Godspeed, Pop

Donald W. Ahrend
August 29, 1926-January 18, 2008

Dad passed today at 4:09 PM Eastern Time.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: "There! She's gone." Gone where? Gone from my sight -- that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her; and just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There! She's gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "There she comes!"

Letting Go

Pop is in the final stages of preparing for his last great journey on the planet, a journey he must make on his own. We come here alone, and we leave alone. Signs of life have waned today. This evening he slipped into a coma. My family called me from the ICU and let me say goodbye to Pop as they held the phone to his ear. It was my hardest moment since Pop was diagnosed 8 weeks ago. All that remains is the letting go.

How do I let go of a person I've known for my entire life? He's always been there. It's surreal to imagine him not being around. My adult self says, "He's lived a good life, and soon he'll be out of pain." My inner child screams, "No Daddy, don't leave!"

Tonight time stands still. I wait for the phone call. In my mind I whisper as if he could hear me, "It's OK to go home, Pop. We'll be OK."

They say losing a parent is a rite of passage, that it opens new doors and causes us to reassess our lives and values. We confront our mortality and face our fears. I can't think about any of that now. I just need to get through this long night.

Waiting

Dad was rushed to the ER Monday morning, unable to breathe and obviously hypoxic. An hour later Mom called to tell me Dad has double pneumonia--one of the ugly complications of Multiple Myeloma. He's remained in the ICU since then, breathing with the help of a ventilator, slipping in and out consciousness under a blanket of heavy sedatives and IV pain meds designed to keep his frail body still. During the past few days his kidneys have begun to shut down--another ugly complication--and dialysis attempts have been foiled by heart and blood pressure irregularities. Today Mom saw a few glimpses of recognition by her husband of 60 years, as he struggled to communicate by squeezing hands that reached out to comfort him. His voice, however, is silent, his body motionless. What is he feeling? Does he have pain? Does he realize what's happening? Is he afraid?

From 2000 miles away, there is little I can do but wait. I am haunted by mental images of Dad tied to machines in order to survive a few more hours. Is it wrong to want to remember him the way he was when I last saw him seven months ago, or am I simply a coward, afraid to watch him slipping away? Today Mom told me she didn't want me to see him this way. But I feel more and more like I should be at his bedside, helping him on his journey, wherever it may lead.

In my own way, I'm preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. There has been no change in his condition. He is gravely ill. Expecting a miracle seems like a set up for the mother of all disappointments. Yet, I keep hoping and wondering what it would take for him to bounce back and fight this wretched disease. His immune system has been decimated by the cancer and chemo he'd begun just two days before his hospitalization.

I don't know how to lose a parent. I've never done this before. Though I've watched my friends go through this over the years, I've always wondered what it felt like. Now I know. My body craves sleep and my brain is numb. It's as if a limb is being removed against my will and I'm paralyzed, powerless to stop it. Sleep seems a viable option. Make it stop. Make the cancer go away.

The dogs have been amazingly responsive to my confusion and despair. They've been sleeping a lot the past three days and have refrained from pestering me, other than occasional potty requests at the back door. They know what's happening. I rewarded their wisdom and compassion today by taking them to the park. They joyfully romped on soft grass, and in the cold, bracing air I felt alive. I have not been out of the house much this week. I spend my time curled up on the sofa, where I drift in and out of sleep. These past few days we've napped together--two dogs and a tired woman--in the afternoon sun that streams through the family room windows. Sleeping with the dogs in the middle of the day is comforting. Zen Master Murphy tells me sleep is healing.

And so I wait for a change in Pop's condition. In my grief-induced fog, I wait to know what I'm feeling. I wait for a sign that he's improving, or getting worse. I wait for him to breathe his last breath. These days I speak often with Mom for medical updates and mutual support. We share the unspeakable loss of a beloved father and spouse. We talk about how different our lives will be. We wonder about the future. We laugh and cry in the same breath. We allow ourselves to just be. This is something new. As a family, we are not emoters. Our unspoken tribal law has dictated that we control our emotions, no matter what. It has governed our interactions for decades. Rules, however, are sometimes made to be broken, and as we give ourselves and each other permission to dive deeply in our oceans of grief--as we explore dark, uncharted waters--we strengthen our bond and deepen our respect for one another. This is completely unexpected, disorienting, disarming. Yet I welcome it as rain falling on parched land. We bond in our loss.

