Tag Archives: Brock

Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

Watching My Life Partner Die

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Nurse Bonnie’s theory is that the infection Brock battled last week in the hospital drained the last of his batteries.

We came home from the hospital Thursday, then spent a wonderful Friday together. For dinner, Brock craved and got a McDonald’s Big Mac (I don’t judge; I enable). This was the last thing he ate.

Saturday was a lazy day, with Brock sleeping and me writing/reading beside him in our bed.

At 11pm I tried to give Brock his last antibiotic pill of the day. He sat up, still mostly asleep, and his mouth couldn’t remember how to drink from a straw.

Or maybe he just didn’t have the energy to suck from a straw anymore.

Brock’s parents and brother came over and for the next four days we made Brock as comfortable as we could while his body gradually stopped working.

Unexpected Thing #1: the full house

I thought I would want to be alone with Brock at the end, although of course I would (reluctantly) share him with his parents and brother’s family.

But that is not at all how I felt this week.

After Brock’s parents and brother were here, I invited his best friends to come say goodbye (and just sit in the living room) Sunday. On Monday I invited more family, and then more friends.

Because so many of us shared the work of adjusting Brock’s position in bed and moistening his mouth and changing his sweaty pillowcases and wiping his forehead with a cool cloth, I was able to just lie beside him and hold his hand.

Family made huge meals, washed laundry, swept floors, and even cleaned our bathtub.

Brock was never alone — and sometimes his room was too full to fit anyone else. It was wonderful.

In addition to sharing the work, I felt like everyone was sharing the grief.

Unexpected Thing #2: the parallels

I’ve read a lot about dying and grief over the past few years, and often read that the birthing and dying processes are similar.

But holy cow, there were so many moments where Brock’s dying room could have been a birthing room.

At one point, Brock’s dad was timing Brock’s breaths just like a man times his wife’s contractions.

My job was to tell Brock whatever he needed to hear, and hold his hand.

Unexpected Thing #3: the final exam

I’d inadvertently been studying for Brock’s death for months. All of a sudden he wasn’t able to speak or even communicate with his body, and it was up to us to decide what he needed.

I knew exactly how to give Brock a back massage that wouldn’t hurt his tumour-y areas.

I knew his favourite sleeping positions, to alleviate his cancer-caused back pain and bony body.

I knew that he hated having his feet touched.

I knew he didn’t want to be in pain, but he also didn’t want to be sedated, so we avoided giving too much pain medication.

I already had a Brock playlist on Spotify, so we could listen to all his favourite songs. We sang aloud to Mr. Jones (his favourite song) and I think he smiled.

I knew his favourite movie was The Two Towers from the Lord of the Rings trilogy, so we watched that with a room full of family and I fast-forwarded over the Ent scenes because they bore Brock.

And most importantly: I knew what he needed to hear, or at least I hope I guessed correctly. For four days I had to rely on Brock’s eyes and rare grunts to guess how he was feeling. I figured Brock was confused about what was happening to him, so I explained over and over again that this was not another infection, this was the end of his life. Our job was to keep him comfortable and pain-free, and his job was to let go whenever he was ready.

I promised him that I would read the financial management book he’d given me, and that I would do my best to control my spontaneous tendencies and ask trusted friends and family for their input in my big life decisions. I promised I would stick to our annual Lego budget.

No regrets

I’m so happy we went to the hospital last week to deal with Brock’s infection, even though it was hard on him. It would have been much worse for him to die feeling flu-sick. Instead, he was just very very tired.

I’m grateful we had all the conversations we needed to, while we still could. I never held back. I asked him all the hard questions and we talked about everything, from how to raise Isaac to the memorial scholarship/bursary we planned to start.

On Friday, which turned out to be his last aware day, I told him I didn’t want him to die and that I couldn’t give him permission to die. (These are the sorts of morbid conversations we’ve had regularly since he was diagnosed!) And then I thought about it a bit more, and retracted my statement. I said that I didn’t want him to suffer and so when he was ready to go, I would let him go.

Aftermath

I was very sad immediately after Brock went, especially when I had to tell Isaac his dad had died.

But by Thursday I was blank. I think I’m still in shock, even though we knew he was dying. Two analogies to describe this feeling:

  1. I feel like I’ve just ridden a rollercoaster. The ride just ended and the rollercoaster has pulled up to the loading platform. The brakes stop us. I’m not ready to stand up yet — I want to talk about the ride, to reflect on that highest peak and the sudden drop. And I have no idea what to do after I stand up.
  2. I feel like an iPhone that’s just been factory reset. A blank canvas. No personalized apps or custom wallpaper.

I can’t even read the grief book I bought in advance, because it’s describing a kind of gut-wrenching grief that I’m not feeling. I’m just empty.

