F. Clark Howell

Epilogue

2009-08-07T14:24:00.000-07:00

I went by my mom’s house to check up on her. We took a brief walk. She seemed rather unfocused.

As a distraction, I showed her Dave Carroll’s video, United Breaks Guitars, the country music customer service complaint that is making its way around the Internet to great acclaim.

When I first saw it I kept thinking how I wished I could have run over to my folks’ home and share with my dad. I know he would have loved it and I would have loved showing it to him. ...But I can’t.

My mom loved the video, too. Just after it finished, she looked at me and said excitedly that she couldn’t wait to tell Gloria about it. She abruptly stopped talking and just looked at me for a few moments, and finally quietly and sadly added “Oh.” Clearly, the shock hasn’t worn off.

Gloria is dead

2009-08-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

She was diagnosed months before my dad. She outlived him by almost twenty–eight months—much longer than expected, an extraordinary outlier. Last week a doctor told her “You shouldn’t be here.”

Allowing for her age and other factors, my aunt was in the top 0.1% of lung cancer victims. But that’s all moot now. Gloria, my aunt and my mother’s favorite sister of her three is dead. She died yesterday morning, apparently in her sleep.

Gloria was an amazing woman, determined and strong in spirit and strength. She had been shopping for fall outfits with my mom last week. She was driving just two days before she died, albeit in a lot of pain (she took her first dose of morphine a few hours before she died). But on the same day she last driven her car, she told my mom that she thought it was time to begin hospice care. It was scheduled to have begun yesterday.

Actually, I don’t think it was the disease that killed Gloria. Yes, the cancer had metastasized and spread to her brain, spinal column, and elsewhere, causing her great pain. And it was clearly going to win soon. But the cancer had not completely debilitated and wasted her, as it had with my dad, as is typical. She did not spend her last few weeks confined to a hospital bed, her body shutting down around her like my dad. Instead, I think that she had at last come to understand that she really had reached the end of her life (her initiation of hospice being indicative). And in so accepting, her body, exhausted from her unceasing effort to live as long as possible while simultaneously fighting the cancer and bearing up under the burdens of [palliative] chemotherapy and radiation treatments, simply shut down.

Losing an older friend or a family member is a disconcerting experience. We grow up with a sense of the preceding generation being a safety net beneath us, always there, more experienced and wiser, ready to catch us when we fall. With each death the net becomes more tattered, eventually completely fraying into the illusion it always was. We are left with the sobering realization that we are in fact floating over the inevitable void, into which we, too, will eventually will be drawn.

My mother has lost three of the four most important people in her life, all to cancer: her mother, husband and sister. (And she herself has had three instances of melanoma). Now I’m all she has left.

Father's Day

2009-06-21T22:20:00.000-07:00

I cried today, twice, as Kate held me. I miss my best friend. I miss my dad. I will, every day, for the rest of my life. And I know that I am not alone: http://fchowell.blogspot.com/2008/03/one-year.html. My assessment of the universe stands.

Counterpoint and Bookeneds

2008-06-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

A week ago today, on June 14th, I married the love of my life. A week from today, on June 28th, I will be standing atop a hillock, in the middle of a wheat field, overlooking the small Spanish town of Ambrona, about two hours’ drive from Madrid. I will be one of about thirty Americans there. An untold number of Spaniards and at least one Frenchman will be there as well. The wedding was four months in planning. Planning for this event, though much more informal, began more than twice as many months ago.

I have not been to Ambrona since I was eighteen, a newly–minted high school graduate. I spent much of that summer there. At the time, there were numerous pits in the ground, sectioned off by pegs and long white strings, and filled with lots of older folks, covered with sweat and clay dust and, as a consequence, a rather viscous mud. (Those ‘older folks’ were principally Cal upper-division and graduate anthropology students. If conditions were similar today, their peers would all seem quite young to me by comparison, such are the many years that have passed.)

We are meeting there to remember my dad, who passed away fifteen months ago. The location is one of the four big archeological sites he excavated. (The others are in the Omo river basin in southern Ethiopia, Isimila in Tanzania and Yarimburgaz in Turkey.) It is my expectation that people will be gathering in those places as well (two of the three other sites are being actively excavated).

My mother will be by my side. My sister, who could not join us will be with us in spirit. My wife, who is still recovering from our wedding, is staying home by choice; she is right that the event will be no honeymoon. The one day recuperating and three days we spent in Monterey following our joining was far from sufficient for either of us. We will be going to Hawai’i for ten days for our ‘official honeymoon’ on the Monday following the events in Spain. (I will be recording the entire affair so that both my sister and wife will be able to see what will have transpired.)

This is my trip. I knew last summer, just a few months after my dad died, that I would have to go. I need the closure. When I mentioned my intent to my mother, she thought it to be a wonderful idea and wanted to accompany me. We set a date. It was at which point I reached out to my dad’s friends and colleagues to see if any of them would like to join us... There will probably be at least sixty joining my mother and me on that little grassy hilltop. We are stunned and gratified. Many more who cannot join us have sent us brief remembrances and thoughts of my father to read aloud. I know there will be tears.

The site has long been quiet. No stakes nor pegs remain. The pits have long since silted up in the winter rains. Wheat grows over the shallow depressions that remain, all but hiding them. There is little evidence of what took place for all those years my father worked there save for a bumpy gravel road up to the site and a one room ‘museum’ that is as much a storehouse for some of the bigger fossils that were found there well more than two decades ago. Every once in a while, somebody comes by to check on it.

For me the trip will be frantic: I leave for Madrid Thursday morning, arriving Friday morning and drive to Siguenza, about twenty minutes from Ambrona, where I will stay for two nights. The memorial is on Saturday morning. On Sunday morning, I drive to Madrid and catch a flight back to the states. I arrive into San Francisco at 11PM. I then continue on to Hawai’i at 4PM the next day, Monday. Then I will relax. But the effort will be worth it. It will be a closure, a bookend, for myself, my mother and many of my dad‘s friends. My mother and many other people are more sanely going to stay and enjoy more of Spain, as well as England, France and Morocco, and other destinations.

And so the joy of my marriage is counter-pointed by the memories that are being evinced as a pack and prepare. I find myself at perhaps the most profound moment in my life, looking back with tears while looking ahead with smiles. Life is complicated.

One Year

2008-03-10T20:11:00.000-07:00

In a few short hours it will be one year since my dad died. Remembering the aching slowness of the first few weeks following his passing, it seems amazing that the remainder could fly by so quickly.

We’ve survived our first Thanksgiving, our first Christmas and now we will live through the first anniversary. None has been pleasant for there has always been a ghost among us. One who may haunt each of us for the rest of our lives. For the dead-but-loved never really leave us. They stay deep inside of us, a chronic ache that adds poignancy to our experiences.

A few weeks ago, I was driving up to my mom’s home. I was driving my dad’s old white Honda Accord; part of my inheritance and a frequent reminder. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and I had the window rolled down. It was about the time my dad used to come home from work.

As I rolled up San Luis Avenue near her home, I espied my mother taking her daily stroll around her neighborhood. I tapped the horn twice ('beep beep') and called out 'Hi!' My mother looked up and saw the car and froze. She started to tremble. "Why it’s... it’s... It’s been so long! I’m so glad to see you!" And then she sort of shook her head and stared at me and she started to cry. She was still crying several minutes later after she finished her walk and we met back at her home.

No, those we love, those we need and cherish, never really leave us. They are there, right inside.

Half A World Away

2008-02-24T15:12:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks after my dad died, I allowed this blog to be indexed by search engines (notably Google. Theretofore, though this blog was publicly accessible, if you typed ‘F. Clark Howell’ into Google or Yahoo, these entries from this blog wouldn’t appear among the search results. As I wrote then, one of my impetuses for so doing was:

A number of people have commented that they think other people facing the loss of a loved one may find value in reading about my dad’s disease and death, and my experiences of it. One person even recommeded I formally publish the text. Again, I am flattered. If other people find useful information or solace herein, then this effort will have served a far greater purpose than I ever intended.

— fchowell.blogspot.com (31 March 2007)

My encouragers have been proven right: On February 23, 2008, I received the following e-mail:

Hello Brian,

I just wanted to drop you a note to say thank you for your wonderful blog on your father's battle with cancer. My mother passed away of cancer just yesterday, after a four-month ordeal during which I was with her all the time. I had read your blog during that time, and it helped immensely to deal with what we were going through. I particularly appreciated the honesty with which you wrote, without romanticising the uglier aspects of dying.

You have my heartfelt thanks.

Best regards,

Sunil D'Monte
Bombay, India.

I do not know how many other people have stumbled across this blog, if any. But if only for Mr. D’Monte, I am amazed and gratified.

Phantasm

2007-09-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

I’m a 45 years-old man and I just spent a couple of minutes clutching my Teddy bear. Ridiculous!? The bear is a souvenir of a recent trip to Peru with Kate. I found him in a shop for Peruvian handicrafts. He is extremely soft–it’s amusing to see people pick him up for the first time: They see him on my sofa and kind of laugh. Then, almost invariably, they bend over to pick him up for a better look for they know me and they know that his presence there implies he’s something special. The moment they first touch him they discover that specialness. He is extraordinarily soft! It is almost unbelievable how soft he is. His fur is made from baby alpaca.

I bought him as much because I knew I could never communicate the unbelievable sensuousness of touching him as a desire of finding an especially worthy small child on whom to bestow him. However, he has grown on me, gamely and genially sitting as he does in the middle of one of my sofas. And he’s become a conversation piece and a happy reminder of a remarkable trip. So he may remain in my company for quite some time to come.

I named him ‘Peru Bear’, both to acknowledge his provenance and as an homage to my dad, who from my earliest memories, called me “Pooh Bear” after the character in the A.A. Milne books, which I adored as a child and of which I demanded incessant repeated readings from both my parents. (My childhood Teddy bear was named ‘Pooh Bear’, too, for that very reason.)

I am listening to the voice of my father. Tears are running down my face. It is playing back on the little digital voice recorder I purchased to record his stories when he was first diagnosed. Alas, circumstances being as they were, I have just a couple of hours. What I have is extremely precious. The portion that I am listening to was recorded December 3rd, 2006, just over three months before he died. He is chatting with Kate’s parents in my parents’s bedroom. He is his typical self: Charming, warm, entertaining and fascinating. People are chuckling and laughing. His topics range broadly, from his early years with my mother to working with Louis Leakey. Stories that I always just kind of took in stride but now realize in part define just how remarkable a man he really was.

At worst, I cried inconsolably. I felt like the ground was falling away from under me.

Grieving alone, when there is nobody to hold or console you, is doubly miserable. I ran and grabbed my bear. I needed to hold on to something warm and comforting. I clutched the bear for a few minutes as I cried deeply and the tears surged.

I miss my dad terribly.

The worst part of watching my dad die was the feeling of absolute powerlessness, of wanting to do something–anything to help him, to prolong his time with me just a bit, fundamentally selfish though that was. Listening to him now brought back those feelings. There is nothing more horrifying that watching the life being inexorably and irrevocably drained from someone you love.

I have searched on the Web for the phrase “I miss my dad”. I found thousands of blog posts, essays, poems and other messages from people of all ages who deeply miss their own dads. And I have been told that my blog induced some of its readers to hours of tears as it evoked them to relived the losses of their own parents. I am somewhat comforted knowing that I am far from alone in the strength of my feelings. But I realize, too, that I am afflicted with a gaping rent in my psyche that can never be mended. The loss is simply too great.

