident. Grab hold of the time you have. These weeks are a gift to you and your loved one. Don't squander hours wishing things werre different, hoping that there's more you could do. There is nothing. Make the most of what you have left and rejoice in the life before you.
When I look back on those days, both with my mother, then so soon with my brother, I am thankful especially for the time the disease gave me. During those horrendous weeks from diagnosis to death we shared stories, we took care of last minute details, we talked about living, dying and in between. We played cards, we cried together, we watched old movies and we made promises to each other.
I still grieve my brother's death. I still see a space in the family where he once stood. I still listen to his voice in my head but hear silence all around me. I still smell his aftershave but he is not here.
In the year that has passed, I have almost reached the point where I no longer see the ailing man in my memory but rather the healthy strong one who loved to fish and chop wood. That's the man I knew; that's the man who was my brother.
I miss him terribly.
Big Sister Pat |
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