To help work through this numbness, I’m trying to downplay my final memories of Brock, physically destroyed by cancer, and bring back my memories of how he was for most of our 11.5 years together. That huge smile and his sexy ass. His quiet brilliance. His enthusiasm for new projects and the first strawberry of the season.

I loved him so much.

Brock in 2006, on our first roadtrip together.
Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

Do Not Resuscitate

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Brock asked his palliative care oncologist if he should not drink alcohol while taking a certain pain medication. She said: “Why not? If you want a drink, drink.”

He was hesitant to accept sleeping pills (even though he wasn’t sleeping well), because he didn’t “want to get addicted to them.”

He was nervous about taking “too many” painkillers, even though he was in pain.

One of the biggest transformations we’ve undergone over the past 2-3 years of Brock living with cancer is overcoming these “healthy person” attitudes. When you’re sick and dying, it’s important to get the sleep you need: the small risk of addiction simply doesn’t matter. It’s important to control your pain, to protect the quality of the life you have left. And why deny yourself the things you find pleasurable, whether that’s a well-made Old Fashioned or a McDonald’s Big Mac? Life is too short to be a martyr and suffer needlessly.

When we turned from “curative” care to palliative care, Brock signed a Do Not Resuscitate (DNR) form. We have copies of this in our vehicles, in my purse and at home. Normal People call 9-1-1 if there’s a health emergency, and paramedics are legally obligated to perform CPR (if it’s needed) when they arrive. CPR can break or fracture ribs, and cause stress and needless drama to an otherwise peaceful, natural death. Normal, Healthy People don’t mind a fractured rib if it means saving their life, but for someone already close to death it’s a painful and offensive final blow to their diminishing quality of life.

Ever since Brock signed that form, one of the hardest parts of my “caregiver” job has been to decide when Brock needs emergency help, and when it’s a natural progression of his cancer and I just need to be patient and wait things out.

One night in May I came into our bedroom and found Brock lying in bed, his face as red as a marathon runner’s. He told me he needed to get up and go to the bathroom, but he said he couldn’t breathe well enough to stand. He started to fall asleep. I told him this wasn’t okay and so we needed to go to the hospital, but he said he couldn’t make it down our stairs. So I woke up our neighbour/friend Dan, who came upstairs in case Isaac woke up, and then I called the ambulance and started packing.

This was the right decision: Brock’s tumors had eaten up so much of his lungs that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. The ER staff put Brock onto oxygen and we were set up with an oxygen concentrator at home by the time Brock came home the next day.

A month ago, Brock spent two days sleeping. This wasn’t overly concerning, but he was barely conscious when he did wake up to use the washroom: he was delirious and saying weird things.

BROCK: “Is that our dog barking?”

(We’ve never had a dog.)

I called our super star home care nurse hotline and Nurse Bonnie calmed me down. It could be an infection, or it could be a natural downswing in Brock’s health. She said to wait and see how he was in the morning. (Mid-story pause here to share two tangential thoughts.)

Tangent #1:

Another item to add to the list of “toughest moments” is every time I’ve had to make a decision without being able to consult with Brock. We consult. It’s what we’ve always done through our 11 years together. He argues for facts and I argue for instinct, and between us we make good decisions. I don’t like making decisions without Brock having a say, especially when it concerns him. Being the sole decision maker reminds me that our 50:50 partnership is changing, and I do not want that.

Tangent #2:

Actually, this is more backstory than tangent.

There have been numerous times in the past 2-3 years that I’ve thought, “This is it, Brock can’t possibly get sicker/weaker. He’s going to die soon and I am so scared.” But then he does live, and continues to get even more sick/weak. I’ve never known anyone dying well enough to witness the deterioration. I vaguely understand the process, thanks to reading books like Maggie Callanan’s Final Journeys and Final Gifts, but this is Brock and my first time experiencing it. I’m continually shocked by just how sick/weak Brock can become, and yet continue to live.

Back to the sleeping + delirium story:

So I talked with Nurse Bonnie and I asked her if this could be it: is this what dying looks like? She said maybe — Brock might wake up and be fine the next morning, or he might be sick and treatable, or maybe this was the end.

And (strangely) I felt relieved, because I wasn’t overreacting or being melodramatic. When your loved one is saying crazy things and can’t seem to wake up, it’s terrifying — and that’s okay. Our life these days is terrifying on a regular basis, and that’s to be expected.

I wish we knew exactly how long we had left together. So much of the panic and stress I feel is due to this uncertainty. If I knew we had a year, I’d find a way to get Brock on a Bucket List trip to the states. If we have a week, I’d order take-out every night for dinner so I wouldn’t have to be in the kitchen and miss those extra hours reading beside him while he naps.