To everything there is a season…a time to grieve.

Not long after I wrote my last update (I can’t believe it was way back in October!), my Dad (Don) began an adjunct treatment called Avastin for his brain cancer. I won’t lie, I had a bad feeling about this one. However, my Dad had usually been very resilient and experienced very few side effects from even the strongest, most toxic of medications. So, I printed out the two pages of possible side effects and laid it on our kitchen table for him to peruse. With a fighting spirit, he eagerly said, “Let’s go for it!" He wanted to throw everything he could at this enemy called glioblastoma; and, if it failed to work, well, at least he’d gone down fighting. We couldn’t blame him and got behind him. We were in this together.

And so the treatments commenced, infusion-style - the first one taking place the last week of October 2021. Just a few days later, my Dad’s breathing seemed a little bit labored, and he was weaker than before. But they told us some of this was par for the course, so we just kept his oncologist in the loop and carried on. But following the second infusion, two weeks later, he could hardly get up, even with our assistance, without breathing and gasping for air. I took him to his neuro-oncologist, and following a brief evaluation, she sent us directly to radiology for a CT scan. They found a multitude of small clots throughout my Dad’s lungs, along with a huge clot all along his femoral artery - potentially lethal side effects of Avastin. He was immediately admitted to the ER, started on blood thinners, and then moved to a hospital room at UC Hospital-Anschutz.

In the midst of the hustle bustle of communication that day, his neuro-oncologist casually and somewhat indirectly said that she didn’t think continuing with chemo nor the Avastin was in my Dad’s best interest any longer. She mentioned she thought it was time to think about quality of life and comfort care. She never used the “h” word (hospice), but I knew what she meant. In retrospect, I do wish that my Dad’s doctors would’ve been more up front with how close he was to death, instead of always seeming to dance around the subject. But that’s another conversation…

After a week in the hospital, my Dad seemed to come to grips with the fact that there was nothing medically left to do to fight the effects this cancer was having on his body. It was a complete mindset shift for him and one that was met with many tears. We could sense him starting to say good-bye, and I tried to help facilitate that process with loved ones in the days ahead. It seemed so surreal.

The hospice team began visiting, the chaplain and the social workers began checking in with us, his RN and CNA’s kept him very comfortable and supported him in every way possible. I stayed by his side every chance I could, feeling incredibly helpless, and second-guessing the last month’s worth of decisions. I kept trying to demonstrate my love in practical ways, because that’s what I had grown so accustomed to doing. Actively caring for him meant he was still alive. Like my Dad, I like to be busy with a project.

The evening before my Dad passed into eternity, Joe and I watched the finale of The Voice with him laying peacefully, because that's one of the shows we had been watching with my Dad up until a couple weeks before. He loved that show and would often goofily sing, “Welcome to Team Legend” for days after each episode. He’d always look over at me, if someone didn’t sound so great, and ask me “the resident vocal expert” how that actually sounded. He’d say, “Is that just my hearing aids, or does that sound pretty bad?”

Later that same night, I got to spend some sweet moments singing to him and reading Scriptures out loud about heaven and how this mortal life is not the end - this shadow of death was only the beginning of a life to come.

I wept and held his hand. He laid still, and yet I knew he could hear me - hearing being the last sense we lose before we pass. We knew it was only a matter of time, as his breathing became more labored.

And so it was, early the morning of December 18, 2021, as I laid near him in his room (we were both sleeping!), he slipped into the arms of Jesus quietly and peacefully. The night shift RN from hospice came. The mortuary team arrived. I kissed his forehead a few last times and just laid beside him holding his hand. They draped a U.S. flag over his body, and they wheeled my Dad’s body away, as Joe and I followed close behind. And while I knew, barring a miracle, this moment was inevitable, I was still in shock and numb through my falling tears.

I know my Dad isn’t the body or shell he lived in or walked around in, while on this earth. His spirit lives on, and his spirit is what we all loved so much. But the sudden absence of the physical presence of someone we’ve held so dear and walked beside our entire lives is heart-wrenching. The separation feels so final, even though we believe the promise of reunion again one day.

The reality of our own mortality also rises to the surface. Our hearts weren’t built to endure this. This is not Eden. And yet, this is a life passage we must all face, in this fallen world, if we outlive someone we love.

Forgive me if I don’t have any great words of wisdom or insight right now. I am learning to grieve. I am stumbling through the process. I am trying to be gentle with myself. And while I sift through so many layers of my Dad’s life, I am also trying not to immerse myself in too many memories all at once - stacks of my Dad’s clothes, all his military memorabilia, his storage shed, photos, and - the hardest (and sweetest) of all - videos of my Dad.

To an extent it is all reassuring and comforting, but then I feel myself plummeting into sadness that becomes too heavy. I get flooded. And so I pull back, allow myself some mental space, realizing my Dad - of all people - would want me to be happy and unencumbered and to travel light.

He lived with a passionate and carefree spirit with which few of us journey through life. Nearly to the end, he was making plans to travel, planning on reuniting with friends, envisioning his next camping adventure, counting on beating cancer. This was part of how he held onto hope. I want to do the same.

For those of you who have been praying and reading my blog updates about my Dad along the way, thank you! Now, may I ask you for prayers for our family, as we grieve? And if you have a special memory of my Dad, or an encouraging word, I would love for you to post it in the comments below, as I am collecting these treasured memories and thoughts for the days to come.

I would also like to share with you the obituary I was honored to write for my Dad. It is posted here on the mortuary website, along with the memorial service date, time and location. For those who personally knew and loved my Dad, we welcome you to attend!

I also want to say thank you to my truly amazing, self-sacrificing, and exorbitantly loving husband Joe, who - before I even uttered a word - said to me when my Dad was first diagnosed, “Your Dad needs to move in with us!” Little did either of us know what a challenging road it would be for everyone, but Joe loved my Dad so well every single day for the year and a half he lived with us. I am so grateful for a husband who loves and adores me and who chose to make loving my Dad such a high priority to the very end. We have no regrets.

My Dad would say “thank you” to us every night, as we helped tuck him into bed, and I will never forget those tender moments. Plus, we laughed like crazy about the silliest of things, speaking in funny accents, giggling even through the difficult moments.

I am very proud to be my Dad’s daughter. I am grateful for the spirit he carried, which was deposited into me and my brother. I will miss him every day and will do my best to honor his memory and to remember the hope and reunion that is to come.

“Over and out.”

I love you, Dad. -SJ