Time to Say Goodbye?

Dying from cancer gives you time to say goodbye.

I've heard this said, and it's true that my Dad's death from cancer was no surprise. Like a well=predicted hurricane we knew it was coming and knew it would sweep him away.

But during my Dad's illness we weren't saying goodbye. We were too busy fighting.

I don't know what it is like for other cancer patients. For us, there was always hope that each day might be a good one, that there might be some sign that Dad would get a little longer, that he might make it to his 50th wedding anniversary with Mom. When it became clear that wouldn't happen, each day we hoped for a sign he would make it to the family vacation we moved up to make sure he would be able to go. And then it became clear he would be too sick to travel. But with each setback and dashed hope came another one, another milestone we hoped to reach. Perhaps we were foolish but I think hope is the last thing to go.

And so each day became a battle, against the pain, against the despair, against the gathering weakness. It became harder and harder for him to eat and so we fought for every calorie. When pain and fatigue seemed to be all that was left we fought for even fleeting moments of connection, conversation, closeness.

Even the last time I saw him conscious and I knew it was probably the final goodbye, I couldn't see it that way -- I still thought there was more time, however little time that might be. I was wrong. Dad's last words to me in the kitchen that morning I left three weeks before he died were the last words he would say to me in person.

But even then I refused to see it that way. As much time -- two years -- as we had to "get ready," death was still a shock, a crushing finality that can't be understood in the abstract. It's the actual absence that makes "goodbye" a reality.

No matter how one loses a loved one, whether from sudden death or lingering illness, it's the time we have together and hat we do with life that matters. No one is ready for that final "goodbye."