The story of losing my dad.

[Brenden]

1:27pm on May 30, 2022. That’s the very minute my dad was pronounced dead. He’d been diagnosed with stage IV melanoma just 3 months prior. 2 tumors in his brain, one around his pancreas, one on his liver, two on his lungs, and multiple others in his abdomen. He’d been on a slow decline since his diagnosis with a handful of complications. We kept hope. He had the best doctors in the nation on his case. That is, until one appointment for entry into a new clinical trial that my mom and sister joined him for.

The doctor approached with a colleague by his side and clipboard in hand. Neither said a word for a moment. They finally broke the silence with the words, “we hoped we would be back with better news.” They told us that my dads white blood cell count was zero, indicating that the cancer had invaded his bone marrow. The original prognosis and treatment plan had shifted from fighting for a path toward remission to “all we can do now is keep you comfortable”. My sisters were both due to get married in the 3 weeks that followed this news. I watched as my dad pleaded with the doctors to do something, try anything to help. I watched him beg them for more time and tell them, “you WILL get me to my daughters weddings! I have to be there to see them get married!” All the doctors could say is, “there’s nothing more we can do.” They left, my dad began to question everything he had done. “Is this because I took ibuprofen for my pain when they said I shouldn’t? Is this because I took a sip of whiskey when they said my liver couldn’t handle it?” I watched him as my mom got up from her chair, sat on his lap, and hugged him. As he began to accept the news presented to him, he cried like I’d never seen him cry before. We left the hospital that afternoon, my mother, father, and sister all to drive back to my hometown. I pushed my dad in a wheelchair to the car. A very long and silent walk. Before he got in the car, he stood up and hugged me. He hugged me tighter than ever before and said, “Brenden, I love you so much.” I needed to get a bag packed, drop off my pets at the pet hotel, and I would take the two and a half hour journey to join them in the morning. I woke up to a phone call from my sister early that morning. My dad had woken up, vomiting blood and was being rushed to the ER. I threw on the first few dirty cloths I found laying on my floor and made that two and a half hour drive in an hour and forty-five minutes. He was in and out of consciousness when I got there, never in a coherent state of mind. He was already septic. Later that day, he was airlifted to the closest top-tier hospital where he would take his last breath two days later. I often think that when he gave me that hug, he knew that would be the last.
 

Eventually, he declined to a state in which he wouldn’t recover. Sepsis had completely taken over, his fever was pushing 103, his O2 levels were diminishing, and his breathing was severely labored to the point where they put a CPAP machine on him to give him some form of relief. He wasn’t fully conscious for any of this and unable to communicate, but the doctors said he would know exactly what was going on. We just wanted for him to stop suffering…

When the doctor returned, we asked if there was anything that could be done, they suggested something similar to MD assisted suicide. Something my dad has always said he wanted if he was suffering and there was truly nothing left to do. When the doctor came in to administer the medication, he let us know what they would be doing. He said they would increase his morphine drip significantly to take away any pain and gave him a benzodiazepine to help him feel calm. The way they explained it is that it was the maximum dosage they could administer before it being a “fatal dose”. It would make him as comfortable as possible and put him in control of when he goes. They administered the medication, removed the CPAP, and left us in privacy as we sat there, reassuring my dad that it was okay. We told him that he’d fought so hard and so long. We told him that he would get the best seat of all for my sisters weddings. We told him that we all love him and that it was okay to rest. He kept fighting the medication for another 20 minutes until my uncle, who was currently in a different hospital with his son, managed to get away for a second to send me a text message. “Please tell my brother that I love him and I’ll miss him.”

My dad took his final breath not long after that.

Dad, I miss you so much. It hurts not being able to call you. It hurts not getting a random text during my busy week that reads, “Love ya, bud. Hope you’re doing okay. I’m proud of you.” It just all hurts. I love you, dad.

[LG99]

What a heart wrenching but beautiful story and what a loving family and great Dad you had.  Thank you.