I haven't really written much lately. For that matter, I haven't really spoken much lately about the past year. A recent tweet that mentioned the TSA is inspiring a thought stream and then a realization of something I didn't understand until now.
For those of you who didn't know, my dad passed away last December after battling pancreatic cancer and the complications of it.
About this time last year, I began preparation to travel with my dad to Cancer Treatment Center of America in Chicago from Bristol, TN by plane. I'm not sure what I thought. I was hopeful.
It crept in slowly. The realization my dad, the strongest man in the world, the best hunter I've known, the best marksman I've ever seen; may not be in this world much longer.
The heaviness was piled on as we made our way through the airport 4-5 steps at a time. The marathon to Chicago had begun, my dad was determined to finish.
Those by-standers who sat, who stood, awaiting their flights. My dad's southern greeting, 'How'ya doin' countered their hollow-eyed gazes and disarmed my desire to return a petrifying glance.
His breathing worsened as the evening went on. We made our way through TRI to ORD. CTCA met us, welcomed us, somewhat relieved us. I could see the understanding in the eyes of the driver. We piled into the Limosine with six other people, all different ages, different races. There's no discrimination here. We were the same.
We arrived at our hotel finally and made it to our room with our same marathon pace. I was really tired, but there's no way I could be nearly as tired as my dad. So I held out and helped him get situated and his medications... morphine seemed to be the only thing that helped.
Some time in the middle of the night I awoke to him gasping for air and struggling to breathe and coughing. The bout lasted about an hour and finally subsided. I was then left with the awareness that I may have to make some serious decisions for my dad should he not be able to.
The next day, we arrived to CTCA and checked in for a long day of exams and tests. I was shocked by the number of people there, shocked at how many patients knew each other on a first name basis.
Surprisingly my dad gave in to the offer of a wheelchair as an attendant encouraged him to understand that it wouldn't be permanent but would be better for making his appointments on time.
I stayed with my dad as much as I was able. There were long periods of testing and examinations where I had to sit in a room full of other silent, people. I faux-flipped through my phone in hope to keep myself from staring like the people in the airport. I would not be like them, but only because I didn't understand them. I'm guessing now my dad was a realization to them at how their life could be, will be? Hence the gaze.
The waiting room had characteristics of many of the churches I've been to. The silence was a deadness one could feel. It was in the air itself; I found myself holding my breath as to not inhale it. There were occasional beeps and coughs; the occasional twisting of celophane candy wrappers which would steal my glance for only a moment as I tried to find the source. Surely, there was life still in this room.
As I looked at my phone again, there was a glow coming from out of the hallway. The room literally exploded with an energy. The dead rose at the site of a dog who had just entered the room.
I'd like to say it was a Golden Retriever, but more like a holy angel as I could see the golden glow he brought with him. A skeletal, elderly lady almost came out of her wheelchair and tubes to pet the dog. He laid his head in her lap for a few minutes as what seemed to be a hug, as her smile gleemed.
He made his way around the whole room with the same response from almost everyone, except me. I was still in awe of what I had just witnessed. In response to the dog being near, I gruffed his head like I would one of my own dogs.
Hours later, my dad was wheeled back and I joined him to return to a different waiting area to meet about his labored breathing and with the chief oncologist. This is what we had come for. The moment of truth, the verdict.
I recorded this conversation on my phone, I wanted to be able to listen to it again. I wanted to capture every word. I knew I would have to relay the information to family. I knew every detail would matter. I never forgot.
The verdict came. The cancer was only operable if it could be shrunk. The hope was that treatment would decrease the tumor to the point of being able to safely remove it. This was hopeful and my dad's gaze didn't dim at the slightest, but brightened ever so slightly. Then, while celebrating the small hope/victory internally, I watched the light fade with the next bit of news. There were complications created from having the pancreatic cancer. The cancer was spreading to the surrounding organs and tissue. I didn't fully understand. My dad knew.
