Facilitation

My father’s mobility is already extremely impaired and will continue to decline. My mother is filing out the paperwork to acquire handicapped license plates for their Honda Accord–which either my mother or I will be driving as my dad is no longer able to drive himself. The plates will allow my mother to park nearer to, among other places, hospital entrances.

Ca 40.078*

As I write this, my father is at Kaiser in Oakland, having a two hour calcium drip. (I originally thought it was going to be last Tuesday.) I had written that I was unsure of the purpose of the procedure. A friend of my father who is reading this blog sent me an e-mail to explain:

With regard to the calcium drip, I think I can illumine the situation. My mother received these in the advanced stages of her breast/bone cancer. The calcium is introduced with various other agents in order to try to strengthen bones that are on the verge of structural collapse. It is done to try to prevent fractures that might occur just in the context of simple weight-bearing exercise, like just walking to the toilet.

This make sense especially because the cancer has metasticized to his bone.

Enough said.

*Calcium’s atomic symbol and weight.

Roll Tape!

I now understand. The previously discussed audio recording of my father’s description of his professional life is being paid for by the L.S.B. Leakey Foundation (‘LSBLF’) but the actual work is to be performed by the Bancroft Library of the University of California at Berkeley, which has the necessary equipment and experienced personnel.

During a discussion about my father yesterday morning with a friendly LSBLF board member, I stressed the urgency of trying to undertake this task—which I now believe has a chance of succeeding given the [temporary] improvement in my dad’s mood and energy. At dinner last night, my mother told me that she had been contacted by the LSBLF staff person charged with overseeing the recording, late that afternoon.

My turn.

But not too Deceiving

There are seventeen steps between the first and second floors of my parents’s home, where my parents and I just finished dinner with and brought by some dear family friends. I arrived while they were already eating and found my father sitting up, laughing, talking and eating. It was really nice to see. In an aside, one of our friends told me that you feel like s*** for the first week after chemotherapy, then you gradually feel better. It has been nine days since my dad’s first course.

But in spite of the evidence and our friend’s statement, I remained reserved. I know statistics. My feelings were justified as I later watched my father walk slowly through the halls of his home, cane in one hand and our friend supporting him at the other. My feelings were underscored witnessing the extraordinary effort my father expended in climbing those seventeen stairs up to his bedroom. He had to stop three times before reaching the top and was winded throughout his labors.

Appearances are Deceiving

I am sitting with my parents, in their ‘TV’ room. We’ve just finished dinner with some close family friends. My father is sitting up, animated, laughing, joking, talking quickly. He ate a reasonable amount of food. He looks and acts the best I’ve seen him in several months. He is shaved. From his tired appearance, his house coat and the cane at the edge of his chair, one might guess he is recovering from a minor illness. But the statistics and the assessment of his oncologist hang in the air.

At the very least, there may yet be a chance at personal and professional audio histories.

Please Come Visit!

Please come visit my parents! My father truly enjoys having someone to talk to and I know my mother appreciates the distraction. Just don’t expect my father to be shaven.

Note: Even after you’ve scheduled a visit, please treat the date as provisional. Call my mother just before you come because my father’s state is protean and he may not be able to receive visitors just then. Thank you.

Calls are also welcome, and don’t require prior arrangement. Just pick up the phone and dial (punch?) [removed]! Do it today. Both of my folks would love to hear from their friends and my father likes catching up with colleagues.

Besides by phone, you can reach my my mother by e-mail at [removed]. I am reachable at [removed], or by cell at [removed].

The Truth Hurts

I admit it. Writing this blog is quite cathartic for me, unexpectedly so. I have at times injected a great deal of the emotion I am feeling. It is often the profoundness of the moment that virtually compels me to write. I have discovered this is a common compensatory behavior during times of [severe] depression.

When I began this blog, I declared to myself that I would write honestly and candidly, not shading the truth. You, who are my father’s friends and colleagues deserve no less. Nor, certainly, does my dad. If I were to withhold the truth about his prognosis, his chances for long–term survival, you might come to harbor unfounded hopes or delay actions that in fact demand urgency. But such honestly forces me to be pragmatic and realistic in assessing the facts and circumstances. These assessments necessarily arouse great emotion in me. I love my father dearly and it hurts beyond expressibility to watch him die, both for his pain and suffering and for my impending loss—although I have already lost much of him, and more each day.

As part of this commitment to honestly, I also stipulated that I would not alter what I’ve already written, save for minor edits, principally to correct errant punctuation and misspellings. In particular, I would not delete a post. I’ve violated my deletion rule once, with good, personal reason. I shan’t do it again. I have not forsaken my editing strictures. Thus, I have left in statements that reflect my anguish and pain that were written reflexively as I reported on his condition. (It is reasonable to assume that you or others have already viewed these statements by the time I’ve regained sufficient composure that I have thoughts of eliding them, rendering such actions moot.)

I hope that you are not offended or leastwise put off by these inclusions. Regardless, I ask that you please see them for what they are: A written testament of a son who deeply admires, respects and loves his dying father, his best friend.

Brian