Tag: Chemo

Epilogue

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized6 Comments

According to the metrics from the WordPress website which hosts all of the Libby’s Living Legacy stories, most people who read these posts only see the current issue but the following link will give you access to every post, that is, if you care to scroll down through the long list:  https://libbyslivinglegacy.com/. 

Soon after Libby’s memorial service I began writing about our relationship, beginning with our first date. The process of writing and the resulting stories served dual purposes:  altruistically, as a gift  to our grandchildren and selfishly, for their therapeutic value to me; both purposes have been accomplished and I really appreciate the encouragement, notes and letters.

Epilogue

Libby was always a sucker for a Hallmark love story movie, so as recompense for watching sports with me, I suffered through more than my fair share of the one and a half hour, happily-ever-after, chick flicks.

One movie in that genre was entitled Love Comes Softly which was released in 2003 based on the book by the same name from author Janette Oke.  The Christian themed movie quickly became Libby’s favorite and the release of each new movie sequel (and few prequels) was an event not to be missed in our home. Set in the 19th century as the West was being homesteaded, the original movie had a predictable plot centered around a widow and a widower whose relationship begins to develop because of their common loss and their need for survival.    During one memorable part of the movie, the widower’s 5-year-old daughter notices that her dad’s grief has slowly subsided and as he begins to enjoy life with his new family she comments, “My Daddy got his laugh back”.

Every couple, I am sure has them, those quirky sayings shared with one another which make absolutely no sense to others because they weren’t privy to the back-story. I am confident the same thing happens in many relationships just like it did between Libby and I because after watching a movie together, one of us would repeat a line from the movie, so many times in fact, over the next few weeks, that it became woven into a our daily vocabulary. For instance, Libby would often talk about a friend who had been mourning and say, ” I sure hope she gets her laugh back”.

Thirty five years of marriage changes a person, for better or worse (pun intended). Each person’s individual beliefs, goals, temperament and even personality are melded together and both parties eventually assume different (hopefully better) beliefs, goals, temperament and personality.  Those quirky little sayings shared by a couple are as much a part of this new life as the first day of school or the first time you sang in front of the church. Some of us who “married up” as they say, were blessed to be in a relationship in which the benefits received from the relationship far outweighed the benefits given and the subsequent changes are monumental.

Several weeks before Libby died we were discussing how much we both have grown and changed in our relationship with each other, she was thinking more and more about her future, our boy’s future and my future. Libby worried about our boys and how they were they going to be able to handle the loss of their mother; that’s when Libby looked at me and said,  “I’m sorry that I will not be around for our boys, but I am also sorry that I will not be around to grow old with you……”

My response to her melancholy dialogue was to try to get her to talk about something else, so I jumped in with, “Now, Libby, don’t be talking like that….you’re not going anywhere for a long time….” .  But this time Libby stopped me in mid sentence and continued her thought by asking, “……I wonder how long it will take……..after I am gone……..before you to get your laugh back…….?”

 

Final Letter to Libby

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized22 Comments

DSC03344

Dear Libby,

Its been two and half years since you left this earth and during that time I have fought through many emotions: disappointment, loneliness and depression, each interspersed with excitement, happiness and elation at the births of our two beautiful grandchildren.  Relating those emotions in this blog has been cathartic and the resulting stories will remind our grandchildren of your legacy of love and caring.

We often talked about how our love for one another changed over the course of our marriage and about how our understanding of love evolved even more over the course of our lives.  If you remember, we even discussed the many times we each thought that we were in love before we were married.

Just for the record, my first love was during Mr. Rice’s 6th grade homeroom class when I sat across from a certain blonde who I was sure would be my wife some day; then there was the girl in Jr. High that I believed was definitely “the one” until I found out that I was “the one” of three that she “loved”. Of course there were several girls in high school that I was definitely in love with, some knew it, some didn’t.

I still remember all of my “girlfriends” with fondness (even the red head in Mrs Walker’s first grade that I failed to list in the previous paragraph) but as I matured I realized that there is a huge difference between the love that you and I shared for 35 years and what I felt during those prepubescent and adolescent crushes.

I have given a lot of thought to the different degrees of love we experienced on earth compared to what you must be experiencing now. That perfected love that you have inherited as a citizen of heaven has to be light-years removed from the love that we shared here on this earth.