I think about my dad every day. I want to talk to him. To see him. To see his face light up and hear him say with his distinctive, cheery intonation, “Hi Brian! How are you?” when I walk in to his home. Pressing ‘play’ doesn’t begin to come close.

Three Months

2007-06-11T22:29:00.000-07:00

I know I said this blog was finished. I lied. It may never be finished. I don’t know or care whether anybody even reads it anymore.

Today it is three months since my dad died. Well, technically, he died three months ago yesterday, March 10th, but it was so close to midnight that it seems like it happened on March 11th. That’s when all the people came and his body was taken away.

The cards and letters did finally stop. Oh, one appears every week or so as word is still spreading, though pretty much everybody knows by now. Nature and Science each published obituaries, as have several other scientific publications. Friends still ask how I’m doing or how my mother is holding up.

My mother, sister and I share dull and chronic aches from deep wounds that will never completely heal. We still each cry from time to time; the intervals between are increasing. And we wonder if he was really real. My mom and I talked about it today as we walked together. It’s almost as if he never existed, that he was simply a character in a story we both know. Neither of us can explain why we feel this way. Perhaps we’re still isolating ourselves from the magnitude of our loss. After all, we’re used to his being gone months at a time—three months was typical. But he’s not coming home from this absence.

If he was indeed a fiction, at least he was in a hell of a hell of a good story.

Finis

2007-05-07T23:47:00.000-07:00

Today was the memorial service for my dad at the U.C. Berkeley Faculty Club. Guests and speakers came from literally all over the globe: Ethiopia; China; France; and many other places. Well more than 200 in total. All for just a two hour service. The celebration was warm, thoughtful and reverential, as I hoped it would be. Sixteen speakers spoke. My family was flattered by the breadth of attendees who included many friends of mine and my parents, my girlfriend’s parents and aunt; my sister’s ex-boyfriend and his father, and numerous colleagues and long–time friends of my father. My mother, sister and I were each very touched.

My family is grateful to Alan Almquist and Meg Starr, and to Tim White, Henry Gilbert and all of the other HERC staff for their efforts in arranging the memorial. We are also grateful to Don Dana for hosting and to each of the speakers for their efforts.

I want to interject here a belated but very heartfelt ‘thanks’ to Paul Johnson, who arranged for my and my mother’s recent trip to Hawai’i. It was everything my mother and I wanted and hoped for: quiet; relaxing; and, above all else, reflective. While there, there were no cards, letters or gifts to be received. The phone wasn’t constantly ringing with condolences. My mother and I spent much of our time there simply walking along the coast, talking about my dad, and reclaiming our proprietary interest in my dad’s memory; sharing him with noone else.

So there it is. My dad has died, and been cremated , celebrated, remembered and mourned [today]. And so this blog will now end. I send my heartfelt thanks to each of you reading my blog. Thank you for staying with me throughout this extraordinary journey. I am sorry that we had to take it but I am glad that we were able to take it together.

I leave you with the text of the speech I gave today in memory of my father at the U.C. Faculty Club...

On behalf of my mother, Betty, and my sister, Jennifer, I want to thank Cal’s Human Evolution Resource Center (HERC) for organizing and staging this memorial, and for setting up and running the very nice Web site with the photos and testimonials. My thanks particularly to Henry Gilbert for his work on the Web site. I also want to thank all of the the HERC staff and interns. And special thanks go to Tim White, Alan Almquist, Meg Starr and Leslea Hlusko for their yeoman efforts for this memorial, which I know they began almost immediately upon my father’s passing, now nearly two months ago. We are indebted and grateful to all of you.

I also want to thank Don Dana for agreeing to host today and each of our speakers for taking time to be here—especially those who have come considerable distances. I know my dad would have felt very honored that each of you are here today on his behalf.

When I was ten years old, my father gave me magazine subscriptions to ‘Popular Science’ and ‘Scientific American’. For years thereafter, they were both annually renewed on my birthday. When I was twelve, he gave me a copy of a high school science textbook, Introduction to Physical Science. And when I was in 7th grade, he purchased for me a copy of Asimov’s Guide to Science, a general compendium of basic scientific knowledge. These were in addition to the numerous encyclopedia, atlases and other reference and science books that my dad brought home. They were perquisites of his participation on various editorial boards and sufficient in count to well stock any library. My dad once told me he brought them home, as opposed to shelving them in his office, specifically for my pleasure and benefit.

When I was eleven, my father began working on an exhibit for the California Academy of Sciences. He would go there each Wednesday afternoon for meetings. After his second trip there, he suggested at dinner that evening that I should go with him on his next one. My dad countered my mom’s objections of my being out of school by arguing that I would learn as much or more than I would in a classroom. At length my mother acquiesced and my dad picked me up just before lunch the next day and off we went.

I had a great time! My enthusiasm encouraged my dad to argue in favor of repeating the excursion the following week and then again the week after that, after which it simply became a happy routine. My dad and I would discuss what I’d learned on each drive home.

Finally, when I was sixteen, my dad, my mother and I were passed through Montana. As we did, he gave me a running commentary on the geomorphology of the landscape, including describing the structure and depositional history of an alluvial fan which we drove up. This was followed by a lively and interesting discussion about flood plains and river terraces. I have similar recollections of discussing vulcanism when we visited Kilauea volcano on the big island of Hawai‘i and the seafaring and astronavigational skills of the polynesians while vacationing in New Zealand.

I can’t share any heart–warming anecdotes of playing ball with my dad. Nor do I have humorous stories of going on fishing trips with him, or recounting how he and I were almost eaten by a bear on a father–son camping trip into the mountains. There simply weren’t any such adventures. Although we did love to watch Jeopardy! together. With us it was a blood sport! But, in the end, I find great joy and tremendous value in the memories I do have. I realize how much my dad has influenced and continues to influence me, how much I learned from him and because of him, and, for all that, how very much I am his son, and how extremely fortunate I am to be able to claim that relationship.

Life with my dad was a continuously rich and fascinating lesson. I know that everybody here shares those feelings. For though these memories are mine, I know that nearly all of you have been touched by my dad’s extraordinarily giving spirit and his remarkable ability for recognizing our talents and skills, and for helping us—deeply wanting us—to make the most of them. And often that help came completely unbidden and by surprise. Last night, a colleague of my dad told me that early in her career, just after her receiving Ph.D., she would receive small blue hand-written notes of encouragement from my dad after he’d read her monographs. She hadn’t been his student. She didn’t know him that well. But still the notes came.

Since my dad’s passing, I have heard so many stories from people who were overwhelmed and gratified by how my dad gave his valuable time to explain something to a self–described lowly freshman or inconsequential layperson. Or by how my dad went out of his way to create or facilitate an opportunity for someone. I know that many here were able to make their first trips to the field because of my dad’s efforts. Still others had papers published because my dad gave his estimable imprimatur. That was how my dad was: Always generous in sharing his copious intellect and, ready and beyond willing to provide whatever assistance and encouragement he could to all whom he thought deserved it. Now he is gone and each of us is impoverished by this loss. But our sadness is mollified by our many wonderful memories and our loss is more than offset by how he enriched each of our lives.

Thank you

Getting to the Memorial

2007-04-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

The collapse of a portion of the San Francisco Bay Bridge interchange (‘the MacArthur Maze’) may significantly impact your ability to get to Berkeley for the Memorial. Regardless, parking is limited around the campus and, where available, metered spaces are often for only an hour. So using public transporation is a very good idea.

The Faculty Club is in the interior of the campus of the Univeristy of California. It is at found at location C5 on this map. An index to the map and other resources can be found here.

Driving
If you do drive, do not expect to be able to park at the Faculty Club or at any nearby campus lot! No daytime parking is allowed! The best place to try and park is at a public lot on the south side of the campus. There are three lots and are indicated by markers D, F and H on this Google map.

Public Transportation
The nearest BART station is Berkeley. It’s relatively easy to walk from there to the Faculty Club. Exit the station at its central exit at Center and Shattuck. It’s about a 7–10 minute walk up Center into the campus to the Faculty Club.

Alternatively, people can take UC’s Bear Transit bus service, lines ‘R’ or ‘C’. They run in opposite directions around the campus, but both end up at Hearst Mining Circle at the top of the campus, the stop closest to the Faculty Club From there It’ss about 1/10th of a mile walk to the Faculty Club. Each line leaves from a stop across Shattuck from the BART station and runs every 20 minutes. The fare is $1.00.

There are maps all over campus to help people find their way.

Bear Transit System Guide

Transcript

2007-04-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, the L.S.B. Leakey Foundation, an organization in which my dad invested a huge portion of his life, had a dinner in my dad’s honor. It was very nice, very thoughtful. Many of the Foundation’s trustees attended, as did much of its staff. My mother and I were the guests of honor.

The evening began with a reception and dinner. Afterwards, they had a program with several speakers, a quartet playing classical music such as my dad appreciated, and several speakers—I among them.

Being that I am not deeply familiar with my dad’s work, as my life focuses on technology, I could not speak to my dad’s scientific and academic accomplishments. Instead I thought the audience might find it interesting to hear about some of the experiences that helped shape his personality.

Here is the text of my speech, like they say in the radio and television industries, ‘as done’:

Hello,

Personally and on behalf of my mother, Betty Howell, and my sister, Jennifer, who is at home in Oregon tonight, I want to thank the Leakey Foundation for this wonderful dinner honoring my father’s memory and legacy. Particularly I want to thank Sharal Camisa and the other self-described Leakey Ladies for their extraordinary efforts in arranging the dinner. Sharal worked closely with my mother and me to ensure our wishes were met. But we appreciate the efforts of each of you.

I want to also thank all of you. By your attendance and your efforts to be here, you, too, honor my father. Thank you.

My dad loved and was very proud of this organization. It was an extremely important part of his life since its very inception. My dad was there when Robert Beck gave the Foundation its first million dollar check.

There is a story about how Bob ceremoniously handed the check to Louis, who held it almost in awe for several minutes, till my dad took it gently from Louis’ hands, kindly reminding Louis that the check wasn’t in fact, actually his.

My dad would have been overwhelmed by all of this tonight and certainly would have deemed himself unworthy. He always did in such circumstances. He never let his extraordinary success go to his head...

Sam Yamasaki, my parents’ gardener of thirty–seven years, last week told my mother that “Professor Howell was my favorite customer.” When my mother asked why, he went on to say that most professors, they “see themselves as high, above everybody else. But Professor Howell wasn’t like that. He would always stop and and talk.”

My dad saw himself as being no different, no better, no more deserving of praise than anyone else. He frequently described himself as being “just plain folks.” That was a remarkable attitude in light of his many accomplishments...