Words fail me this evening. I am losing the battle to stay awake. Thinking of the inconceivable possibility of removing Dad from life support in the coming days drains me, empties me. Perhaps tomorrow will bring a sign of change, for better or worse. Tonight life stands still. It's the waiting that's hardest.

Life and Death

Cancer used to be a dirty word. For the past several years, I have noticed the alarming increase in cancer diagnoses in people I know. Cancer. All kinds of cancers, A-Z. Cancer seems to be occurring almost as much as the common cold. My way of dealing with the unfathomable is to look for causes. It's a knee-jerk coping mechanism, my way of trying to control the uncontrollable. I frequently succumb to the delusion that if I know what causes something horrid, I can probably avoid it in my own life. Until now, that is.

Many years ago I read Rabbi Harold Kushner's controversial bestseller, "When Bad Things Happen to Good People." At the time, I found it interesting; it appealed to my logical mind and gave me a certain amount of comfort. But it scared me too. I was raised to think if we live a good life, we'll be rewarded. If we do bad things, we'll be punished. If we pray with indisputable fervor and conviction, God will listen to our prayers and come through for us. This duality is, after all, what underpins Judeo-Christian belief. Lately, however, the notion that bad things happen randomly, without regard for our good deeds or kindnesses, seems not only a possibility, but a reality that gives me little comfort in the middle of the night.

Dad was diagnosed with a rare cancer last November. Multiple Myeloma is a bone marrow cancer that attacks certain white blood cells. Defined as a "blood cancer," it accounts for 1% of all cancers. After many weeks of countless blood tests, X-rays, MRIs, bone scans, a bone aspiration and a biopsy, it was clear it wasn't a back problem causing Dad's severe pain, but a systemic malignancy that continues to grow daily.

For two months Mom has crusaded for stronger pain meds, spent endless hours on the phone with Dad's health insurance provider, endured dozens of hours in doctors' waiting rooms, waited for weeks while the insurance company considers whether or not to approve the prescribed (and staggeringly expensive--$400/day) oral chemo drug, and watched Dad's condition deteriorate daily. We had all grown to believe nothing bad would ever happen to this strong man who always presented the picture of health, a person who lived a life of service to others, a man who was, quite simply, a good person who most assuredly has a very comfortable spot reserved for him in the afterlife.

The hardest part is watching him gradually lose his independence and mobility, as he suffers with indescribable pain that worsens each day. In the wee hours, as I lie awake night after night, I run through my mental inventory of reasons why this happened, when in fact none may exist. My obsessive thinking replays like a broken record. Is this a consequence of environmental toxic assaults? Was it the DDT he used in the 50's when he worked in my grandfather's greenhouse? Preservatives and artificial ingredients? Processed food? Pesticides? Or maybe there's an emotional basis. Louise Hay's "Heal Your Body A-Z: The Mental Causes For Physical Illness and the Way to Overcome Them" sits on my coffee table as a semi-permanent fixture. My left brain is reluctant to abandon its relentless search for an explanation for this wretched illness.

A monk asked [Zen Master] Tozan, "How can we escape the cold and heat?" Tozan replied, "Why not go where there is no cold and heat?" "Is there such a place?" the monk asked. Tozan commented, "When cold, be thoroughly cold; when hot, be hot through and through."

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know if the chemo will work, if this is Dad's last year on the planet, or whether he'll live to a ripe old age. The only thing I know with certainty is that I can't change anything, despite my desperate wish to magically make him well again. When I'm hot, I'll be hot through and through, and when cold, I will be thoroughly cold. And...I'll hope for a miracle. It's the most I can do right now, and--paradoxically--probably the only thing that makes logical sense. The words of Ram Dass, "Be here now," become a touchstone as I wrestle with doubt and fear.

