Catharsis

*WARNING: this post won't be funny in the least. and it's very long. it's more for me than you guys. sorry.*

Normally I try to keep my personal life out of the blog. At least the negative things from my life. Obviously there are exceptions, but for the most part I want to keep things happy and fun. I don't want to seem like the whiny emo guy desperately seeking attention from my online diary. I prefer to be the no-talent writer desperately seeking attention from my online journal. But I've decided to make an exception for this post. I'm not looking for sympathy or condolences (seriously, please). I'm just using writing as a means of clearing thoughts I've been dwelling on too much. Hopefully it will also explain why I've been missing, physically and mentally, as of late.

When Legal Counsel and I returned from Europe we were told that while we were gone my grandfather had been diagnosed with Stage 3 adenocarcinoma of the lung. To be honest, this was quite depressing but not entirely surprising. He smoked for probably 50 years and was diagnosed with COPD about ten years ago. It was only a matter of time before further lung problems developed.

So I tried to accept the diagnose and started visiting more frequently. That's right, I tried to accept the diagnosis. He didn't seem to care. He's never been afraid of death, or at the very least he never showed it. He'd always say , "It's just death," which actually made this whole ordeal easier. He also used to say, "it's not the cough that carries you off, it's the coffin they carry you off in." He was very amusing.

Shortly after the lung cancer diagnosis, he developed severe constipation. He really felt as though he needed to poop, and he was in a lot of pain. My grandpa never says he's in pain. Ever. So seeing him admit it this time, we knew something was really wrong.

The doctors he saw wrote it off as just constipation and prescribed laxatives. My mom tried telling them that he shouldn't be in pain from constipation since he hasn't eaten anything in weeks, and laxatives wouldn't help that. Finally she convinced them to look further, at which point they discovered the problem.

A massive (6+ inch) colorectal tumor was obstructing his GI tract, and creating the pressure which made him feel as though he needed to poop. So his bowels were empty, but the tumor created the sensation of fullness. And what was assumed to be a primary lung cancer was actually metastasis from the colon/rectum.

The decision was made to perform a colostomy to relieve his symptoms and make his remaining months more pleasant. I couldn't get up to Phoenix in time to see him before the surgery, but I was able to give him a call. He was so excited to hear my voice that he pooped. That makes me feel special.

The surgery went well, and I got to Phoenix just as it was ending. The surgeon, who was a great guy, gave us the low down. He performed the colostomy and removed some previously undiscovered ileal tumors. They kept him intubated while he recovered, since he had about a dozen risk factors. The intubation would make recovery easier. We had to wait a few days before they could extubate and bring him out of sedation.

But things are never that easy, are they? He developed MRSA and became septic. The prognosis went from a few more months to a few more weeks or days. So they transferred him to a hospice, and Legal Counsel and I drove up to see him get his tube pulled and get woken up.

At least that's what I thought. Turns out they never expected him to wake up - things were worse than I realized. Instead of driving up to be there when he finally woke up after surgery, we were driving up to watch him pass away. We got there and sat with him for a while before the social worker came in and started talking about the dying process and funeral arrangements. That was quite a surprise.

Before I go on, let me just give kudos to the hospice for putting him in a gown that looked like a polo shirt from the front. Such a small detail that meant so much. He looked more like himself and less like a dying patient.

Once the family had gathered, they removed all the little plastic tubes and it was time to let him go. My uncle brought some scotch (his favorite drink) and we used the mouth-moisteners to spread it in his mouth while he slipped away. He's so tough, I half expected him to surprise us all and wake up once the scotch hit his lips.

But he didn't. After a few hours, he stopped breathing and he was gone. It was horribly depressing and we all cried. Multiple times. But we all realized that it's better this way. It was his time.

And if there is anybody who was ready to go, it was him. He lead such an amazing life. He grew up in England during World War II, with accompanying memories of bombings and war. He joined the merchant marines and sailed the world. He worked on the Queen Mary, he was arrested in Argentina for swimming between ships (he got on the wrong one). He moved to America and started his own business. He raised his children. Then he helped raise his grandchildren (I feel that he and my uncle stepped up and acted in place of my own absent father).

He had experiences that have fueled countless authors and artists throughout history. And he was an artist himself. Not painting or sculpture or stage. He was a storyteller, and a great one at that. He always had a funny story to tell, whether he knew you or not. He was so social; everybody at every hospital he visited knew him by name.

He also always had a song to sing. He loved to sing. Everybody's favorite was a previously unnamed song that I just learned to be "The Old Sow Song" from the album "Dinner Music for People Who Aren't Hungry" by Spike Jones. I'm laughing just thinking about him singing it.

He was great with adults, but he was especially great with kids. Kids loved him. I remember wrestling around with him when I was a kid. And even after his lung problems began, he would still talk their ears off and play with them as much as his body would allow.

He was an amazing man.

That's not to say he was perfect. He was greedy, he was racist and he was addicted to gambling. But he was our greedy, racist gambler. As much as we complained about his behavior, we always loved him. And we always will. He'll be missed.

And at least I can always remember that I was responsible for his last poop.

I'm getting all choked up. That means I should stop. But writing did make me feel a lot better. Looks like Dr. Racy was right about using writing as a means of release.

I think I'll finish with grandpa's favorite poem.

The Soldier
by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.