There was some relief that day, they explained why the struggle for breath. There was fluid building up in his lung cavity. They would relieve it by draining it out. That evening we were also scheduled for his first dual chemo treatment.
After a quick in/out surgery the doctor's had drained over 3 liters of fluid from dad's lungs.. he was drowning and we didn't know it. They saved his life that day. I'm most certain he would not have made it another night. For that I'm extremely thankful.
The fluid complication and oxygen levels however after these treatments would lead us into not being released from CTCA.
What begun as weekend trip, turned into staying roughly 25 days longer than planned. Its all a painful blur for me now, the days are mashed into one lump that I'm not sure I will ever forget.
Over the course of this time, I noticed things about my dad that I have never noticed before, that I didn't understand.
One night, we struggled to communicate while looking at furniture on my macbook. He wanted to have a recliner when he made it home. My dad isn't into tech. Showing him how to use a trackpad was no easy chore as he fumbled around, became impatient and insulted it as he spoke on the phone with my grandmother. She was handling the logistics of having the recliner in the house and ready for his return. I was surprised at how child-like my dad was behaving with my grandmother. I mean, yes he was her child, but he was also 60 years old. I didn't know how to feel about this, so I ignored it and kept it to myself.
Other times my dad would be encouraging people in the shared room. He'd talk to them and I could see how he just had a warm way with other people, they liked my dad.
I could go on with this for awhile, but in earnest to get to my real point- I would like to skip ahead now to when we received news that we'd be home for Thanksgiving.
We arrived back at O'hare, however this time we had an breathing machine that created oxygen out of the air to take with us. It was important to keep his oxygen level up. One downfall to this was this machine was battery powered.. and though our flight was short; the wait was long and the battery-life shorter.
As we went through the line to get be scanned, the TSA must have decided that my dad looked suspicious and the machine he was using to breathe, wheel chair, tubes in his arm would have to be checked out.
I was like, "Listen, guys he has cancer and he cannot have that off his face. He is too weak to stand and I will have to help him." They told me that if I tried to help him that I would be detained. As I insisted and moved toward them I was held back by one TSA's hand as another swabbed and probed my dad and everything attached. They told me to move away. The kept asking him to stand and I pushed by the hand and said I will help him stand. At this point a couple guards came closer to me. My dad seeing this, said, 'It's ok Brandon, let them do what they have to. We need to get home.'
I then watched my dad's frail, roughly 95lb frame, push out of his wheel chair. Off-balanced he stood and weakly fumbled for what seemed like an hour with belts, shoes, tubes and the TSA thugs patting him down, removing items, swabbing, questioning, scanning, inquisiting. All the while, I wanted to rip their heads from their bodies and put an end to this disgraceful treatment of my dad.
I could feel the almost supernatural strength coursing through me, the anger, the adrenaline, it felt good and I wanted to wield it. All the while my dad watched me, all too knowing it seemed that one more thing and I would unleash on these thugs something awful. He told me to find him a drink as he was allowed to go through.
At this point, we were hungry, and running behind for our flight. I had to get him, his wheelchair, carry-on, breathing machine across the airport, get us some food. I focused the adrenaline and all my energy into making that happen. I would not fail.
Food and drink now in hand, we were quickly pacing almost run speed to our gate. Wouldn't you know it. The flight was delayed. Then delayed again, then cancelled. The breathing machine's battery was failing, and we couldn't find one single plug in the airport. I finally had to go almost half way back to the entrance to find a single plug that worked and then I had to ask someone to unplug their laptop. Now we had electricity to power the machine and hopefully charge it some before our flight.
Then came the news, our second flight had been cancelled. My dad hung his head and closed his eyes. I felt my clothes tighten and muscles tense for a fight. I asked dad to hang out by himself at the plug and I'd go take care of getting us on another flight. All that to give us another several hours wait. Then about 1am the news came, that flight was also cancelled. So we were blown off by the airport, then left hanging with no ride out of the airport or to a hotel, if I could find a hotel. My phone was dead due to the airport not having disabled the plugs to prevent people from sitting all over the place with their devices.