I thought I knew a lot about life, healing, and prayer. It's pretty obvious there's a lot more to learn, as I watch my old beliefs explode into nothingness. Everything I've learned so far has brought me to this point--a place of unknowing and surrender. My journey is, in some ways, just beginning. It's about transcending duality and living fully in the present moment. Wherever we go, there we are. It's that simple. I'll never know the specific reasons or causes for Dad's cancer. I'll never know why a good person suffers with a bad disease, and I realize that living a good life doesn't necessarily guarantee good health. Life's a mystery, and it's really not about the journey--it's about how we respond to it.

N.B. Dad was to begin his chemo on January 3. Today he started one of his two chemo meds. He has still not received the second drug. We trust it will arrive in the next several days. This morning it became abundantly clear that he needs a personal care attendant. Mom quickly arranged for a nurse to visit daily. Mom is the unsung hero in this drama, negotiating, advocating, working tirelessly to attend to Dad's needs, and doing everything he can no longer do for himself.

Ramblings From the Desert

This clear, crisp New Year's Day morn, I watch the first hints of daylight overspread the valley as it emerges from a blanket of cold night air like a sleepy bear. The sunrise palette changes continuously as the light struggles to peek over the Sandias, much like I struggle to climb out of bed these past few weeks.

A new day, a new year, but same old me. Resolutions are opportunities for failure, so I won't venture into that den of disappointment. However, my intentions, as I consider the newness of this year, are to live with more kindness.

Kindness is an inner desire that makes us want to do good things, even if we do not get anything in return. When we do good things from this inner desire, there is kindness in everything we think, say, want and do.

-Emmanuel Swedenborg

Before assuming a permanent spot on my typing stand, this quote was unceremoniously displayed on a small square of paper on the fridge, lost in a sea of magnets, things that jingle, shopping lists, coupons, cartoons, and photos. Now that it's on my desk, it serves as a frequent reminder to slow down during days when difficult clients erode my patience.

Whatever happened to kindness?

If there were but one thing that might save the world, perhaps it's kindness. Years ago, when bumper stickers were fixed to actual chrome bumpers that protected our cars from minor impacts, I drove around advertising that we should all "practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty." Though I'm loathe to apply sticky stuff to a phony plastic "bumper" these days (or worse yet, the back of the car), for fear of damaging the incomprehensibly delicate paint, I continue to embrace the notion that kindness is more powerful than anything we can possibly imagine.

No matter how noble my intentions (kindness is one of the Knightly Virtues), kindness is just plain hard in a world where I often feel manipulated by advertisers, betrayed by government, and bamboozled by less-than-honest citizens. These days, is seems my life revolves around survival tactics. When I leave the house, I lock my computers with thick, padlocked bicycle cables and stash my hard drives, laptops, and cameras in a locked cabinet, in case thieves decide our house is full of stuff they want. At one point I even considered buying a safe. While I admit this lockdown ritual may be a by-product of living in the city, I also recognize that city living is far more risky now than it was ten years ago in Boston. Is it possible to think about being kind when I'm constantly assuming a defensive stance?

Stepping away from the realities of securing my home every time I run to the co-op for bread, broccoli and bittersweet chocolate, including telling the dogs to "protect" and bark at strangers (one wonders whether they full understand this mandate), I acknowledge the existence of another reality that eludes me at least half the time. This parallel reality is filled with gentle people who derive pleasure from doing things for others, whose lives are motivated by compassion, who share and pay it forward daily.

My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.

-The Dalai Lama

Personally, I find patience and understanding inextricably intertwined with kindness. I also notice that being caught up in a vortex of deadlines and pressure generally renders me downright cantankerous. So in this new year, I hope to find stillness in everyday tasks. I invite the possibility of finding joy in chopping wood and carrying water. (This is a metaphor. I have no intention of wielding an axe or lugging anything heavier than a chocolate bar.) I welcome the opportunity to calm my spirit, work less, and make time to read. I will teach myself patience by standing on the longest line at the market. I'll pay a toll for the car behind me. I'll listen more and be less self-centered.

Lofty ambitions, but maybe I'll move closer to creating a life of random kindnesses this year. When you think about it, it's really not all that difficult. We all practice random kindness from time to time. We just need to practice it more often.

Websites worth checking out:

Help Others
Blossom International
The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation
Kindness.com
Extreme Kindness