Quick Take
Lookout columnist Claudia Sternbach continues to chronicle the terminal illness of her husband, Michael, who has chosen not to try to treat his cancer. They have been married for more than 40 years.
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I was startled awake the other night by the bright light on Michael’s headlamp. It took me a minute to grasp the situation.
Michael was trying to wake me up and was wearing the elastic band with the light attached so he could wheelchair his way down the hall to where I was sleeping without bumping into the bookshelf filled top to bottom with fiction and nonfiction. He was in pain. We needed to get to the E.R.
A few hours later, a catheter had been put in place and drugs had been given and there we were in a curtained-off area of the hospital emergency room. This wasn’t where we thought we would be when we had yet another video call with the Stanford tumor board about Michael’s cancer.
But here is where we were.
There was one advantage to this situation. The doctor who was administering to Michael listened in on the call, which was helpful. There was no good news. The doctor patted my shoulder as he stood next to me.
We had been informed days earlier that his soft tissue sarcoma cancer was stage 4, but hearing it once again from the entire board was still a punch in the gut. I mean, up until a few months ago he was riding his bike, playing in the ocean and excitedly anticipating his retirement.
Previously
Driving home, we were tired and sad. Everything seems to be moving at lightning speed as well as not moving at all. Time means nothing right now. And yet time means everything.
Last weekend, at the height of the storm, we lost power for 24 hours. The rain was pounding and the wind snapped thick branches off of the trees out back and sent them flying. I filled the living room with lit candles and we snuggled close on the big blue couch, each wearing a headlight, and read until it was time to retire.
It is challenging to distract oneself when there is no electricity. Michael and I have been using books and movies and old DVDs to take our minds off cancer. Sitting together in the dark, the cancer looms larger.
Twenty-four hours later, the power was back. And the following day, Michael took his own power back. The power to decide what comes next. As there is no treatment that offers any hope for cure, he will not be treated any further other than to manage pain. I am so very proud of him. He has always made excellent decisions in life and he will now determine how it is he will die.
A bright, young hospice nurse made her first visit yesterday. She was caring, organized and was determined to make sure Michael has everything he needs right here in our home to keep him as comfortable as possible.
A hospital bed will arrive this week. There will be a bar overhead that Michael can use to lift himself up. There will be a table that swivels so he can place anything he needs and feels is essential close at hand. It will be easier to transfer him from the bed to his wheelchair.
This is all to help him, help me, until we no longer need help.
I’m up early today. Michael is still sleeping and his brother, sister-in-law and mother (Yes! Mother! She is 94 years old!) are flying in from the East Coast and will be here in a matter of hours. I am both eager to see them and worried about how the reality of the situation will be received.
We have tried to be clear about Michael’s diagnosis and prognosis, but I still don’t know how they will react. We have FaceTimed them often, but on FaceTime Michael looks like Michael. Handsome, healthy, unchanged from the man they saw only a few months ago.
They will catch on quickly, but nonetheless, I fear there will be shock.
It’s beginning to rain again, and I listen at Michael’s door to see if he is stirring. All is quiet.
Soon the house will be filled with voices. It will be a bit chaotic because that is his family. And I love that about them.
But for now, I’ll pour another mug of coffee, sit in the silence, watch the rain and feel all the history and love Michael and I have shared in this little house for more than four decades.