Endings

In 2005, I accompanied my uncle to a doctor's appointment. He was going to be hearing the results of some tests that were performed in the weeks before. I suspected the news was not going to be good, and it was not. Stage 4 prostate cancer, already in his bones and lymph nodes. My uncle never married, he had no children. I was his "person". We walked out of the doctor's office, I hugged him and promised him that he was not going to go through it alone. However, I felt totally unprepared for the task of acting as patient advocate, caregiver, support person for someone with a terminal diagnosis. I only knew that it was my duty; to him, my deceased mother and grandmother, my family.

Some people would fall into depression at a diagnosis of terminal cancer. My uncle bought a three wheeled bicycle, tricked it out with flags, horn and various other accessories and proceeded to ride around town like an eight year old without a care in the world. He continued to be involved in all of the things he most loved, rarely missing a meeting, event or scheduled volunteer opportunity. He never complained, ever. He made sure that his affairs were in order, and went about the business of living.

In the ensuing months we both learned more than either one of us ever wanted to know about the workings and failings of the human body. Hormone therapy, radiation treatments, blood transfusions, creatinine and hemoglobin levels all became topics of our conversations. We came to know the nurses and office staff at the cancer center very well. We memorized the drink menu at the coffee shop in the lobby. I bought my knitting to pass the time while he received intravenous medications and blood transfusions. We watched the news and commented on the state of the world as he fought for his life.

I did not feel equipped to care for him, to make this difficult detour on his journey with him. But he led the way. He demonstrated a quiet dignity and grace throughout the next four and a half years that inspired me in so many ways. Mostly I just needed to show up, to sit with him, to let him talk about whatever he needed to talk about. It was only at the very end that I needed to step up, to act on his behalf and do the most difficult things. As I held his hand in those last few hours I wished for more time, to say the things I hadn't said, to ask the questions that only he knew the answers to. I would like to say that I am satisfied with the way that his last days and hours played out, but I am not. I will probably always feel that I could have done more, that my best just wasn't good enough. I can, however, accept that I did the best I could, and that is all he expected of me. I must be content to know that he was not alone, that his life was wonderful and sitting by his side as he left us was a gift he gave to me, not the other way around.