Now I am far from qualified to speak of them but even the few details I know are daunting:

Bachelor of Arts degree in anatomy with minors in German and French from the University of Chicago. My dad graduated Phi Beta Kappa and then went on to earn his M.A. and Ph.D. from the same institution, accomplishing it all in just six years. And he still found time to frequent the many jazz joints Chicago’s south side.
Leader of the famed Omo expeditions. During which he pioneered the now standard multi-disciplinary approach for paleonanthropological research.
Need I add, professor at Berkeley, one of the world’s preeminent universities.
Member of the National Academy of Sciences. At the time of his election he was one of the organization’s few life scientists. While a member, he lead one of the first scientific delegations into a then just opening China.
Fellow of the British Royal Society, member of the national academies of science of France and several other countries.
Trustee and past president of the California Academy of Sciences. John McCosker, chair of the Academy’s department of Aquatic Biology recently told my mother and me that my dad was one of the two best presidents the Academy had ever had, the other being famed naturalist Starker Leopold.
Contributing editor to and author for Time/Life, Encyclopaedia Britanica, World Book/Childcraft, National Geographic, and many other prestigious publishers. (In my high school social studies, we had a unit on human evolution—the text was from Early Man. My teacher, Mr. Evans, must have noticed my expression because he asked quite loudly: “Is this your father, Mr. Howell?” My meek “yes” made me instantly hated as my classmates realized I had an inside advantage on the material which none of them could match.
And, of course, many key roles in the Leakey Foundation.

I could go on, probably for days. Last I heard, my dad’s curriculum vitae ran well more than thirty single-spaced typewritten pages.

My father was born in Kansas City, Missouri in November, 1925. Much of his childhood was spent on farms in Kansas and Nebraska. During those years, like any farm boy, my dad had to get up, often before dawn, to take care of chickens, cows and other animals, and perform many other chores. More chores awaited him when he came home from school. And though it is a specious claim used by many parents to quiet their complaining children, my dad really did have to walk two miles to school. Even through snow during winter. I don't know, though, if it was uphill both ways.

My paternal grandfather was a traveling salesman who sold newfangled electric ranges. His frequent long absences forced my father to grow up early to take care of his mother and two younger sisters. My dad also grew up quite a bit when, during the Great Depression, his family was forced into bankruptcy and the bank foreclosed on their farm. They were evicted by court order. A little later, my dad witnessed the farm and many of his family's other belongings being sold at a "sheriff's sale." That's a court–authorized auction whose proceeds are used to repay creditors. Throughout much of my dad's childhood, the hard times outnumbered the easy ones.

Happily, things did get a bit better when my dad was a teenager. His father was more successful in his career and his family was able to move to the city. There was then enough money to send him to a private preparatory high school, his parents having taken notice of my dad’s academic achievements. With no more farm chores to do, my dad at last found himself with time to indulge his own interests. He filled it, in part, puttering in the wood shop at the school, and as the pitcher for his school's baseball team. And he excelled at his prep school, graduating with honors in 1943.

After graduation, my dad foresaw a future for himself as a history teacher. He loved the Civil War and American history in general. But real war was still raging and my dad joined the Navy. This was partly out of a desire to see more of the world and also to guarantee his choice of service as he had become eligible for the draft. He shipped out of a still recovering Pearl Harbor and spent his tour of duty in the Pacific theater, serving as a signal man. He did see a bit more of the world.

Mustering out of the Navy in Portland Oregon after more than a year at sea, he briefly returned to his family in Nebraska. He spent several months working on the farm and for the Malibo Range Company that made the electric ranges his father sold, to accumulate money for college. College back then wasn't like it is now. Back then, higher education was pretty much an avocation of the well to do. There was no Sallie Mae, no college loan programs. Few scholarships existed. The best schools, such as my dad yearned to attend, were unattainable to all but the very wealthy. My dad knew he wouldn't be able to accumulate enough money to attend a really good school as he deeply desired, let alone continue on to graduate school and this frustrated him.

But then Congress passed the GI Bill. My father often spoke of the Bill with near veneration for it enabled him to realize his goal to attend a top school, the University of Chicago, and freed him of the need to do any work other than simply study. It was there that he discovered his love of anthropology. The rest, of course, is history.

In his later life, my father never forgot the farm, the chores before dawn, the long, cold snowy walks to school, his own father's necessary hard work and long absences. The image of the sheriff’s sale was burned into his memory. Conversely, he appreciated the privilege of having been able to attend his private high school, as it prepared him for the intense academic climate of Chicago. And he always knew how lucky he was that the GI Bill had come along. That without it, he might have wound up attending a third-rate college, if any at all, and teaching high school history. He simply saw himself as someone from ordinary circumstances who had been fortunate enough to have had some good opportunities. And that his taking advantage of such opportunities didn’t make him deserving of praise or honors when those opportunities could have just as easily fallen to somebody else.

And so our brief archeological excavation and a little analysis have unearthed the bases of my dad’s two most noted traits: His vaunted generosity, which was simply a desire to provide others with good opportunities; and his unfailing humility.

I would like to end by taking special notice of what I regard as the single most important of my father’s many remarkable achievements: Keeping all of his others in perspective.

Thank you.

Time

2007-04-22T00:44:00.000-07:00

It is 09:30PM HST on Saturday. The clock on my laptop says its 00:34 (using 24-hour PDT) on Sunday. I am tired. It has been a very long day. A day that began in San Francisco, side–tripped to Berkeley, passed back through San Francisco and then transited approximately 2,140 miles across the Pacific. I am on Hawai‘i. The Big Island. The Orchid Island.

The sunset was a bright orange sun setting against a partially–clouded sky shot with horizontal bands of near crimson and purple reaching seemingly to infinity to the west, with a deepening–to–indigo sky spangled with diamond-like stars and lit by narrow crescent moon to the east of the zenith.

My mother and I are in an extraordinarily beautiful condo, on the Kona coast, about 20 minutes north of the airport. Our presence here is the utterly undeserved gift of a very generous friend of my father’s. But we are deeply grateful.

The temperature outside right now is 71F. If I listen, I can hear ocean waves hissing onto the beach about 100 feet from my bedroom. In the hotel nextdoor, at what I assume to be a regular weekend luau, a Don Ho wannabe croons innocuous songs to slack key guitar.

Neither of us is happy to be here. To the contrary, the trip so far has seemed to be a chore. Each of us quietly cried a bit on the flight. We were probably two of the most solemn people to ever deplane in the Islands. But at last we will have a week of peace. Of quiet. With no memorials. No dinners.

Here we are isolated from the seemingly ceaseless stream of cards, letters, e-mails, phone calls and gifts. More than six weeks on, word of my dad’s death seems to be still spreading around the world. Each call or missive, each package reminds, saddens and burdens us with the thought of yet another friend/colleague/ex-student whom we then know shares a little of our pain. At least the flow is gradually subsiding; it is only a stream now, not the torrent it was immediately after he died.

Please understand: This is not to make any of you who are reading this feel guilty. That is not my intent at all. My mother and I appreciate everything that we have received, heard or experienced in my dad’s memory. But here, for the next few days, we can be just mother and son. I can set aside being Clark Howell’s son. My mother can set aside being Clark Howell’s wife. For the next few days I am simply Brian and my dad is...was just my dad. For the next few days my mom is just Betty and my dad was just her husband. For the next few days that is enough.

For the next few days we can reclaim ownership of my dad’s memory, his relationships with us and his importance to us, sharing him with nobody else.

We just need some time for us.

Boulders and Grains

2007-04-13T21:30:00.000-07:00

The process of grieving the loss of a loved one is particular to the individual. Even before he died, I cried in anticipation of losing my dad (psychologists call such grieving anticipatory grief). And I cried in the arms of my cousin as the mortuary people carried away his cold emaciated corpse. Those were the boulders, tumbling out in an avalanche of overarching pain and obvious loss.

Yesterday I was looking through my collection of DVDs for a movie to watch. I chanced upon Ray, the biography of Ray Charles, the 20th Century musical giant. It’s a wonderful movie.

After several weeks of cajoling, I managed to get my skeptical dad to a theater to see Ray. He was sure it wouldn’t do justice to one of his musical heroes. My efforts paid off: He loved it! He watched it again on TV a few months later when it ran on HBO and even rented the movie from a video store at least twice more after that. He told me he would never get tired of seeing it.

A few weeks before he died, I chanced upon a copy of the Ray DVD on sale for $10. I grabbed it specifically to show it to my dad. I had recently purchased a large flat screen television with a very nice sound system and looked forward to having my parents over for dinner and playing the DVD for him. Alas, he died before I ever had the chance. For now the movie remains on the shelf.

I will watch Ray eventually. But when I saw the movie yesterday during my search, a twinge of pain ran through my whole body. I didn’t cry though I grew a little bit sadder. That’s how it is now. Every day, sometimes several times in a day, I see, hear or think about something I want to share with my dad. But I can’t any longer. Each is a little grain of loss that accumulates in my soul, weighing me down a bit. And I realize a bit more just how deeply and richly my and my father’s lives intertwined.

None of the grains is significant enough to merit grief on its own, but their impact is in the aggregate. Eventually, their increasing combined weight crushes me and I am overwhelmed, releasing the load and recommencing the process. I expect their accumulations to continue for a very long time.

I miss you Dad!

Memorial Service Update

2007-04-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

It will be a good memorial service. We are assembling an impressive array of excellent speakers. I hope to see or meet you there.

Closing on 100 people have already RSPV’d. Many more will probably just show up. Speakers and guests are coming from all over the globe: Asia; Africa; Europe; and from all over North America. No greater honor could be bestowed upon my dad.

Nearly Four Weeks

2007-04-05T17:39:00.000-07:00

I think today was the first without a condolence card. The phone calls and e-mails have all ceased as well. It’s funny: For a long time my mom wanted them all to stop, so she could have some peace and quiet. Now I don’t think she is so sure.

They Just Keep Popping Up

2007-04-05T17:14:00.000-07:00

Today it is an obit in the San Diego Union Tribune. Actually, it was run a couple of days ago. I don’t know why the paper waited the better part of a month to run it. Must have been a very slow news day. I would have never dreamt of my dad as ‘filler’ material. Ah, well.

I also belatedly found a blog post at Science News.

They’ve been added to the cumulative round–up.

Memorial RSVP

2007-04-04T11:57:00.000-07:00

Please RSVP if you are attending my dad’s memorial service at Cal on May 7th. This will help ensure sufficient seating and refreshments.

Please pass the RSVP link (http://herc.berkeley.edu/fc_howell_memorial/) along to others whom you think will be attending.

Thank you.

It’s Turkish

2007-04-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

Apparently people are still reading this blog. The day after I posted a reference to a foreign obituary in an unknown language, I received an e-mail informing me that the language was, as I suspected, Turkish.

Thanks!

And Another and Another...

2007-04-02T15:36:00.000-07:00

This time, it’s the Contra Costa Times.

Appended to the round–up.

And They Just Keep Coming...

2007-04-02T13:06:00.000-07:00

More obits....

Post Chronicle (UK?)

Daily Californian (U.C. at Berkeley)

San Jose Mercury News

Neanderthalis Blog (en Español)

Tgier07 Blog

Zalambdalestids (scroll down to ‘obit’)

As usual, added to the round–up.

Foreign Obit

2007-04-02T12:48:00.000-07:00

Can anybody identify the language? Turkish? Greek? I haven’ the faintest idea...

http://zemin.terapad.com/index.cfm?fa=contentNews.newsDetails&newsID=14061&from=list

This has been added to the cumulative round–up of media coverage. To contact me (concerning the language), please obtain my e-mail address from the ‘View my complete profile’ link at below left, beneath the Blog Archive and under About me.

