Tag Archives: dying

Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

Things We Say at the End

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I want to tell you about this part of Brock dying, because I don’t think many people know about it. I didn’t, before I read Maggie Callanan’s Final Gifts.

When we get close to death, that line between being awake (conscious) and being asleep (un/sub-conscious) starts to break down. A common metaphor is having a foot in both worlds at the same time.

I knew about this stage, having read Final Gifts and some helpful books from Cowichan Hospice, but still didn’t recognize it as a sign that Brock was close to death when I saw him entering the stage. That’s probably thanks to denial. Denial is an amazing thing.

Anyhoo, Brock told me about the weird things he started to think, feel and even taste in the month before he died. Anyone who knew him well will know that he was a very scientific, practical guy, and was not a poet or abstract. But the first “weird” thing he told me was that he had started to feel like he was (sometimes) three people.

For example: he said he knew he’d have a good sleep if all three of him were ready to go to bed. If one or two of him were missing, he’d have a hard time falling asleep or wouldn’t sleep well.

Knowing Brock, this was crazy pants talk.

And he wasn’t half-asleep or drunk when he told me this. He was just normal Brock, trying to explain something he experienced that was hard to explain. And yet . . . he wasn’t old-version-of-Brock enough for me to feel okay saying, “That’s crazy pants talk,” even though old-version-of-Brock would have thought being three people at once was ridiculous.

This three-people phenomenon happened a lot.

I once brought him a glass of chocolate milk, because he’d asked for it, and he said: “Phew. I can drink that. I thought I’d have to drink all three glasses.”

Or when he made a physically strenuous journey to the washroom at the hospital, with help from me and a nurse, and he said: “Oh, that wasn’t as hard as I expected. I didn’t have to do it three times.”

At one point, Brock and I brainstormed where his three people came from. The father, the son and the holy ghost. Ego, super-ego and Id. Okay, a lot of cultural patterns occur in threes. Maybe there’s a reason, given Brock’s experience of being three people at once.

I want to share some of the Brock quotes I wrote down in the weeks before he died. I’m going to do this not to make fun of the crazy-pants things he said, but because I want you to understand how surreal this time was, and maybe to prepare you for when you witness your own dying loved ones approach their deaths.

I wrote these quotes down because I thought I’d be able to share them with Brock someday, when he was all better, and we’d laugh about how funny he’d been. I thought this knowing full well that he was never going to get better.

Here we go:

“I was about to offer you whatever I was eating in my head.”

“I think we’re done with the bread, if you want to put that away. And, as I’m saying this, I’m realizing there is no bread.”
(Said while I gave Brock a back massage.)

“I was going to ask you for another spanokopita. And then I realized I hadn’t just eaten a spanokopita.”

“Is that the smallest letter?”
(Said September 10, ten days before Brock died.)

“What’s that noise? A bug zapper?”
(Said while battling an infection in the hospital, about the noise from his IV drip.)

“Where’s the car parked?”
(While half asleep on the toilet. Travel is a common theme among the dying, apparently. I assured him that it was parked nearby, and I knew where it was.)

“People have been saying that it’s a good time to invest, looking back.”
(Said while falling asleep sitting up. Brock was always nervous about my money management skills.)

Final Gifts emphasizes how important it is to simply listen to these statements from people when they’re close to death. Disagreeing or trying to correct them can cause anxiety and self-doubt and embarrassment, and discourage them from sharing more of their experience.

I feel lucky that Brock told me about his three-people feelings, and that I got to witness this amazing, strange stage of his dying. I wanted to share it with you too.

Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

What to Tell the Kid

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I’ve been preparing Isaac for his daddy to die for months now.

The subtle work had already been done: my librarian mom stocked his bookshelves with books about feelings, death and saying goodbye about a year ago.