9 But as it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him. 1 Cornithains 2:9  (KJV)

I’m hoping that in heaven you are able to remember our marriage with fondness and affection but it must surely pale in comparison to the love you are now experiencing in the very presence of God. Although the analogy falls woefully short, I equate it to the mature love we experienced after more than 50 years of living versus the puppy love of a 6th grade boy. This theory about love helps me make sense of things down here, although the multiplied difference between depth of love on earth and the depth of love in heaven is probably a factor of seventy times seven.

When I began writing these stories, the goal was to put down into words the story of our courtship and marriage so that our grandchildren could read about you and better understand your personality and character. The process of writing our story has been healing for me and I hope our grandchildren will understand their grandmother’s legacy through these stories.

Having chronicled our history together and accomplished even more than I intended by reminiscing about our life together, this will be my last letter. Even though the resulting love story will certainly never be considered a literary work of art, I hope it is an honest account our courtship, marriage, struggles and tragic ending.

Until I see you in heaven, just remember, I always loved you…

 

Barry

Third Letter to Libby

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized4 Comments

Hey Libby,

Well, I guess you know by now that your mom is no longer down here on earth, she was ready to leave but she is really going to be missed.  I am assuming that death looks completely different from your perspective than it does from here; you guys were probably eating and rejoicing at a banquet while were crying at a funeral.

Meanwhile, back here on earth (more specifically Flintstone) one of our cats (Gato) ran away and so now I’m down to just one cat (Ring). You know that I never really wanted a cat anyway and its obvious that Ring doesn’t really like me either, but our two granddaughters are fascinated by “Kitty Kitty” so I keep buying cat food and putting up with the dead critters that she and brings up on the porch.

Speaking of things that smell, how old is that cereal in the bottom of the pantry?

As you can see by the picture (unless photos get blocked up there) we had some fun with your car, actually it was Jerod’s idea to lift it, put on big tires, a winch, a luggage rack and some cool pink graphics so we could raffle it off to help build the playground that we had talked about.

truck

Between raffling your car, donations, chili suppers, bracelet sales and corporate sponsors we raised over $80,000 for the playground. Maybe you’ve seen it just south of the church? Wait, I forgot, you never liked for me to give you directions that involved North, South, East or West…… just look between the gym and ball field where the gravel parking lot used to be, you can’t miss it.

Although many of the children who play on the Libby’s Living Legacy playground never met you and can’t fully comprehend the amount of work involved, they do know two things,  it’s Miss Libby’s Playground and it is there because “Miss Libby loved children”.

I told you in my last letter about our 40th reunion of Chattanooga Valley High School (GO Eagles) coming up soon. The organizing committee for our reunion will hold a silent auction and donate the proceeds to your playground but its been a struggle getting everything together especially since you were the one that organized all of the reunions in the past.  Do you have a file somewhere with all of that stuff in it?

As I mentioned above Nathan and Bethany have given us two two gorgeous granddaughters, Elizabeth Joy and Lydia Grace.  I often daydream about you interacting with them and how many kisses you would have given them by now. The problem is, I’m loosing my ability to imagine your reactions when I see the girls do something new and different.  That could be good, I guess, if it means that I am progressing further through the grieving process or it could be bad if it’s just old age.

Elizabeth was two years old in June and her mom and dad have been showing her your picture and telling her about her grandmother “Gibby” (That’s my name for you, again from one of my blog posts, maybe you saw it?).  The girls will know what their grandmother Gibby looks like from all of the pictures and when they are old enough to read some of these stories, they will learn about their grandmother’s character, beliefs and love of others.

Lydia and Elizabeth in wagon

You would be very proud of our boys, they are doing great and both have been very supportive as I have struggled to regain my equilibrium for the past two and a half years. Jerod took over a lot of responsibility in the company which helped to keep me out of the mental hospital (so far). Nathan has started his residency in Murfreesboro and for the first time since kindergarten at CCS there is no more TUITION!

Did you ever write down your beef stroganoff recipe?  Not that I would cook it because except for some fried bologna for a sandwich and scrambled eggs for Elizabeth, I haven’t used the stove. Don’t even ask about the oven, it’s as clean as it was the last time you saw it.

Everyone here misses you terribly, although they don’t come right out and say it to me. I’m sure its because they are concerned that if they bring your name up it will upset me or maybe “set me back”. Who knows, maybe they are right, besides no one wants to see a grown man cry.