Another Obit

2007-03-31T16:57:00.000-07:00

This time it’s the central Utah Daily Herald.

It’s been appended to the round–up.

Please Read

2007-03-31T16:18:00.000-07:00

This blog is now being indexed by Google. References to it are already appearing elsewhere on the Web:

Greg Laden.
Science Blogs (Aferensis)

I am flattered.

Heretofore, this blog has been public but unindexed by search engines, meaning that the only way to learn about it was by word–of–mouth (or e-mail). That kept its audience to limited to those with a genuine interest in my father’s health. But now the world can find it, simply by typing in ‘F. Clark Howell’ into Google or Yahoo!, for example. And the world includes spambots and nefarious entities that might use the personal contact information for my parents and me that I originally included in various posts for other than my intended purposes. Consequently, I have stricken all personal contact information from those posts.

My impetuses for indexing the blog were twofold:

Realizing that there are many other people who might be interested in learning about what happened to my father. This came about through postings I discovered in other blogs following his death.
A number of people have commented that they think other people facing the loss of a loved one may find value in reading about my dad’s disease and death, and my experiences of it. One person even recommeded I formally publish the text. Again, I am flattered. If other people find useful information or solace herein, then this effort will have served a far greater purpose than I ever intended.

If you wish to contact me, please obtain my e-mail address from the ‘View my complete profile’ link at below left, beneath the Blog Archive and under About me.

Thanks,

Brian

The Independent

2007-03-31T15:02:00.000-07:00

The Independent, a British newspaper, has run a very nice obituary. It was written by the husband of a former student of my dad. I’ve added it to my round–up of media coverage.

Please let me know if you find any others.

Thanks.

Gloria in Extremis

2007-03-30T23:38:00.000-07:00

“Neither of these two fine people have long to live.”

I wrote those words a few months ago, concerning my father and my aunt—my mother’s sister Gloria, to whom my mother is very close.

Prior to my dad, Gloria had been diagnosed with stage IV (metastatic) smoking–induced lung cancer. As we passed the anniversary of her diagnosis, chemotherapy, a pneumonectomy and other life–saving measures seemed to be sucessfully holding the disease at bay. But time and statistics have caught up with Gloria: Apparently, the cancer has returned and spread to her bone, like with my dad. Her prognosis is most likely the same as was my dad’s.

I am so sorry for my aunt, uncle and cousins and everybody else who loves her.

I am worried for my mom.

PLEASE DON’T SMOKE

Memorial Service Accomodations

2007-03-28T16:00:00.000-07:00

Are you traveling to Berkeley for the memorial service for my dad in May? If so, click here for a list of hotels.

Hotels close to the memorial location include:

*Restrictions apply. Please review room requirements carefully.

The World

2007-03-28T15:53:00.000-07:00

Le Monde picked up and ran my dad’s obituary (en Français). I’ve added it to yesterday’s comprehensive round-up.

Round-up

2007-03-27T15:01:00.000-07:00

This post last updated 05 April 2007 at 17:53 PDT.

Newspapers

The New York Times
Boston Globe
Washington Post
Los Angeles Times
London Herald
International Herald Tribune
Portland Oregonian
Sacramento Bee
San Francisco Chronicle
San Francisco Examiner
Long Beach Press Telegram
Wilmington Morning Star
Contra Costa Times
Berkeleyan (U.C. at Berkeley)
Daily Californian (U.C. at Berkeley)
San Jose Mercury News
Monterey Herald (California)
Daily Herald (central Utah)
San Diego Union Tribune
Fresno Bee (link no longer available)

Imedinews (Georgia, The Republic of, in English)
Le Monde (en Français)
The Independent (UK)
Post Chronicle (UK?)

United Press International (UPI)

Web Reporting

Anthropology Daily
Science Daily

Scientific Organizations

L.S.B. Leakey Foundation
National Center for Science Education
Stone Age Institute
Human Evolution Research Center (‘HERC’, at Berkeley)

Blogs and Discussion Groups

Science News
Science Blogs (re: Afarensis)
Greg Laden (evolution proponent)
Bill Maher message boards
Monsters and Critics
Michael Balter
Anthropology.Blamfluie.com
Sports.Blamfluie.com
LiTOP.com
The Book of THoTH
Steentild (Belgium, in English)
Memencio (en Español)
Neanderthalis Blog (en Español)
Tgier07 Blog
Zalambdalestids (scroll down to ‘obit’)

Miscellaneous

http://zemin.terapad.com/index.cfm?fa=contentNews.newsDetails&newsID=14061&from=list
(undecipherable)
Eons.com (rememberance site)
Life in Legacy
Playfuls.com (news aggregator)
Surfwax (aggregator)

Archived Articles
These are not necessarily current. I found them while trolling through search engine results. Most are for general audiences.

Time Magazine
American Scientist

C’est la vie

2007-03-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

Today was a day that I can describe only as ‘surreal’; a word also independently chosen by my mother. Today I took receipt of a small, dark red, brick–like box. It weighs about nine lbs. It is the ashes of my dad, who was cremated a few days ago. It is inconceivable that all he was has been reduced to a little box that I can hold easily on the palm of one hand.

I have placed him on a shelf in his study—the room in which he spent so many hours on weekends and evenings, writing and reading, when not traveling overseas.

At last he is home for good.

Time Passes

2007-03-22T17:01:00.000-07:00

He has been dead the better part of two weeks. The news is now old but the pain is still new.

The Wilmington Morning Star (North Carolina) published an obituary for him on Monday. (Must have been a slow news day.)

On my bedside table lies my dad’s 50 year old [antique] Omega Seamaster mechanical calendar wristwatch (view his model and a current model), a gift from my mom. He wore it for much of that time. It was purchased the first year that my dad and mom went to Tanganyika (now part of Tanzania) and has been to more than 100 countries and numerous sites, including Ambrona, Isimila and the Omo. For all of its adventures, it is in remarkably good shape--and it keeps excellent time! But I won’t be wearing it regularly. It is much too precious for that. You may see it if you attend the memorial in May.

Nature and Science magazines are going to publish articles on my dad. The Nature article will be written by my dad’s best friend and lab mate Tim White. His longtime and very dear friend Philip Tobias will write the other.

Damn, this hurts.

Tributes

2007-03-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

L.S.B. Leakey Foundation (scroll down)

The Stone Age Institute (great picture)

— Repeats—

National Center for Science Education (scroll down; great photo)

U.C. Berkeley HERC (new photos and tributes)

Another Times

2007-03-18T23:52:00.000-07:00

The LA Times ran an obit for my dad in its Sunday edition.

It’s most a reprint from the AP wire story, but it’s still nice to see.

Anybody down there in La-la land, could you send the page up to my mom? Muchos gracias.

[removed]

Times, Herald and Times

2007-03-15T08:16:00.000-07:00

The New York Times ran its obituary for my dad today. It doesn’t really add much to the Chronicle or Cal pieces but it is well written. There was also an obituary in the The International Herald Tribune and Associated Press extracts in several others.

Image

2007-03-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

-> Aftermath

Chronicle and Cal Obits

2007-03-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

Obituary Links:

San Francisco Chronicle

University of California at Berkeley

Press

2007-03-13T17:37:00.000-07:00

The S.F. Chronicle’s obituary for my father is due to run tomorrow. Cal’s Public Information Office sent out a press release late this afternoon. They share a photo I provided. I proofread Cal’s release and was very pleased, both by the release in general and by the very nice quotes of his colleagues and associates. I want to thank Bob Sanders at Cal and Dave Perlman at the Chronicle for their efforts on my dad’s behalf. I was told that Dave, a longtime friend of my dad, spent two days working on the obituary for the Chronicle.

I think the release and the Chronicle’s obit hit too late for the New York Times and any other eastern papers, so don’t expect anything there before Friday.

Memorial Service

2007-03-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

My father’s memorial service will be:

Monday, May 7th at 4PM
The Faculty Club
The University of California at Berkeley

Directions: http://www.berkeleyfacultyclub.com/directions/

NCSE Obit

2007-03-13T10:26:00.000-07:00

My father was justifiably proud of the National Center for Science Education. Before its creation, my family met its founder Eugenie Scott at Christmas breakfast at my sister’s boyfriend’s home. My dad was extremely impressed by Euginie. And we all know of my father’s high standards. I believe later he signed on as founding NCSE Secretary. I know he made some contacts.

Since then, NCSE has become a leader in the war on creationism and you can find Eugenie’s name in the press regularly. That always made my dad very happy.

They have thoughtfully posted an obituary for my dad at http://www.ncseweb.org/resources/news/2007/ZZ/415_f_clark_howell_dies_3_13_2007.asp.

Elsewhere on the Web

2007-03-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

Cal’s Human Evolution Research Center (HERC) has set up a memorial Web site for my dad at http://herc.berkeley.edu/fc_howell_memorial/. Please distribute the link.

Aftermath

2007-03-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

My dad’s briefcase sits at the bottom of the front hall stairs, as it has for so many thousands of nights and days over the years. His keys lie next to it, as was typical. I can see them from where I sit in the living room. The omnipresent sound of the oxygen concentrator is missing. The house seems preternaturally peaceful. People are chatting and laughing in the dining room.

It is easy to imagine that he has simply gone to the store, that at any moment he will walk in and start calling for my mom. Or maybe he is overseas, in France, England, China, Georgia, Spain, Turkey, Kenya, Saudi Arabia or any of dozens of other countries to which he has traveled. But he is not coming home. I saw to that this afternoon as I helped the mortuary workers carry away his shriveled cold body.

I hope that the briefcase will remain where it is for a very long time to come. I find it comforting.

In Memoriam...

2007-03-11T08:58:00.000-07:00

If you would like to do something in memory of my dad, please consider a donation to the L.S.B. Leakey Foundation. It is an organization to which he has been inextricably linked since its inception, of which he was justifiably very proud, and which embodies and promotes the science and highest scientific principles that defined my father’s life.

Thank you.

Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene 2

2007-03-11T03:12:00.000-07:00

CASSIUS
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.

Requiescat in Pace

2007-03-10T23:57:00.000-08:00

My dad is dead. It is 124 days since the diagnosis (4 months, 3 days). He died peacefully, in no pain. I was with him, talking to him and holding his hand when he did. I will never be able to come close to expressing how much I will miss him.

There will be no funeral. However, a memorial service is in the works for a few weeks hence. We want it to be sufficiently in the future so that everybody who wants to will be able to attend. Information on the service will be posted here in a few days. You could also call me at 510-###-#### in a week or two. The service will be arranged by the L.S.B. Leakey Foundation in conjunction with Cal. I do not know anything else at this time. My family thanks both institutions in advance for their efforts on my father’s behalf.

My mother is going to need lots of emotional support for quite awhile. However, if you want to come by the house to visit, anytime soon, please call me first at 510-###-####. Not that we don’t want you to visit, we do! But I don’t want my mother to feel overrun at this emotionally intense time. So please call me.

Press and academic inquiries about my dad should be directed to Bob Sanders of the University of California at Berkeley’s Public Information Office: 510-###-####.

This is not the end of this blog. Not immediately, anyway. As I wrote above, I will be posting memorial service information. I will also be adding links to media and academic coverage about my dad, as I become aware of it.

Thank you for all the heartfelt phone calls and messages to me, my mother, my father and my family as a whole. Thank you for the gifts, food and assistance. Finally, thank you very much for reading my blog.

