Scenes From a Terminal Illness

At 3:30 a.m., there’s no problem getting an elevator quickly at MD Anderson Cancer Center. I walked through the empty hallways with a Celsius thermometer in my pocket, not knowing anything at all about the Celsius scale except that 38 degrees marked the point at which my Dad had to go to the emergency room. Once he was admitted, I left alone.

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Fox News drones on endlessly in the hospital room, serving as a constant reminder of all of the ways my worldview differs from my father’s. And then, there he is in the hospital bed, reminding me of how little all of that matters at times like this.

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Leukemia is a nasty disease. It takes away the usefulness of your blood, meaning it compromises all those things that the blood cells do — transfer oxygen, fight infection, clot when your skin is injured. When that is going on, and not being aggressively fought, people don’t stick around all that long. Even when remission is achieved — at least in my father’s type of cancer — it tends to come back.

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It’s striking how much compassion and understanding pervade MD Anderson. I went once to the public restrooms off the main lobby, and, inside the door of the stall, they had posted a number to call if you had an accident or soiled your clothes and needed help. Cancer treatment, and antibiotics, both can have a troubling impact on your digestive system, of course, with nausea, vomiting and diarrhea being common side effects. I was just so heartened by that little sign in the restroom, which gave people permission to be human, and not be embarrassed by their body’s failings.”It’s not a big deal,” the sign seemed to say. “It happens to a lot of people, and we’re standing by ready to help.”

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A couple of weeks ago, my father was discharged from the hospital for the first time in 2 1/2 months. We brought him to a house my brother owns (and normally rents out), that he’d fixed up for my Dad’s comfort. That first night, and even on subsequent nights, it was hard for me to sleep. I got up more than once just to check if he was still breathing. I feared that I wouldn’t hear him if he called out, even though I was in the next room. It reminded me, in some ways, of bringing home a newborn baby. You come from the hospital, where there’s regular monitoring and 24-hour nursing, and feel weighed down with the responsibility of caring for this other person — of keeping them alive on your watch. You regularly check their breathing, you install a baby monitor, and you do your best.

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I go through periods of magical thinking, during which I feel traitorous for assuming my father is going to die. At those times, I believe miracles can happen, and it’s too early to count out a recovery. Hasn’t he come back from seemingly dire circumstances any number of times? Why is everyone giving up? But, when I’m honest with myself, I see these ideas for what they are — wishful thinking.

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Yesterday, I visited the Houston Hospice inpatient unit, where my Dad will presumably go in the next few days, when he’s transferred from the palliative care unit at MD Anderson.This beautiful brick building is homey and comfortable, and family members (and even pets) are welcome to visit. It also reminds me of something familiar — a birthing center. As a birthing center aims to help people come into the world in the most peaceful, natural way possible, so the hospice helps people depart with dignity and grace.