Speaking of crying, are there really, “no more tears” in heaven and are the streets really made of gold or is that just a metaphor?

I guess my dad has had time to  fill you in on the recent happenings in our little circle of friends and family. But then, again, you should know that dad had Alzheimer’s during his last two years here on earth so you may want to double check his facts since he was known to say some outrageous things just before he left here and most of them only happened in his head.

I’ll say bye for now.

Love you more….

Barry

 

Letter Two

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized5 Comments

Second letter to Libby:

Scan12242014_00001

Dear Libby,

Its confession time; now it may come as a surprise to you but during our marriage when we were sitting around the house and you were talking to me, I wasn’t always listening intently to every single word that you were saying especially if there was a football game on TV.

Shocking, I know.

Case in point; I vaguely remember remarks about colors – whites- bleach – temperature and other things about laundry that you thought  I should know. Well shortly after you left, although its not really my fault (blame it on ESPN) I somehow ended up with pink underwear, tie-dyed dress slacks and a very large iron shaped logo melted into the lapel of my synthetic, wicking “no iron” shirt.

Although my laundering skills might be suspect, on the bright side I have lots of new clothes and more grease rags than I will ever use. Now, obviously there is no reason to cry over “spilt” milk, besides if  I used these letters to try and make amends for all of the foolish things I have done there wouldn’t be room for me to write about the things that have been happening.

Speaking of current events,  do you remember what we were doing at this time four years ago?  (Of course, you probably posses total recall) but in case you don’t, we were watching the 2012 London Summer Olympics. I can’t help but think of those times when we sat on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between us watching gymnastics, swimming and track and field.  Spoiler alert, the US girls gymnastic team is stronger than ever and Micheal Phelps has more gold than the Aztecs.

In the normal letter writing process this is where I would say, “Well, I’m sure you already read my first letter” but the truth is I have no clue if you even received my first letter.  It gives me a headache when I try to understand the relationship between heaven and earth. For all I know, you may have seen this letter as I typed it and maybe you witnessed the Olympics and my laundry debacle? Hey, can you see the winning lottery numbers?

Speaking of writing letters, I now have blog! Again, shocking news I know. Of course, being the author of a blog isn’t exactly a great accomplishment because if you have the ability to launch Windows Explorer, you can start a blog.  But can you believe it? Me, the guy who hated English Composition class in college is now writing without being forced to do so.

I mentioned the blog because I often look back through old pictures and letters to reminisce about our life together and sometimes  post stories about you. OK, that’s not totally true, because every story I post in my blog is about you.

A few months ago I told the story about the rainy Sunday afternoon during that time when we were remodeling the master bath. I told my blog readers how we sat together on our couch and you began crying.  If you remember, I asked why you were crying and you said, “I’m afraid the last scan is going to show that the cancer is back and I’m never going to get to sit in my new tub!”  I tried consoling but you recoiled from my hug, shook your finger in my face and said, “…and if you think that SOME WOMAN is going to sit in MY TUB, you’ve got another think coming mister”.

Well, since its confession time, some “woman” has been in your tub several times:

DSC_1382

In other news, we are planning our 40th high school reunion, can you believe it? We have been passing around yearbooks and old photos at our planning sessions and telling stories about dances, homecoming and our favorite teachers. I really feel old when the conversation turns to kids, grand kids and even great grand kids. That got me to thinking, are you getting older in heaven or will you be 56 when I get there? Again, I am struggling with the whole dynamic of time and space between heaven and earth.

But wait, what if you are not aging and what if I don’t die until I’m 95?

How do you feel about older men?

Love, Barry

 

Grief

On By Barry GilleyIn Chapter 2, Uncategorized2 Comments

 

Photos from Libby's camera unloaded Feb2008 057

Grief  “You keep using that word.  I do not think it means what you think it means.”     Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride

I used to hate funerals, I never knew what to say to the family of the deceased because every pithy phrase that I rehearsed in the parking lot sounded trite as soon as I took my spot in the receiving line, so I usually ended up just saying “I’m so sorry”. In addition to my ineptness with those elusive comforting phrases I always felt hypocritical trying to comfort the family since (at that time) I never really experienced grief.

Things change.