Sincerely,

Brian

Only a Matter of Time

2007-03-10T15:41:00.000-08:00

His vital processes are slowing, ebbing.

When?

2007-03-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

He has been unconscious for most of the past 48 hours. There were a few moments of wakefulness in the middle of the night. His attendants were on duty and, per her request, woke up my sister who was sleeping downstairs. She had a brief and precious exchange with him, and hopefully more closure than I had expected. There have also been a couple of periods when he has opened his eyes. He could not speak but through subtle indications it was apparent that he can hear and appreciate what is being said. I know he is glad Jennifer was able to come to Berkeley.

He wants to go. That is absolutely clear from separate discussions he had with my mom and me on Wednesday and Thursday. He told us he is unable to read, bored and, when we are not around, very lonely. Given that he will die soon, anyway, he suggested he would utilize any available physical means to hasten it. Alas he has none. So he lies in twilight.

I have read that people in such twilight are often cognizant of what is going on around them. They may be able to understand what is being said. So, both for his sake and mine, I am spending much of my time talking to him, recounting many of the adventures we have shared and how grateful I am for those experiences.

With reference to my Summary Assessment post, what I meant to communicate was my incredible shock at my dad’s rapid decline, especially in light of his unexpected improvement just a few weeks back.

My mother is surprised he survived last night. She doesn’t believe he will survive this day.

Summary Assessment

2007-03-09T15:51:00.000-08:00

So God Damn Fast!

Jennifer Again

2007-03-09T15:36:00.000-08:00

My sister is here. I picked her up at Oakland International this afternoon after she flew down from Portland, Oregon. I am glad she is having an opportunity to say ‘good–bye’ to him. Unfortunately, I do not believe the reciprocal will come to pass, though I know he wanted it.

Four Months and Two Days

2007-03-09T15:29:00.000-08:00

He has been sleeping since yesterday. The issue now is whether he will ever again just open his eyes, let alone regain lucid consciousness? My mother and I share this question. The hospice nurse’s assessment is that his condition is simply “very grave.”

Jennifer

2007-03-08T18:18:00.000-08:00

My sister flies in from Portland tomorrow. She lands in Oakland at 12:40PM. I will pick her up and whisk her to my parents’s home, trying my best to prepare her enroute. My father is awaiting her arrival. He has asked about her numerous times. I know her presence will be a great relief to him. I get the sense that he is holding on for her.

He is Close

2007-03-08T17:30:00.000-08:00

A while back, a friend’s aunt graciously joined me for lunch and recounted her experiences with her terminal father, who was also felled by lung cancer. At the time I was unnerved, even almost horrified by her descriptions. My dad was still able to get up and walk around a bit. He was lucid and engaging. I felt relieved that I would have some time—months, I thought—to prepare and steel myself. And to say ‘good bye’. Our lunch was three weeks ago from today.

The hospice organization since has given my family a booklet detailing ‘end–of–life’ symptoms. It corroborates my discussion and lists additional symptoms. And it’s all happening. Now. Just the way my friend’s aunt said it would. All of it. Including the symptoms in the book.

I won’t enumerate them but you can read about the symptoms here and/or here. Everything is shutting down. Everything is failing. By my comprehension, death is just days or perhaps even hours away.

If You Want to Contact Either of my Parents....

2007-03-08T13:15:00.000-08:00

Please e-mail or call me at [removed] or [removed].

Please do not contact my mom. I am coordinating all visits, phone calls and messages. My mom has enough to deal with as it is.

Many thanks,

Brian

Love

2007-03-08T10:27:00.000-08:00

He asked for me early this morning and one of the two Fijian women called me on my cell phone. I was up at my folks’ house in minutes. He asks for me a lot these days. Through broken statements I’ve come to appreciate that he wants a family member with him all the time. He doesn’t want to die alone. But, at the same time, he is trying to shield my mother from the worst and most ugly aspects of his illness. Love is expressed in many different ways.

2007-03-08T09:44:00.000-08:00

I know there are quite a number of people reading this blog. I invite and encourage you to share some of your favorite memories of my dad. They could be work or personal. Please drop me an e-mail at [removed] and I will post them as I receive them. Also, please spread the word on my father. People need to know. It was just yesterday that I was finally able to get in touch with one of my dad’s best friends, longtime colleague and former graduate student.

A Hell of a Day

2007-03-07T21:50:00.000-08:00

My dad is sleeping and snoring now. Doped on a strong dose of morphine. My mother is in bed, in my sister’s room. I am sitting by my dad’s hospital bed. I am exhausted.

Today was, without question, one of the longest and toughest of my life—and, I am sure, my mother’s as well. But it was far from the worst for either of us. That one is impending.

It was a day where I began discussing arrangments for managing the inevitable academic media circus that will occur in the wake of my father’s death. I was relieved to find out that the University of California has a protocol for fielding such professional inquiries. All I will have to do is refer any such calls that come to my parents’ home.

It was a day where I broached the subject of a memorial service. Here, too, I was told that third parties will intervene. Cal, in collaboration with the L.S.B. Leakey Foundation, will organize a memorial.

It was a day where I had a close friend of my father sob in my arms, saw several more of his friends on the verge of tears, and heard from my mom of yet another friend crying—a gentleman whom I have always felt to be very strong. I am very glad that my father is so loved by so many.

Vigil

2007-03-07T14:24:00.000-08:00

All chemotherapuetic treatments have been stopped, as have been many other medications. Weeping sores have opened on his forearms; I am not sure of the genetive factors. The constant purr of the oxygen concentrator can be heard throughout much of the house. He is on morphine.

He spends his day in his hospital bed, exhausted, frequently dozing. He cannot get up, or even turn over by himself. Thankfullly, he has assistance. He is almost bald, a side effect of the chemotherapy, and vastly shrunken from his former girth, having eaten so little for so long. His atrophied legs, as he described them recently to a friend, resemble those of a concentration camp inmate. The change over the past few days, as described this morning by a visiting former student, has been “exponentially” for the worse.

His breathing is labored. A side effect, I believe, of the mass in his superior vena cava. After learning about it, it struck me that the mass is not only forcing fluid (plasma) from within the vessel through the vascular walls, to pool in his forearms. The mass is also greatly impeding overall circulation and, especially, pulmonary function: less blood through the lungs means less oxygen (O₂) and carbon dioxide (CO₂) exchange. Hence his chronic shortness of breath and need for the concentrator.

It is four months to the day that I first learned of his illness. I am suffering from a kind of cognitive dissonance: It seems both much longer and much shorter than that.

It is, simply, the end. My mother, a former Registered Nurse with experience in an oncology ward, does not expect him to survive through to Monday. None of us, I, my mother and sister and other relatives, nor his many friends are ready for this. But it is out of our control. We feel so helpless and fragile ourselves.

He will not finish his audio history. There was never the opportunity for me to record any of the remarkable stories of his youth that I remember him telling me at bedtime in my own childhood. I blame myself: Too much focus on work and not enough attention on what really mattered. I presumed I would have longer. I have cried for the lost opportunities. It is a lesson most painfully learned.

My mother and I, and his attendants and visiting friends, are all doing what we can to keep him comfortable. I gently rub his head and arms, which he likes, lubricate the interior of his desiccated mouth using a small moistened sponge on a long stick, fluff up his pillows and adjust his covers. The tasks are small but the disease is large and renders moot any attempts at greater efforts.*

I sit across from his bed, watching him. He is sleeping, snorning softly. Ocassionally over the past few days he will seem to stop breathing for a moment and his body will slump. Each time I tense: Is it his last? Up until now, that has always been followed by a wriggle or a shift, as he unconsciously tries to get comfortable in his bed. But it won’t be long. Tears are pooling behind a dam of temporary self–control.

It is a vigil.

*Such as surgery or radiation.

“On Borrowed Time”

2007-03-05T13:42:00.000-08:00

I was almost certainly correct in my ‘chemical’ assessment last Friday. Well, more broadly, malnutrition (usually less than 200 calories a day, by my estimate; most people eat well over 1,000), insufficient hydration (sometimes less than eight ounces of fluid in a day) and certainly insufficient electrolytes significantly impaired my dad’s health. A three–day course of Pedialyte, which provides sodium and potassium, the two most essential bodily electrolytes, and glucose, the simple sugar on which cellular respiration depends (‘respiration ’ in this context refers to the intracellular oxidation of pyruvic acid, which is formed from splitting glucose molecules), has resulted in a noticable improvement in his alertness and coherency. No longer is he spending his days in a near stupor, eyes heavily lidded. But his overall health continues to markedly decline.

He has grown so weak that he can barely raise an arm. He is being tended to ’round–the–clock by the two Fijian women, now joined in shift rotation by the husband of one. They are taking great care of him and he appreciates them all. They are aided by a motorized hospital bed. By simply pressing buttons, he can be raised from a prone position or his legs and feet comfortably elevated. The bed has replaced the one in which my parents slept for decades, first in Illinois and then in Berkeley. My mother is sleeping down the hall in my sister’s room. My parents will never again sleep together. But at least my dad is much more comfortable and can be easily elevated rather than having to be physically [wo]man-handled and propped up with a bunch of pillows.

His activity has been harshly limited. He is unable to hold a book, unable to read, for which I feel very sorrowful. Reading has always been his greatest passion. The jammed bookshelves in his home and office are evidence of this love. He is relegated to simply watching television, looking out his bedroom window (granted, it has a broad, lovely view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, in which beautiful sunsets are often visible) and chatting with whomever is available. It is a constrained and frequently tedious existence for someone who has lived such a life of the mind.

Last week, abruptly and with no warning, nor discussion of reasons and consequences with either of my parents, Dr. Canin, my dad’s oncologist at Walnut Creek Kaiser abruptly ceded responsibility for my dad’s care and turned it over to hospice care. That wasn’t by any means a bad thing. The nurse now supervising my dad’s care is a wonderful, pragmatic, forthright but very caring woman my parents and I all like and respect very much. Also, hospice supplied the aforementioned hospital bed and other equipment. But hospice is the last step, the point of no return. This was underscored as I sat by my dad’s bedside and listened to discussions of DNR directives (click on the link). All three of us were unprepared to learn that my father was beyond further treatment.

Further discussions with the hospice nurse have revealed that my father has far more serious problems than any of us knew. Such as a mass in his superior vena cava that, the nurse suggested, was forcing fluid out of the vessel which was then leaking into my dad’s arm causing the long—we thought—undiagnosable swelling. Okay, it’s not a definitive diagnosis but it is a reasonable one, which begs the question as to why Dr. Canin never even hypothesized it, let alone told us about the mass?

Now I know. Even though he is more alert, more coherent, more conversant, he is not going to leave that bed again. As my mother said this morning, as she and I walked together, he is living “on borrowed time.”

Chemistry

2007-03-02T10:40:00.000-08:00

The last few days have seen a flurry of changes—none of them for the better. First was the long languishing oxygen finally being put to its intended use. It was rapidly replaced with an oxygen concetrator to guarantee my dad a constant flow of oxygen. Two nights ago, I saw him use his his walker for the first time. Yesterday was a watershed: A wheelchair arrived along with a motorized hospital bed to replace the flat queen bed that has been in his bedroom for 37 years. He will sleep alone; my mother moved into my sister’s old bedroom down the hall three weeks ago when co-sleeping became too difficult. The bed is motorized, eliminating the physical efforts of two or more people that have been recently required to ift my father from a prone to a semi-sitting position such that he can watch television or talk to visitors.