I had one call back to our Care Manager at CTCA, and they were able to arrange a new flight but not until next day. They offered to send a driver to help us, but it would be an hour. I thought I could get a taxi before then and get us a hotel. Fortunately a nice girl behind the counter saw clearly we needed some help and pulled me to the side. Keep this quiet, I have setup a room for you and your dad since your flight was cancelled and you're in this condition.
Little did I know, the other workers did not share this compassion. They weren't about to get our luggage for us. I explained as cool and patiently as I could that my dad has cancer and if he doesn't have his daily shot of blood thinner then he is in trouble and they are in the luggage because we thought we'd be home when he needed them again. They refused.
I was exhausted. I lost control, and with a few choice names I threatened to not leave the desk until I spoke with someone in charge. They faked a phone call saying they called security. Security never came. I was empowered. I was not leaving, they would always be worthless, lazy bottom of the rung union worker !$!*%&!@#. I'll save my thoughts on unions for another post, but for now lets just say that most people use them for an excuse to not work.
I got louder. I attracted the attention of a nearby worker who heard the heated exchange, unrelated to the airline. He made a phone call and a lady came out of nowhere to speak with me. I relayed the urgency and roughly one hour and forty-five minutes later they came out with our luggage.
It was now nearly 3am now. I rolled my dad out into the November Chicago cold weather down the walk to wait for a taxi. We made it into a heated area and waited for another 15 minutes and finally made it to our hotel. In the lobby of the hotel, my dad wanted to sit and charge his breathing machine. Out of patience and beyong tired, I said, "Dad, let's get to the room so we can get some rest and make our flight in 5 hours. We can charge it then." He got mad and stood up, threw the tubes off his face and said let's go then. I was shocked by this as well, I didn't know how to react. I thought maybe it was the morphine. I said, "Dad please, put that back on or I'll have to take you back to the hospital should something happen."
We finally made it to Knoxville, and were waiting on one of my dad's friends. He picked us up, and drove us home. Along the way we stopped for some food and I went in to get my dad a drink. His favorite drink was Dr. Enuf in the short bottles, I had picked the tall bottle. What ensued next further astonished me. He told me, "If you bring me that bottle, I'll break it. Go get one of the short ones. " His friend just laughed.
So now to the reason of this post.
Today, it made sense, or at least I was accepting of the idea of why my dad struggled so hard, became child-like with my grandmother, encouraged others despite his situation, held me off the TSA with his gaze and wanted a particular bottle of Dr. Enuf. These things made him feel like he was alive. Like he still had a choice. Like he was in control. Like he still had a pulse.
Perhaps this is why people stare at others who look like they are sick and dying or handi-capped, because it makes them realize how fleeting life can be or how empty their lives are.
I used to think I hadn't learned much from my dad. However, I'm astonished to find out how much I have learned from him, both directly and indirectly. My dad didn't act like me and want to smash the TSA and within his rights, he very well could have and no one would have argued about it.
I believe in this last season of his life he realized that his obstacles, his current trials, all the problems he has encountered along his path of life, the bumps in the road are the carcadian rhythm pulses that represent the living. They reveal to us we're alive. My dad could remain calm because I believe he understood this. He was faced with death and grasped every chance of life he could as his time ran out. Likewise, we all are grasping at whatever we can- like trying to catch a lightning bug in a dark room full of people. The weeping and gnashing teeth, a cry for hope, a struggle for relief.
I'm still wrestling with all sorts of issues surrounding this. Some things I believed, I don't believe so much anymore. Other things I didn't believe, I do now. All this however has led me to see things differently, see things for what they are. To see trials, or problems as a way of showing myself alive, and to defy those things a way of showing that Christ in me is alive. I'm trying to deal with people differently by not wanting to rip their heads off, but by seeing them from my dad's perspective, as grabbing hold of any glimpse of life they can before they too burn out like a candle whick.