In 2010 I lost my niece Samantha to cancer, followed in quick succession by the death of my mom, my father in law, my brother, my wife and my dad. Today, I feel confident that I have gained enough grief experience to offer an observation or two on this thing we call grief:

If there is one constant in grief it is this: every person and every experience is different. I have known people who found great comfort in a single quote or a scripture uttered at just the right time during their grief, but for me at least, a dear friend’s handshake or hug meant more than anything they could have said. In my experiences, being a friend before, during and after a loss is much more valuable than saying the right words.

At the risk of fueling the politically correct speech movement and being mindful of different grief experiences, the following is an attempt to explain how “words of encouragement” can sometimes be interpreted by our grief-stricken brain.

I know what you mean when you say, “She is better off now” or “She’s in a better place” and on some level I agree with both of those statements. Sometimes though, a grieving heart (especially after an extended caretaker situation) translates that statement to mean, “You did the best you could, but your efforts fell short”. The rational part of my brain is telling me that you meant, “She is in heaven and she has been made whole”, but in general it’s never easy for a grieving person to hear that their spouse, whom they loved more than life itself, is somehow happier and ” better off” now that they are no longer with you.

I know what you mean when you ask, “How old was she?”  I know that it often used as a filler question in a funeral home and maybe its the smell of gardenias that triggers the question, but the devil voice in my head is saying, “What is that magic number of birthdays that satisfies the full life requirement?” The little pity party happening in my head often includes a quick calculation as I plot my own age on a bell curve to see if I fall within the standard deviation.

I know what you mean when you say, “You’re young or you’re attractive”…(awkward pause)…, “You’ll find someone else”.  No, on second thought, I really don’t know what you mean when you say that, because the only time you should say, “You’ll find another” is when you are trying to comfort a five-year-old child after their puppy gets hit by an SUV.

And finally, I know what you mean when you say, “You were so lucky to have found your ‘true love’and experience a ‘storybook marriage’.” What I hear is, “You lucky dog, you happened to find your ‘soulmate’ and because of that you had a ‘perfect marriage'”.

The truth is Libby and I were blessed, not lucky, to have found one another, but we didn’t simply stumble into a great relationship, we fought for it, and when I say “we fought for it”,  I mean that we literally argued and fought over a variety of meaningful core beliefs and embarrassingly trivial differences, but we also worked very hard to resolve those issues and keep our disagreements to ourselves as we worked through them.

The relationship between Libby and I took 37 years to develop and was not “a match made in heaven” as has been suggested.  It was, however, a match made at the dinning room table where we each apologized after an intense argument and joking around during our meal on date night and taking long rides to discuss a major decision.

Ours was a relationship between two flawed people, both of whom often insisted on getting their own way and both of whom had to learn to give up some independence, pride and stubbornness, over and over again.  Libby and I both jealousy guarded our time, our minds and our hearts to preserve and grow our terribly imperfect “perfect marriage”.

“New” Memories

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized3 Comments

Returning to my hotel room after a round of golf with some bankers I was met by my sons, both dressed in their little coats and ties, their mom in tow, as they headed toward the lobby. “Where are you guys going?” I asked, stepping aside to let the trio pass,  “Sorry dad” Nathan shrieked, “but we can’t talk now or we will be late for afternoon tea.” As Nathan and Jerod pulled their reluctant mother toward the tea room of the Greenbrier Hotel I looked at Libby and asked “Really?….  Afternoon Tea?” but she only managed to shrug her shoulders as her two short dates steered her toward the main dinning hall.

Extended pinky not withstanding, High Tea was just one of many unusual experiences enjoyed by our boys as they got a small taste of “how the other half lived” in our treks every spring to the Tennessee Bankers Association (TBA) annual meeting.  Like us, most of those small community bankers were out of their element as we made excursions to places like, Bermuda, the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs, The Greenbrier in West Virginia, and the Breakers in Palm Beach.

My primary goal during these trips was to promote our construction company to the bankers who where looking to build new buildings, but we always found ways to have some family fun as well. Our boys helped me in the trade show booth in the mornings, enjoyed the resort during the day and then they had to dress up in “church clothes” each night for dinner.

We all had very fond memories of our unique trips and our kids experienced many “firsts” such as getting to order room service “like big boys”, making introductions at the dinner table and tipping the bellman.  The experiences themselves were as diverse as horse back riding in Tempe, Arizona, skeet shooting classes at the Hermitage, hiking Pikes Peak, mountain biking in Lake Tahoe, Falconry training in West Virginia and white water rafting on the Arkansas river.