He continues to slide downhill, growing skinnier and weaker each day. Much of this decline I attribute not to the cancer but to his a simple lack of adequate nutrition, hydration and salt. Remember that just a few weeks ago there was unexpected and significant regression of his primary tumor.

He complains that he feels nauseous and cannot keep down food or liquids. I think he is starving and thirsting to death as much as or more than the cancer is killing him. My mother and I were in Dr. Canin’s office when he admonished my dad that it was very important that he eat—and that was at the very beginning of this whole experience.

Where does the salt come in? Well, high sodium levels (sodium being one of the two consituent elements in table salt; the other being chlorine; hence its chemical formula of NaCl) are contributory to hypertension and many other problems. But low sodium levels, such as occurs when someone ingests too little salt can be equally or even more problematic. Sodium is an electrolyte: a chemical that helps conduct or hold an electric charge. Electrolytes are commonly found in batteries. And in you. They are essential for proper operation of your nervous system; the propagation of electric impulses along your nerves and within your brain. You are an electrochmemical machine.

Hyponatremia, polyglot Greek and Latin for ‘low sodium’ is a condition where there is insufficient sodium in your blood stream, and consequently throughout your body. Symptoms include nausea, vomiting, headache and malaise [weakness and lethargy]. (At its worst, hyponatremia will kill you.) Sound familiar? Those are my dad’s principal symptoms. In fact, I think my dad is hypo-electrolytic: probably not the exact diagnosis but close enough. He is lacking adequate electrolytic salts (including other than sodium chloride) and essential metals, and indeed other essential minerals for his body to function well.

Why can’t he keep down liquids? Because they will further dilute the increasingly miniscule amounts of sodium necessary to keep his nervous system operating so his body rejects it. I’m off to the store to buy Pedialite, (yes, it’s for children, but a physician prescribed it for me a couple of years back when I had a several gastrointestinal bug) Gatorade or a similar beverage!

A Great Gift

2007-02-28T21:50:00.000-08:00

A family friend has given a great my family a great gift: Two sweet, strong, incredibly capable Fijian ladies have taken up residence in my childhood bedroom in my parents’ home. They are there to assist my father with whatever he needs, such as being lifted to sit up in bed (he cannot do that for himself any longer), and ancillary tasks including changing sheets and even emptying garbage, thereby relieving my mother of many mundane household duties.

The gift to me is alleviation of stress knowing my dad is being well cared for ’round–the–clock (not that my mom did anything less than a stellar job) while my mom is free of a myriad demands, small and large, and the risk of further injuring her back. My mother also will have precious and essential time to herself—which she needs at the very least to come to terms with the life–changing events we are experiencing.

My heartfelt and sincerest “Thank You!” to our benefactor!

Happy Birthday Betty! (Mom)

2007-02-27T00:00:00.000-08:00

February 27th, is my mother’s birthday. Contrary to my general policy, I think it would be nice for my mom to hear from you today. Call her at [removed] or, preferrably, e-mail her at [removed] (click the preceding link to launch your mail program and create a mail addressed to my mom). I hope she can enjoy it for at least a few minutes.

O2 Little*

2007-02-26T10:17:00.000-08:00

My dad requested oxygen in late November, when just climbing the stairs to his bedroom became a major exertion. For nearly three months, three green cylinders, a trolley, regulator, hoses and nose tubes languished in the corner of his bedroom. Partly because he had a temporary overall improvement after beginning chemotherapy, but also, I know, out of pride and desire not to concede to his disease. By my observations, the latter reasons sustained his abstainance for much too long.

The tanks languish no longer. In fact, within days of his first use of them, his need has grown such that, rather than periodically refilling the empties, the tanks will be summarily replaced with an oxygen concentrator machine, which will ensure a steady, unending supply.

^*For the non-scientists among you, ‘O₂’ is standard chemical notation for the oxygen we breathe.

Hisssssssss...

2007-02-25T20:44:00.000-08:00

The onomatopoeic title of this post refers to the sound of the oxygen that finally started flowing from the several green tanks of oxygen that were delivered at the end of November. Just in the past three days, my dad completely exhausted his first cylinder and began his second. A replacement cylinder will be ordered Monday morning. Practically any activity leaves him laboring for breath.

He is mostly staying in his bed. He is still unable to eat but at least he is drinking a bit. The one possible improvement is that the swelling of his hand has visibly diminished. Though my dad said that the amount of swelling goes up and down. The cause of the swelling is still indeterminate.

Deja Vu

2007-02-24T16:59:00.000-08:00

Hi,

I’ve posted similarly to this before but I find it good to repeat the essential information every now and then: If you want to reach me, please e-mail at [removed]. You may also call me on my cell at (1+) [removed]. Please remember I am in the United States Pacific Time (PT) zone. That’s eight to nine hours behind western Europe and a similar interval ahead of much of Asia.

I can convey messages to my parents and also advise you when it is appropriate to visit or call my parents. I would prefer that you do not call my mother as she is swamped.

Thanks,

Brian

Sisyphus

2007-02-24T16:20:00.000-08:00

Well, maybe not even that. Whatever ground he gained during the week post the addition of an anti-nausea drug to the increasingly ponderous collection he ingests daily seemingly has been lost. He is in bed, weak and unable to eat. His hand is swollen as much as it ever was. He is afraid to be left alone, leading to my mother to try to ensure that someone is there whenever she is not. (Upon arriving at his house today, I found his babysitter to be Elizabeth Agrilla, his longtime assistant. She was taking good care of him.)

Really, there isn’t anything else to say.

Pluses and Minuses

2007-02-21T23:34:00.000-08:00

Spirit-wise, my dad is improving. I think he’s benefiting from a new anti-nausea medication prescribed on Tuesday by Dr. Canin. He actually ate something today. For several weeks he has been eating little. My mother and I think that that is the cause of much of his chronic weakness of the past several weeks: a simple lack of adequate nutrition. Hopefully now that he is feeling better, for the first time in about a month, his appetite will return and he can begin eating his way back to relatively better health.

As it is, he is so weak that merely going upstairs to his bedroom is completely exhausting. It’s even more strenuous for him than it was in November. Moreover, he is left utterly winded. It took probably five minutes or more for him to recover after I helped him up to his bedroom this evening. In his frustration he invoked the prospective use of the oxygen that has sat in the corner of his bedroom for over two months. He also admitted to me, albeit after my coaxing, that perhaps it is at last time for him to begin sleeping downstairs, in the guest bedroom. I know he will miss his beautiful bedroom with the spectacular view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, in which he’s slept for over thirty-five years.

Finally, his left hand continues to be swollen. Upon the recommendation of Dr. Canin, my mother has wrapped it in an Ace bandage. I guess to try to restrict further swelling and to force some of the genetive fluid out of the tissue. My father blames an infiltration of Taxol for the edema–like symptom. However, being that his last infusive chemotherapy was now more than four weeks ago, my mother, his doctor and I all are dubious of this belief. But none of us can think of any other cause. I thought it might be another bloodclot but an ultrasound proved me wrong. My mom has a follow-up call with Dr. Canin tomorrow.

Side Effects

2007-02-19T21:47:00.000-08:00

My dad has been on oral chemotherapy for the better part of a week. It was hoped that the change—from traditional infused treatments—would alleviate his chronic weakness. But we are not seeing any improvement. In fact, he seems worse. Chronic nausea; he’s eating and drinking little. My mother and I are obviously concerned.

Speaking of my mother, she is showing several signs of chronic stress. She needs assistance—more than I can give her. She has had a woman coming in occasionally but not enough, despite my encouragements. Moreover, the woman is about to give birth to her first child after which I am sure she willl not be available. So I am asking you to help me to encourage my mother to obtain more regular and extensive assistance. Referrals of candidates also would be greatly appreciated.

Many thanks.

And So [He] Goes

2007-02-15T21:32:00.000-08:00

Today was my dad’s second day on his new oral chemotherapy. And he is suffering for it, principally with nausea. Dr. Canin, his oncologist, said the side effects will pass in a few days. In the meantime, he’s not eating and barely drinking. At least he is a bit more ambulatory than even a few days ago. So I guess this amounts to an improvement.

Perspective (addendum)

2007-02-14T17:43:00.000-08:00

I just spoke to my mom. She says my dad is definitely doing better. Notably, his color has improved from its disconcerting pallor of a few days ago.

My dad began his new oral chemotherapy regimen today. Hopefully it will be as successful at staving off tumor growth as was the traditional intravenous treatment, while allowing him to simultaneously feel better. However, given Dr. Canin’s preference for the intravenous, I’m guarded in my hopes.

Perspective

2007-02-14T14:11:00.000-08:00

I spoke to my dad earlier today. He sounded more cheerful than he’s been of late, but still very weak. His speech was quiet and labored. I had to listen carefully when he spoke into the telephone. At least he is again regularly making the effort to leave his bedroom and go downstairs to the television room on the main floor of my parents’ home. The sad irony of celebrating this small achievement by a man who formerly adventured around the globe is not lost on me.

Abort

2007-02-13T14:00:00.000-08:00

The chemo was aborted today. Dr. Canin, my dad’s oncologist, and my mom agreed that my dad is just too weak. My mother said to me that “the quality of life is just not there” [with the current intraveneous regimen]. For the next month my dad will receive daily oral chemotherapy, which isn’t nearly as potent as the every–few–weeks infused kind, but will be considerably less harsh on his system.

[This post has been renamed, from “Quality,” and slightly amended. Both changes were for clarity.]

Just Another Tuesday

2007-02-13T10:11:00.000-08:00

As I write this, it is about 10:15 on a Tuesday morning. As I write this, my father is sitting in a large, fairly comfortable reclining chair. He has been lightly dozing for over an hour, the result of several milligrams of Benadryl having been dripped into his veins through an intravenous line. That drug in turn has been followed by his standard chemotherapeutic cocktail of Taxol and Carboplatin. This is, if I am correct, his fifth such infusion.

The entire treatment will last at least five hours, after which my father will go home, sleep, and probably awaken tomorrow to feel—to use his own words—“like shit.” Such is a typical post–chemotherapy state, for my dad and most other chemo recipients. This isn’t surprising when you appreciate that chemotherapuetic drugs are powerful toxins whoses goal is to poison malignant cells—hopefully without poisoning the healthy host cells (the patient) too much.

Through all this my mother simply waits. Perhaps she will wander over to nearby Broadway Plaza and shop a bit or grab a meal. But, on the whole, she will just wait. Alone. Then she will drive them the thirty minutes or so back to their home.

So, how is your day going?

Back at it...

2007-02-12T18:08:00.000-08:00

I was sick for a week. Lost five lbs. Great new diet treatment! (Can’t be any worse than the zillions of others being hawked on television these days. My millions await.) My mother told me that when she stopped by my apartment, she hadn’t seen me “look so sick in many years.” And yet, even as I lay abed, coughing incessantly, sinuses running, head throbbing, I feared that my father generally feels far worse than I did. This was sobering and forced me to abstain from any self–pity.