But sometime this summer I realized Isaac was spending too much time watching YouTube videos of dads playing with their kids. Specifically: The Axle Show. Isaac would watch this show on our iPad while his own dad napped through the afternoon. I realized I had to explain why Brock wasn’t playing with Isaac the way other dads played with their kids — or even spending as much time with Isaac as I did, even though all three of us were home.

So I started by explaining to Isaac that his dad was sick. Not the normal kind of sick that Isaac or I got sometimes — a different kind of sick. It was the kind of sick where, although some days his dad might feel better, Brock would never get better.

And, eventually, his daddy would die.

And then of course Isaac asked if he would die, and if I would die, and I said yes, everyone dies eventually, but Isaac and I wouldn’t die for a very long time, until we were very old (I hope!).

Keep in mind — Isaac was three when we were having these conversations, so I would say something and then he’d get distracted by a Hot Wheels car, and then a week later he’d ask about the dying part and I’d answer and then he’d want to play in his sandbox.

My research into kids and grief said that there are four key questions/messages that need to be dealt with, sometimes over and over again. They are:

  1. “Did I cause dad to get sick and die?”
  2. “Can I catch it?”
  3. “Can I cure it?” (Isaac loved to play doctor and give his dad medicine.)
  4. “Who will take care of me when dad dies?” (I tell him every day that it’s mom and Isaac, together forever.)

Once we had the “sick” conversation, Brock and I noticed Isaac saying he was “sick” more often. We would remind Isaac that he was healthy-person sick, and that he would get better.

Oh, I just remembered Isaac saying this on a camping trip this summer:

ISAAC: “When I grow up, I want to be a daddy and get sick.”

That destroyed me and Brock. It’s hard to be a grown up and respond properly to stuff like that.

It was very tempting — at many times over the past year — to send Isaac to stay with my parents and sister’s family in Invermere so that I could focus on Brock. But Maggie Callanan’s Final Journeys emphasised the importance of children being part of the dying process, both to help them with their own grief and so that adults could model grieving behaviour appropriately. Luckily my mom came to stay with us for five whole months this winter, and Brock’s parents and brother’s family took Isaac for play days on a regular basis this summer. I was able to take care of Brock as he became sicker, and Isaac was still active and having fun.

Isaac was here when his dad died at home last week. He was the first person to come into the room to say goodbye (which was his choice — I wouldn’t have made him do it). Then he went back out to play.

In the week since Brock died, my sister and dad have been staying with me: we try to have consistent answers for Isaac’s questions, which he asks at random times.

He wants to know where his dad went. (“Daddy died, remember? He’s going to turn into dirt, and flowers and trees will grow out of the dirt.”)

He asks when his dad will be back. (“He died, so he won’t be coming back. But your mom is here to take care of you and we are here too.”)

These spontaneous questions are like little paper cuts. But it’s our job to answer him truthfully and patiently.

I’ve read that children who lose a parent have to re-deal with their grief from different angles over and over again as they grow up. The questions and challenges Isaac has around his dad’s death as a four-year-old will be different from those he has as an eight-year-old, or a fourteen-year-old, or a young adult. I’ve dreaded this ever since I read it.

I am putting together a “Box o’ Brock” for Isaac, full of Brock’s favourite clothes and books and his special coffee cup. Brock wrote a letter to Isaac that I’ll include in there, and his friends are going to print out their epic Facebook Messenger conversations, which capture so well Brock’s voice and brain. We will always have photographs of Brock on the walls, and I’m already reminding Isaac of what Brock would say in certain situations (“It’s important to carry your own soccer gear. Dad says the best athletes do that.”).

As hard as Brock’s death is on me, his parents, his brother and his friends, no one is more destroyed by this than Isaac. He has lost his dad, who would have been a proud coach, teacher and role model. Brock wanted them to take piano lessons together. We were going to learn Latin, as a family “secret language.” Isaac would have learned how to skate backwards like an NHL star, and how to throw a baseball properly.

Isaac doesn’t understand yet what he’s lost, and my job is to support him as he grows older and begins to realize.

And I hope four-years-old is old enough to remember his dad.