It has been more than ten years since  Jerod and Nathan both were able to attend the TBA meeting; that is, until two weeks ago when we all went to The Belmond Charleston Place in Charleston, SC, but making the event even more special was Nathan’s wife Bethany, as well as my granddaughters Elizabeth and Lydia, were able to attend as well.

The Belmond was the sight of the last TBA event that Libby attended with me just over three years ago and once again it coincided with our wedding anniversary, so its no wonder that nearly every event and every land mark in the old city of Charleston released a new memory from our time there.

It was not hard to image how proud Libby would have been to see our granddaughters helping in the booth, swimming in the pool, riding horse-drawn carriages and then dressing up in their “church clothes” for dinner at night.

Charlseston2 2016 TBA

 

 

Made Perfect…

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized3 Comments

 

Untitled-1

“But Honey,” I whined, “What does it matter if every single tassel on the stupid rug is pointed in one direction ?” The drama was repeated nearly every time I vacuumed the throw rug in the living room because, apparently, the tassels of the throw rug need to be “combed” into one uniform direction by the beater bar of the vacuum cleaner.  To be clear, just in case the sarcasm didn’t work, I don’t like vacuuming and I definitely don’t like combing the tassels,  which is what lead to more than one serious debate.

Ever since Libby and I were married I teased her about her perfectionist tendencies; whether she was remaking the bed because I allowed the sheet to hang over the edge one inch more on the right side than it did on the left side, or making sure the tassels mentioned above were “combed” before the vacuuming was finished. Libby lived by the old adage, “If its worth doing, its worth doing right”.  While I, on the other hand, was blessed with no such tendencies.

Even though I teased her about being a perfectionist by calling her Miss Perfecto on occasion (okay, a lot, I called her Miss Perfecto a lot) Libby was way too humble to believe that anything she did neared the level of perfection and she certainly didn’t like for me to joke that she was perfect.

One day toward the middle of March while taking care of Libby, I was trying to determine what she needed and I asked, “Does your back hurt?”….”No”…” Are you cold?”…”No”… does your belly hurt?” each time she shook her head “No”.  So I said, “Well if you are not hot or cold and nothing hurts then you must be perfect.”  Libby shook her head, frowned at me with a disapproving look that I had seen many times in our 35 years of marriage, and said,  “If I were perfect then I wouldn’t be sick and in this hospital bed.”

Later that same night I told Libby, “I feel so helpless, I wish there were something more I could do. I am so sorry this is happening to you.” Libby turned her head toward me (again with the frown) and said, “Barry, don’t feel sorry for me, I have the easy part, you’re the one who has the hard job.”

Incredulous, I asked, “What do you mean by that?”  Libby’s answer still echos in my ears, even I as write these words exactly two years later, ” I mean,” she said, “My part is easy, all I have do is lay here while you take care of me for a few more days and then I will be in heaven, but you have to stay here and go on living without me.”

On March 25th it was just past midnight when I made the difficult decision to tell Libby something that, at the time,  I didn’t really think she was able to hear, much less comprehend, becasue by then she had been asleep for three days solid. I remember saying, “Libby, I love you but you need to know that I will be okay.  You were an amazing mom to our boys and although they will miss you, they will be fine. Bethany and our new granddaughter will be okay as well, you have fought hard but you don’t need to keep fighting for us.”

That was it, no long speech, no change in Libby’s expression and absolutely no indication that she heard it; instead there was a calm, spirit-filled peace that filled the room and I just remember thinking we would both rest better that night.  I leaned over to tuck in Libby’s covers but as I did the loose board next to her bed squeaked and without ever opening her eyes, Libby strained upward for her kiss.

 Caring Bridge entry March 25, 2014:   … This morning a few minutes after 5 AM Libby was made PERFECT… 

 

 

The Kiss

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized11 Comments

me and Libby

Several years before Libby was diagnosed with breast cancer we remodeled our house and replaced the carpet in the living room with hardwood flooring, the only problem was that a squeak developed in one section of the living room.  The culprit was a loose piece of sub floor that now happened to be right beside Libby’s bed; the exact spot where I put my right foot nearly every time I leaned over to kiss her.