Speaking of him, my dad is still trending better. Slowly. Two steps forward, 1.9 steps back. Yesterday definitely was a step or two back. He looked ashen. Pallid. No color to his skin. He was tired. But today... Well, I haven’t yet seen him but when I spoke to him by phone earlier, he said he was feeling better and he sounded more upbeat.

Forward backwar forward backwar forward backwar...

Upswing

2007-02-07T20:49:00.000-08:00

Just in the last two days, he is finally feeling better. This, after having felt pretty damn awful for well over two weeks. We’ll just hope that this upswing continues for a while. Which it probably will—maybe till his next chemo treatment next week.

It’s all so routine now. The jargon, heretofore experienced primarily on television medical dramas has become part of our every day dialog: (representational)

Hi Mom.
Hi Brian.
How’s Dad today?
Oh, he’s doing a bit better. We’re just about to leave for Kaiser.
What’s going to happen today?
Well, he’s going to have another Aredia drip. He has chemo tomorrow and another scan next week.
Oh, okay. Well, tell Dad I love him and that I’ll talk to him this evening.
I will honey. Bye bye.
Bye Mom.

Amazing. How did treatment of a terminal illness become such a blasé topic?

Siege and Sick

2007-02-05T22:03:00.000-08:00

The siege of long hours and crushing deadlines has ended at last. But, right on the heels of that alleviation, I have contracted a pesky virus. I’ll start posting again when I feel comfortable sitting upright for more than two minutes!

For now know that we are all still here and that my dad has been very weak for two weeks. A period of such duration that I don’t believe the symptoms to be consequential of his most recent chemotherapy, albeit it is worth reflecting on their commencement being within a day of that treatment. At least his spirits are improving and he seems to be more comfortable.

I’ll be back soon. My apologies.

Pain and Suffering

2007-01-29T20:33:00.000-08:00

My mother cautioned me to other choices when I mentioned the prospective, now actual, title of this post. But everybody knows that metastatic lung cancer is no cakewalk. It causes the victim pain and suffering—and eventually death. And, if it happens to someone you love, it causes you pain and suffering, if only empathetically.

Notwithstanding the recent, surprising tumor regression, my father has been sickly for a week. Nausea. Lack of appetite. Dizziness. Difficulty climbing stairs. I followed him up to his bedroom this evening, noticing the syncopated rhythm of his footsteps and the cane: step, step, thump. [Pause] Step, step, thump. He had to stop at the first landing where, with his head resting on the banister, he said softly but with a noticeable hint of anger, “Weak as a kitten.” His frustration at his own enfeeblment was wrenching.

It has become hard to attribute his current symptoms to his most recent chemo treatment. My mother and I each wish we could learn the cause, because maybe then we could find a way to mitigate his discomfort. Knowing also would help alleviate our nagging back–of–the–mind apprehensions—the kind which never really leave you when someone you love is terminally ill.

At least he is improving.

In Brief

2007-01-29T01:31:00.000-08:00

Hi,

I’m sorry I haven’t been posting regularly. I’ve been fighting a deadline at work. I’ve also been told that—even in the wake of record profits—Wells Fargo is cutting budgets and I and the other consultants on my team are soon to be terminated. So I’ve also been freshening up my resume and pounding the pavement at the same time. But enough about me.

My dad has had a lot of nausea in the wake of his recent (4th) chemotherapy treatment, last Tuesday. He has eaten very little and slept poorly. Having seen this before, in the wake of chemo infusions, we were initially gladdened by recent news that further treatments would be less–affecting oral. Unfortunately, Dr. Canin has since decided that, owing to the unexpected amount of regression of the pulmonary tumor, the primary cancer site, future chemo treatments will not be oral after all, but will continue to be intraveneous. I trust that the suffering my father is experiencing therefrom is worth the hopefully consequent continued prolongation of his life. I’d say so, but that would be my selfishness. In the end, it is solely my dad’s decision.

I have also learned that the bone–hardening infusions my father has been receiving (the most recent being last week, too) are not as I thought iridium, which is an element, but Aredia, which is a trade name drug. It’s basically Fosamax times ten.

More soon.

Four for Four

2007-01-25T00:08:00.000-08:00

This week, all at Kaiser Permanente, in Walnut Creek.

Monday: Appointment with Dr. Canin
Tuesday: Chemotherapy Apointment
Wednesday: Post–chemotherapy examination for post-chemotherapy Taxol intravenous infiltration
Thursday: Iridium infusion

Waiting for hours. Driving back and forth between Berkeley and Walnut Creek. My mother must be exhausted but she doesn’t really show it.

At the very least she deserves beatification.

“Considerably Shrunk”

2007-01-22T15:24:00.000-08:00

My dad saw Dr. Canin today. The discussion focused around the significantly favorable results of my dad’s latest CAT scan. My parents reviewed the radiographs, which clearly showed considerable regression of the pulmonary tumor. My mother’s stated opinion is the title of this post. (Don’t forget that she was a registered nurse, so her opinion isn’t of the laity.) My dad might be an outlier after all.

Tomorrow will be my dad’s fourth chemotherapy, which as before, will be adminstered intravenously. After which I am sure he will feel tired and probably nauseous for several days. However, succeeding treatments will be oral. Yes, he will simply take a pill, which will be far less toxic, with fewer and lesser side effects. We are all very happy about this.

The news keeps getting better and better, though he is still weak and having frequent bad days. And, it is important to note, there has been no discussion about the metastases. I need to follow up on those....

Inurement

2007-01-19T09:55:00.000-08:00

It has been just under two–and–a–half months since I found out my dad has lung cancer. I am emotionally exhausted, as I know my parents, sister and other relatives to be, as well.

At first, everything was new, everything was an unknown, a cause for alarm. Amped by the epinephrine, cortisol and other stress hormones coursing through our veins, our emotions were at a fever pitch. I won’t say we’ve since become blasé, but the shock, anger, fear, anguish and foreignness are dissipating, instead being replaced by understanding, acceptance and growing knowledge. The one constancy is uncertainty. That won’t end till, well, the end.

We’ve learned a lot:

There will be more chemotherapy (the next round is Tuesday, January 23rd).
There will be unpleasant side–effects.
There will be more mysterious procedures.
There will be more long days.
There will be more—increasingly—bad days.
There will be more good days—relatively few, most likely.
New symptoms will appear.
Old symptoms will recur.
Affordances will be made.
There will be some joy.
There will be frustration.
There will be fear.
There will be lots of pain.

It’s going to be like this for a while. Maybe a year or more. (Very unlikely.) Maybe just a few weeks. (Rather unlikely, given the recent regression of his tumor.) Nobody seems to know, or at least be willing to predict.

‘Chemotherapy’ has given way to ‘chemo’. The procedures are becoming familiar. The myriad appointments are all blurring together. The daily phone call to my parents begins with asking my dad how he feels and ends with discussing the latest medical news with my mother. It has become surprisingly routine.

We are living with cancer.

Clarification & Amplification

2007-01-17T18:06:00.000-08:00

Since yesterday’s principal post, I’ve received congratulatory messages concerning my father’s improvement. For example:

Let’s hope the trend continues indefinitely! Please give him my best wishes for a speedy recovery.

Those are nice sentiments, and I certainly agree with them in spirit. Unfortunately, reality is frequently in conflict with our wishes. And so it is here. To underscore what I said yesterday: He is not going to get better, not really. He will experience a brief improvement after which he will resume his downhill slide, almost certainly thereafter irreversibly. Well, he could experience spontaneous remission. And I could win the California Lottery.

But why not at least pass on the wishes? Well, my dad is a dispassionate, philosophical, scientific pragmatist—except about Republican politics, a topic on which frequently he raves. He understood clearly when Dr. Canin said “Well, you don’t have that much time left,”, though the statement certainly was abstract. He appreciated the significance of Dr. Canin’s further comment that, for patients like my dad, chemotherapy isn’t a cure; on average it prolongs life by just six to ten weeks. My dad understands that he is going to die. Soon.

Consequently, I think that wishes for a speedy recovery are ill–advised and inappropriate. But I will not edit your hopes and feelings. After reading this post, if you still would like to convey similar hopes/wishes/sentiments to my father, please [removed]. She’ll be able to pass the message on to my father sooner than I would.

Admittedly...

2007-01-16T21:49:00.000-08:00

I am happy!

“Very Pleased”

2007-01-16T20:31:00.000-08:00

To hear my father tell it, the title of this post is the verbatim summary assessment of his oncologist, Dr. Canin (click to see his Kaiser profile; I’ve been mispelling his name for weeks), concerning the results of my dad’s latest CAT scan. The pulmonary tumor has reduced in size. By how much? I don’t know. And the metastases? Again, I’m in the dark—as is my mother. For unfathomable reasons, my father is being extremely circumspect in his recounting of his discussion today with Dr. Canin. Even my mother had not heard of the “very pleased” declaration until I persisted for details from my father in her presence. (She was very pleased, too.)

Be that as it may, the news is good. Though it does not mean my father will be up and around, going to his office anytime soon. Any celebration should be guarded. The tumor is still there. It has only become smaller. The metastases almost certainly are still there, too. Odds are, he as just gained some time. How much? It’s anybody’s guess. The statistics are still damning: Just over one of three is alive twelve months after original diagnosis; 1 in 20 twenty–four months after. My dad’s original diagnosis was already over two months ago.

So, to what do I attribute his recent spate of ‘bad days’? Who knows? Anyone who has studied statistics is aware that by chance there can be clusters of samples [events] which, when viewed within a localized or constrained context, appear anomalous in their frequency of occurrence. Such is often the case with purported cancer clusters, for example. It could be that next he has two weeks of great days. In the end, it is the average (both the mean and mode, in this case) tendency that is meaningful.

Thus we rejoice a little. We celebrate a little. But for not one minute do we forget, do we become indulgent nor complacent. There is still very little time to waste—if any. Every day, every moment is precious. As they should all be, anyway.

Please keep those fingers and toes crossed.

Morbid Curiosity

2007-01-16T11:05:00.000-08:00

He is, to quote my mother “okay, today.” That is, he is on par with yesterday. With the exception of Saturday past, his health has been markedly poorer in the last week contrasted with the week just prior to that. Pensively, I and my parents await Dr. Cainin’s phone call and the results of last Friday’s CAT scan. The stresses of curiosity, uncertainty, and fear clearly are affecting each of us.

Ummmm...

2007-01-15T15:46:00.000-08:00

Conceiving a title for today’s post was obviously rather difficult. Not wanting to sound like a broken record (I’ve included the link for anybody under thirty), I finally just gave in and resorted to the onomotopoetic word that kept passing my lips as I thought. But the situation is tantamount to a broken record. “Good day.” “Bad day.” “Good day.” “Bad day.” Though, as of late, the days are more bad than good. Of course we knew that would happen ...eventually.

He is better than yesterday and the day before. But ‘better’ is a comparative; it is relative. He is better, but just a bit. He is still weak. Still tired. Still dying.

We’re still waiting for the results of his second CAT scan. Initially we thought we’d have them today but my parents found out on Friday—and I found out yesterday—that Dr. Canin, my dad’s oncologist, would be out of the office for today’s observance of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday.

And so still we wait. Rather pessimistically.

