I’m losing my dad.
By: Cheryl Starybrat
Tags: Daughters, Dads, Death, Dying, Cancer

I’m losing my dad. I’m watching him slip away before my eyes. The parts of him I love: his strong, permanently dirty hands that tinker and build around the house; singing made up lyrics to familiar tunes as he cooks dinner while slurping down a generous portion of cheap red wine in a milk glass; sitting in a waiting room making witty observations that shift an otherwise boring aspect of life into a giggly one; bouncing his grand-kids on his knee as they belly laugh in delight: are all muted by the cancer. Like an off-switch. He’s still here physically, so I can hold his previously oil-stained hands, but rather than building a dollhouse for my daughter or scooping my son into the air, they rest still on his belly.

We got the news two short years ago that he was diagnosed with bladder cancer. I wasn’t worried. I’m not even sure I cried. I thought my poor dad will have to cope with treatments and not feeling well but then it will be okay. He’ll be okay. It will be a memory that we’ll occasionally talk about in the years to come. Maybe at worst he’d lose his bladder. That would be devastating…oh I can’t even think about that. It’s too awful. But that won’t happen because he is strong- both physically and mentally. This will be a blip.

And then it wasn’t a blip. The cancer made its way outside of the bladder and traveled to his lungs and bones. A complete blindside. The day I heard the news it felt like he was in a tragic car accident and for the first time I allowed myself to realize I could lose him.

His first doctor’s apt was dreadful, but we were all there as a family. He proudly introduced us as his warriors to anyone coming in the room to take a vital sign or ask a question. The doctor presented the chemo treatment plan and I wept in relief. There was a plan so there was hope. We were in fighter mode. My dad was so positive and continued to make us laugh. He made it clear that he wasn’t afraid and that he was at peace with whatever outcome prevailed. His faith in God gave him the conviction that either he’ll have an amazing testimony of a miraculous cure or that he’ll be taken home. His resolve made this bearable for all of us.

Chemo treatments were a good memory. We took turns taking him, each of us as often as our schedules and travel allowed. We’d watch movies and Dad would slurp down hospital ice cream and sandwiches delighted that they were provided. He had his favorite rooms that the nurses seemed to reserve for him. And the chemo worked- he was getting stronger and better. After treatment was done, we got the celebrated news the tumors were gone. We started to make plans and put into motion normal life. How glorious an ordinary day was: to call my parents and hear boring stories left me with indescribable joy. But that was so short-lived, just a little taste of what could be.

One Thursday morning he had a seizure, and we got the news that the cancer is now in his brain. It will be okay, we were told: it’s a grape in a bowl of jelly. Simple radiation should clear it. And he took it in stride, bringing his radiation mask home and adding googly eyes to show us kids what it looked like. The radiation caused his hair to fall out so he shaved his head and was more handsome than ever. He grew a beard to offset the lack of hair on top and strongly considered getting tattoos to complete the look.

Life felt good for a couple weeks…until another scan revealed a large tumor that needed brain surgery. There is a plan, which means there is hope. I was always so thankful for the plan, a possible solution. As long as there is a plan, there is a future with him in it. Brain surgery was terrifying but it went well, and when the nurses came to bring us up from the waiting room they said he’s already making everyone laugh. And there he was with a fresh hole in his head and a huge smile on his face. He and my mom had a ‘candlelit dinner’ in the hospital room that night. He had asked me to bring flameless candles so their dinner would be romantic. And that was typical. 44 years together and he still tried to woo her.

But the cancer is relentless. His brain a fertile soil, nurturing the seeds, and it kept coming back. And we’d attack. And it would be okay. And then it wasn’t okay. Scar tissue formed, acting as a permanent, untreatable tumor. We had to stop immunotherapy to control the neurological symptoms of the scar tissue. And by doing that the cancer found its way into the brain lining and eventually the brain stem.

My dad isn’t so strong anymore. His emotional resolve has faded. He is weak, tired, and a little grumpy. Life is kinder to him when he sleeps, so there isn’t much reason to be awake. He’s still physically here, but he’s mostly gone. We get a little taste of him, a glimpse, in a treasured moment on a given day. And those are the moments we cling to, so we can continue to survive.

That’s the thing about cancer. Typically, it hits you in waves. And the scope of what you can cope with shifts. Now, bladder removal seems as devastating as stubbing your toe. How we would welcome a Stoma bag with wide open arms and tears of joy. Two years ago that was the worst scenario we could imagine. Now it’s an unattainable dream from another life.

Now, we cling to hope that maybe we have a few more weeks. At most a couple months. We feel there is no hope to think about his 62nd birthday in six months. But two years ago, to hear my dad had six months to live would’ve killed me. Now it’s an impossible optimism that would prove miraculous. What we would give to have six more months with this beautiful soul.

We all have to take our turn losing our most loved persons. For some it’s quick like a Band-Aid leaving you spinning in shock at the new reality. For others, it’s slow and arduous, allowing so much time to dwell in the dreaded anticipation of what life will be like. I’ve spent the most time in my adult life with my parents since my dad’s diagnosis. I’ve gotten to know my mom in a way I never would’ve otherwise and for that I’m thankful. But I will always miss how life was when we were whole. I will always miss the security of knowing my parents have each other. We have spent the last two decades becoming friends. My kids are losing their Papa at an age where they won’t remember him well. That kills me- the memories we’ll never make. Life will be dimmer without my dad’s witty perspective and commentary on daily events.

That is what is strange at knowing you’re about to experience heartache: wondering what it will feel like. I can try to predict how my world will be, try to imagine life without him but I will never fully know until it happens. So we wait, while he slowly disappears. The worst waiting game life has to offer. I do find peace knowing he always was at peace. And I take solace in the fact that if anyone is going to excel at being a guardian angel, it will be my dad.