Regardless of how deeply Libby slept or how much pain medication was given, the Pavlovian response to the creaking board was always the same; Libby would turn her head toward me for a kiss and the scene would be repeated dozens of times every night.

In some ways my attempt to sleep during the three months of Libby’s Hospice care was like that of a mom with a newborn unable to get into REM sleep. Similarly, in order to be close to Libby, I either slept in my recliner next her hospital bed or about twenty feet away in my (or rather OUR) bed, making constant trips each time she called or needed a drink. As exhausting as it was to get up dozens of times during the night to check on Libby, it was far worse when I did sleep soundly becasue then I woke up in a panic realizing that I had gone an hour or more without checking.

On the same night following my failed attempt to snuggle with Libby and the subsequent Taco incident with the hospital bed, she was fully alert and wide awake.  Libby took my hand and said, “Thank you for taking care of me, I love you”.  Embarrassed by the attention, I looked down at our hands and asked, “Do you remember the first time we held hands?”  Libby didn’t have to answer and I could tell from the confused look that either she truly didn’t remember that particular “first” in our relationship or the cancer had stolen that memory as well.

“We were on our way home from a date,” I began, a little too proudly, “We were crossing the bridge over Chattanooga Creek on South Broad Street in my ’79 Camaro.  I remember the exact spot becasue we could smell the leather from the Scholze’s Tannery where new saddles sat on the window sills.” On a roll now, I continued my narrative, ” I used one of my irresistible lines which went something like, ‘Libby, you have such small hands, put yours next to mine and lets compare’. Then I closed my grip and I held on until we pulled into the Flintstone Baptist Church parking lot next to your house.”

I was so proud that I had remembered such a detailed account from our dating years and even though it was now dark in the house, I was sure that Libby rolled her eyes when I described my move to hold her hand.

When finished I waited for Libby’s response but then I realized that she had fallen asleep somewhere during my monologue (probably about the time I made my “move”).  Trying not to wake her, I reached over Libby’s hospital bed to tuck her in but my right foot landed on the creaking board. Unconsciously Libby pursed her lips and strained in the direction of the squeak to get her kiss and our nightly ritual began again.

 

On A Scale Of 1 To 10…

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

DSC01842

 

Spending Saturday with family was amazing!  I’m not sure if Libby just happened to have a fantastic, pain free day or if she rallied by saving all of her small “feel good moments” and stringing them together into one long “feel good day” because, although short-lived, it was a  miraculous, unforgettable blessing that I will never forget.

While the sound of our family’s footsteps still resonated through the hospital corridors, Libby left her chair where she had enjoyed animated conversation and fried chicken and returned quickly to her bed. Soon afterward Libby donned her customary damp rag to cover her eyes as another massive headache slammed her, overshadowing the pain free day. Within two hours she was hurting so badly that she limited out on the allowed pain medications and our roller coaster began its descent into the darkest thirty six hours period of Libby’s hospital stay.

Anyone who has spent time in the hospital will recognize the standard pain scale question asked by the staff: “On a scale of 1 to 10, with zero being no pain at all and a ten being the worst pain you have ever experienced how would you rate your pain for me now?” Even though Libby was in tremendous pain she considered the question carefully and said, “It’s an 8”. Knowing how much she was hurting I asked, “So, Libby, even though you just said it was the worst thing you have ever felt, it’s not a 10?”  “No,” said Libby, as she tried to explain, “I’ve never died and I would think that dying would be the worst pain possible;  dying must be a 10, so this has to be a 8.”

Later that same night as I paced the floor beside Libby’s bed she asked,  “Is that you Barry?” her eyes still covered with the damp rag.  “Yes,”  I said.  “Please pray for me,” Libby said, reaching for my hand, “It feels like my head is going to explode.” I pressed the call button and once again asked the nurse for more pain meds and then I prayed, but the nurse never came back in.

I like to think that I am a patient guy, but as Libby began squeezing my hand and the pain in her head continued to increase, my patience was exhausted. Then Libby pulled me closer and whispered,  “My head,”  pausing every other word to draw in a breath, “Hurts soooo bad… I know….why people……. want to kill…… themselves…This is a 10.”

