It’s All Good

Hi there, folks. I am sorry it has been so still here lately. It has been a really tough time for us and as much as I would have preferred to throw myself deep into my work to hide from reality, I really needed to take a few weeks off to handle everything.

 

As most of you know, my dad has been battling stage 4 lung cancer. Since March, my sister and I have been in communication with my dad, his doctors, and our family on the east coast — all of us doing whatever we could to help my dad kick cancer; buying the most natural, organic, healthy food to nourish his body, shipping everything from supplements to body pillows to make sure he’s comfortable, and sending along verses and words of encouragement and strength to keep his spirit strong. We flew up to Massachusetts where he lives to help out with chemo treatments, or however we could. All of that seemed to be working too, because this summer, we got news that the tumors were shrinking! His voice returned to normal after three separate rounds of chemo, his strength and energy were both way up, and he looked fantastic. We thanked God for this and made plans to visit my dad to do a ‘fun’ trip — no chemo treatments or doctor’s visits on the agenda — no way! We planned a Red Sox game, a ZZ Top concert (he’s a big fan), and a lot of celebrating and praising the Lord for my Dad’s healing.

 

As we neared September, the time of our trip, my dad started to feel tired again and seemed to not be doing as good. We decided to postpone our Red Sox game and have a relaxing weekend instead, but one evening, we received a call that he fell, was disoriented, and hurt his shoulder. After a doctor’s visit, we found that the cancer was to blame. And worse, it had spread. It was now in my dad’s bones, his liver, and the most devastating…his brain. Those tumors caused the seizure that made my dad fall, and that changed everything. He could no longer live by himself (quite a blow to a man who has been independent and on his own most of his adult life), was on dozens of medications for prevention of another seizure, infection, and inflammation, among other things. Dad started radiation shortly after, which knocked. him. out. Through phone calls and text messages, I could tell that the radiation changed him. It aged him greatly, and it was the saddest thing to watch my dad — a 51 year old man who could haul a load of lumber just months earlier could now barely lift 1olbs.

 

The night before we were scheduled to leave for our trip, Dad called from an ambulance. He had another seizure, this time at my grandparents’ house, and had bleeding on the brain. He was being rushed to the hospital and didn’t want us to come up, “Don’t waste your money, Chels” he said. “I won’t be any fun and I don’t want you to have to see me like this.” Um, right, Dad. Like I’m going to cancel my trip now! Troy and I went up to be with him, spending nearly two days in the hospital with him. He looked good in spite of what he had been through, and as we took him to his second round of radiation, he smiled and laughed with everyone, from resident doctors to janitors. He seemed so cheerful going in, but if you’ve never been witness to radiation and its effects, consider yourself extremely lucky. I’ve never seen anything like it until then. His voice was almost instantly changed, his breathing shortened, his grey, George Clooney-ish hair that he waited so patiently to return, was already falling out again… and the cancer? Apparently just getting started. I began my last night in MA sitting on an overturned bucket next to my dad as he brushed out the hair that radiation took from him, and I ended that night on the couch next to him, tightly holding his hand. I don’t remember ever holding his hand until that moment, but it comforted me. We didn’t say much, just sat there together listening to the buzz of our family in the kitchen as we both fought with all our might to keep the tears from pouring.

 

One thing I knew, but really witnessed through my experience is that cancer totally sucks. It was my first real glimpse at this vicious, aggressive disease that shows you just how fragile life can be. About a week or so after leaving Massachusetts, we got word that Dad’s conditioned was worsening and he was too weak to endure further treatment. After rehabilitation from his last round of radiation, hospice came into the picture and we knew. It was a devastating few weeks, hoping with everything we had in us that he would be okay, just hoping for time. My sister and I booked flights on a Sunday to go up and be with Dad on Wednesday morning. We knew we needed to be there with him, to cheer him up and get him smiling again since he wasn’t taking visitors and seemed really down. We had the first flights out of Houston and Chicago and were anxious to get to my dad’s side, but staying true to his word that he didn’t want us to see him “like this”, Dad passed peacefully around 10pm et on Tuesday night, hours before our flights took off toward Boston.

 

Last week was the hardest, most emotional, tragic week of our lives. Nothing makes you feel more like a child than when your parent dies, and yet nothing makes you more of an adult than planning their funeral. I can say without a doubt that week would not have been possible without the family by our side, the words of support and love from our friends, family, and clients back home, and the promise, the absolute understanding that our dad is safely in heaven, healed of his pain.

 

As we pick up the pieces and move forward through each day, one by one, we look toward the many blessings in our lives, and we thank God for the time; the precious time we got with our Dad before cancer took him from us, the time everyone has given us to mourn and to heal, and the time we still get here on this earth to make the most of. I also can’t help but anticipate the next time I get to see my dad again too, healthy and smiling, reassuring me like he always does, that “It’s all good.”

 

Rest in peace, Dad.

 

Brian Stanley
August 16, 1961 – October 2, 2012