Merry–go–Round–and–Round

2007-01-14T13:14:00.000-08:00

Lest I was vague in my earlier post, today is a very bad day. I don’t think he has arisen from his bed for more than a minute or two. He has eaten nothing yet—though he just asked me to prepare a small amount of soup—and drank little. He is very weak and speaking very slowly. He complains of aches and pains. In the last week there have been more days like this than not. (Yesterday he had quite a good day.) I do perceive a trend. But tomorrow should be will be definitive.

Merry–go–Round

2007-01-14T12:45:00.000-08:00

Round and round, up and down. One day he’s good, the next bad. I view it as ominous that the proportion of bad days to good has changed dramatically as of late. But tomorrow (Monday) we’ll get the results of his latest CAT scan, which occurred last Friday, with nary a hitch. Then I’ll know better whether my foreboding is justified.

Stay tuned.

Vacillation

2007-01-11T11:19:00.000-08:00

Another bad day, following a very bad night. [Very unpleasant symptoms.] He didn’t crawl out of bed until just before 1PM. I called my parents just after that. While waiting for him to come to the phone, I heard him moan to my mother about how poorly he felt. When we spoke, his speech was tremulous and strained. He said he was—and sounded—very weak but added that he expected to feel better as the day wore on. I hope so. It’s hard to sit at my desk and concentrate knowing he is suffering.

Delta

2007-01-10T09:48:00.000-08:00

This coming Friday, my dad finally will have his second CAT scan. The delta (mathematical and statistical for ‘change’) between it and the baseline original scan will allow an estimation of the disease’s progression and timelines. I expect we’ll get the actual results on Monday, after a radiologist has had a chance to review the scan, which will look like this.

To quote myself:

Then we’ll know for sure if his apparent resurgence is in fact because of a diminution of his tumors and/or a reduction in their metastases, or simply the consequences of the palliative effects of the treatments. The odds are vastly for the latter.

Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Cross anything possible. Well, if you cross your legs you’ll probably fall over. Or if you cross your eyes (and see this), you’ll almost certainly get a headache and walk into walls. (More succinctly and to be paranoically legalistic: please do not hurt yourself on my recommendation.) But anything else is fair game.

I know the uncertainties overshadowing the next few days will be very stressful for both of my parents—indeed for all our family.

Life Time

2007-01-09T23:30:00.000-08:00

Time is relative. At least perceptually. Some events happen so fast we don’t even think about their occurence, such as light streaming out from bulb to wall when we flick on a light switch. Other events are so slow as to be imperceptible within human lifetimes. Such as any event that is measured in geologic time, like orogeny.

The watching of analog clocks (bereft of second hands) occupies an interesting place between these poles. It is difficult to perceive the instantaneous moving of the minute hand, yet if we watch it for a while, it becomes clear that the hand has moved.

Lately I’ve been writing that my dad generally has been of surprisingly good health, allowing for the occasional ‘bad day’. But it was only this morning that I realized that he is declining. He is a little slower, a little weaker. It’s impossible to see day–by–day but, in retrospect, enough change has occurred to be undeniable.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Flop Flip

2007-01-08T21:14:00.000-08:00

He had a good day. Especially as compared to yesterday. He felt well enough to spend most of the day downstairs, much of it reading. He also socialized with me, my mother, and some good family friends (who brought much delicious food) over dinner. True, he didn’t eat very much, but it was still a vast improvement overall.

The indeterminancy is maddening.

Flip Flop

2007-01-07T14:08:00.000-08:00

He’s having a bad day. A very bad day. He is tired, nauseous. He was out of bed for just about an hour, returning to it midmorning and falling asleep almost immediately. We don’t know why. We hope these symptoms are transitory, that he will be restored tomorrow to his previously relatively good health. We learned early on from friends and relatives that there would be good days and bad (trending towards the latter). And we’s certainly seen that already. But, as I’ve written before, we cannot foretell the future, save in gross abstract. So we just love and watch and tend and soothe and hope and wait.

If You Haven’t Already...

2007-01-05T10:35:00.000-08:00

Please add yourself, including your name and your photo to the map! I will be showing the map again to my father tomorrow (Saturday).

Thanks!

I’m Still Here

2007-01-05T09:26:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately, I returned from Yosemite to a veritable conflagration at Wells Fargo and my time has been consumed accordingly. In addition, my significant other (egad, what an ungainly term, but ‘girlfriend’ is so innocuous; I’m working on changing the nature of our relationship) came down with a bad case of norovirus—yes, the same thing that has beset San Quentin State Prison (looks kind of pretty in the photograph) and is flaring up around the world. So I’ve been also spending time ministering to her, leaving scant for myself. But things should calm down today.

Anyway, my dad seems generally happy, feisty (as always) and reasonably healthy—within the bounds of what could be expected. He still gets himself up and down the stairs between the floors of his house, with much less effort than a few weeks ago, actually. Last I knew, the oxygen remains untapped. And he still sleeps beside my mother as he has for much of the last fifty–one years (save for the many many months spent alone overseas).

Except for the cane, bathroom fixtures and chapeau, and a pronounced slowing down, it’s almost possible to fantasize that he’s fine, that there aren’t tumors spreading inside him.

I have yet to learn about the value of iridium infusion my dad received in my absence. Also, Kaiser rescheduled a number of appointments so he didn’t meet with his oncologist yesterday and the date of another CAT scan is up–in–the–air. Consequently, timelines are still indeterminate.

In sum, there really isn’t very much to relate right now, as I predicted. But keep checking back here. Because this comparative calm simply can’t last.

Back in the Saddle

2007-01-02T22:12:00.000-08:00

It’s 2007 and I’m back after a very nice week in Yosemite. Three days of Nordic skiing, a snowshoe trip to a fabulous overlook near Badger Pass and a hike halfway up Yosemite Falls.

Anyway, to the matter at hand: My dad. I shall be brief because it is rather late.

Despite being listed as such on the appointment schedule Kaiser provided my father, last Thursday was not a chemotherapy treatment. Instead, my mother says he was given an infusion of iridium. Although I’ve found several references to iridium in the treatment of lung cancer, none seems to apply here. I hope to get more details from my mom tomorrow, after which I will follow up.
My dad did receive a chemotherapeutic treatment earlier today. When I saw him earlier this evening, he seemed and said he was fine, save for a bit of post–treatment nausea; which is not uncommon with chemotherapy. He did add that Kaiser administered an anti-nausea agent for the first time.
Thursday is the next appointment with the oncologist. We’re expecting him to schedule another CAT scan. My thoughts are that it, along with its predecessor, will allow his physicians to assess the rapidity of the cancer growth and maybe—not to be morbid—make a gross prediction as to my dad’s longevity.

Till Next Year

2006-12-25T18:05:00.000-08:00

This is my last post probably through the end of the year. I leave early Tuesday for my week–long trip to Yosemite that will keep me from both my parents and computer through January 1st.

I thank those who volunteered for my call list to provide physical assistance to my parents during my absence. The information has been e-mailed to my mom, who accepted it gladly.

May your new year be happy, healthy and full of love.

Brian

See Saw

2006-12-25T18:00:00.000-08:00

Today is another bad day. My dad looks haggard and is moving more slowly than just a couple of days ago. He did manage to come downstairs in the morning, which facilitated the consumption of the delectable pancakes my mother made for breakfast. Aside from a short stint at the tree, to receive my present to him (the wonderful and noteworthy biography of J.D. Rockefeller, Titan), he spent the bulk of the time I was there sitting in the ‘TV room’ (the small room just off the kitchen).

My mother and I took a walk around the block after eating. We’ve done this for years. As is most common these days, today our topic was my dad. Specifically his appearance and substantive decline. What was unspoken, but I know was in both our thoughts, was whether we’ve seen the high point. Have the expected palliative or retardant effects of the chemo been exhausted? Or is this just a temporary swing to the worse, to be followed by another one back to the better. Maybe we’ll know on the 7th. For now, the uncertainty is more than frustrating.

Anderson, Begin Again

2006-12-25T17:14:00.000-08:00

Several times I’ve written about the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center of the University of Texas. It is one of the two best clinical oncology facilities in the United States and one of the very best in the world. As I wrote before, I’ve wanted my father to go to Anderson since he was first diagnosed. Because of its special FDA status, Anderson has clinical trial treatments unavailable anywhere else.

Their latest is the proton beam. Yes, it sounds like some fictitious weapon from an episode of Star Trek. But it’s real, in use, and to great effect. And it’s at Anderson—and apparently nowhere else (at least in the States).

Is my father a candidate for such treatment? Who knows!? (Oh, for an interrobang!) So far he has squirmed out of every argument I’ve made in favor for going to Anderson, using ill–conceived claims and counterclaims. He seems convinced that UCSF is just as good. Well, maybe now he will give that belief further consideration.

Merry Christmas.

Christmas

2006-12-25T06:14:00.000-08:00

We had a big dinner last night. There was turkey, stuffing, creamed onions—all the good stuff. It was delicious. The food was planned for ten. Eight people sat at the table. One of the missing was my good friend Sean, whom, like many people I know, is suffering through a winter cold. (I had one last week). The other absentee was my dad, who “had a bad day” yesterday, to quote my mom, and, stayed upstairs, just like at Thanksgiving. As then, I sat at the head of the table. And as then it made me feel strange, a usurper.

By “had a bad day,” my mom meant that my dad had little energy and was feeling generally poorly, including a bit nauseous. Neither she nor I want to yet accept these symptoms as anything other than transient, especially in light of his recent upswing. Hope springs eternal. But time will tell. It will be interesting to see how he is today.

As we did at Thankgiving, we took our deserts upstairs, to eat them in the company of my dad. He really enjoyed the attention and proceeded to cheerfully hold forth, as is his wont.

Later, I walked one of our guests to his car. A dear family friend, he has known my father literally for decades. I’ve known him probably thirty–five years. He remarked on my dad’s remarkable strength and will to live—which I cannot dispute—and that those may be the edge my dad needs to become an outlier, as opposed to a routine statistic. God, I hope so. I can think of no better Christmas gift next year than to have my dad still with us.

Present Present

2006-12-23T22:38:00.000-08:00

What do you give your terminally ill father for Christmas? Something he can enjoy as soon as he removes the wrapping paper. In other words, right away.

Holidays and celebrations are hard.

A Weighty Topic

2006-12-23T22:32:00.000-08:00

At his maximum, at least as far as I know, my father weighed approximately 190 lbs. I think he said he was 185 lbs. early this summer, just as the cancer was beginning to grow. Admittedly, he was clearly overweight, both visually and by his body mass index. But not anymore. Now he weighs 154 lbs. and his weight continues to fall, although the rate has declined and my dad has professed a recognition of a need to eat better, to stabilize his weight. We’ll find out on January 7th whether there will be any real benefit to his pursing that goal.

Countdown

2006-12-23T22:01:00.000-08:00

My dad will receive his third chemotherapy treatment next Thursday, December 28th, whilst I am away in the High Sierra. With her sister, Gloria, back home, my mother again will be left alone for several hours as my dad dozes through the infusion.

Then we will wait ten days.

My father will have another CAT scan on January 7th to assess the progress of the cancer and whether the chemo is having any impact. Then we’ll know for sure if his apparent resurgence is in fact because of a diminution of his tumors and/or a reduction in their metastases, or simply the consequences of the palliative effects of the treatments. The odds are vastly for the latter. At the very least we may get a timeline.

I await with morbid curiosity.