That was it, my patience was gone. I found the frazzled night-shift nurse at the end of the hall near the nurses’ station and I said, “Look, I’m sorry, I know you have lots of patients and that you are just following orders but we are going to get those orders changed right now. My wife is in unbearable pain, so we have two options here; either you get in touch with the on-call doctor right now and get my wife some pain meds or I’m calling Dr. Schlabach’s cell phone and wake him up at 3 AM to get his approval, and trust me, I will get his approval!”

Libby received a pain injection through her I.V. within five minutes of my tirade and within five minutes more she was snoring softly.  I, on the other hand, catnapped only occasionally feeling a bit uneasy about sleeping in the darkened hospital room while the night nurse walked next to my makeshift bed with an arsenal of sharp needles.

 

 

 

The Last Great Day

On By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized1 Comment

DSC09913

There is a common term within the cancer community or more specifically, within the terminal cancer community, often called the last great day. The problem is (or maybe it is a blessing) that by definition neither the patient nor their caregiver know that they are experiencing the last great day while it is happening:

Because of Libby’s declining health by end of her first week in the hospital we called all of Libby’s sisters and asked them to come in Saturday for what we thought might be their last opportunity see their sister but by the time they arrived things had changed.

When Libby woke up on Saturday morning she was not the same person that she had been the day before, she was alert and free of any pain or nausea. I explained to Libby that her mom and all of her sisters would be there soon which buoyed her spirits even more and she said, “If everyone is coming I need to wash my hair and get a shower”. I cautioned her about doing too much too soon but she was already out of bed and towing her IV pole toward the bathroom.

Now, to put things into perspective, Libby had barely put three words together in a sentence since she was admitted to the hospital seven days earlier.  The pain was such that she spent most of the time with a damp rag covering her face and the total extent of our conversations consisted of whispered two-word sentences such as “Morphine please” or “Bathroom, please”.

But on that Saturday it was as if Libby had awakened in a new body, she was giving me instructions on which set of pajamas to get out and how she wanted her mom to fix her hair and makeup.  In addition Libby said she was tired of being in a hospital bed, she wanted to sit in a chair and she was ready to have the IV taken out of her arm because she didn’t need anymore pain or nausea drugs.

Libby’s headaches and five seizures made Friday one of worst days that I had ever experienced, but Saturday, she was having a great day. Then, in the middle of getting ready, Libby looked up at me with a quizzical look and I was sure that she was feeling the effects of all the day’s vertical activity, instead she said “How long has it been since I’ve eaten?  I’m starving!” I told her it had been almost a week since she had any food but I would check with the nurse immediately to see if they could bring up some soup or dry toast.  Libby turned up her nose at my offer saying, “Toast? I want some real food”.  I made a few other suggestions such as a Subway, although I really thought that even a plain turkey sandwich would be pushing our luck.

Her mom and sister had arrived by now and Libby was being tended to as if she were a movie star about to be called out on set. The pampering may have brought out Libby’s inner Diva because she turned up her nose at the Subway sandwich suggestion and said, “You know what I really want?” I was so happy to have my wife back I said, “You name it and I’ll get it.”  Libby said, “I want some Champy’s chicken.”

In theory I was willing to get Libby anything she wanted but I had cleaned up enough vomit in the past week to know this was a bad idea so I gently questioned the wisdom of introducing fried chicken to a stomach that had not seen anything other than ice chips for a week. Once again Libby frowned and said, “Barry, you asked me what I wanted…you said name it… and what I really want is some Champy’s chicken.”

I left the oncology floor of the hospital to get Libby some chicken but not before she shouted, “And don’t forget the spicy dipping sauce”.  “Yes, dear” I said out loud, then under my breath, “I am going to have a real mess to clean up…”

I bought enough chicken to feed our family, the nurses on the oncology floor, the doctors, assorted residents and most of the patients (or at least the ones who could keep it down). Our family sat around most of the afternoon telling jokes, reminiscing, and eating way too much fried chicken (with spicy dipping sauce).  Libby never did get sick as she sat in a chair the entire day while we feasted and used the hospital bed for our dinning room table.

As it turned out I was felling a little guilty for “calling the family in” because when the doctor made his rounds that afternoon he said, “Wow! You look great today! It looks like that experimental drug finally got out of your system.  If things continue like this, you are definitely going home in the morning, little girl”, Then the doctor looked over at the bed he asked, ” Is that Champy’s chicken?” Libby handed him a cup of dipping sauce as he joined our party and we all celebrated this new answer to prayer during our incredibly awesome, really good, very great day!