His Last Breath: My Father's Battle With Lung Cancer

It rained the night before my father died. One of those warm summer rains that leaves the air more sticky and humid than it was before it started. 

It was still raining as I rushed to the hospital the next morning. I remember thinking my hair would be a disaster all day. A riot of big, frizzy curls.  

In hindsight, it seems such a bizarre, unimportant thing to be concerned about when you know your father is about to die. 

  

But already my brain was switching to self-defense mood. It needed to be elsewhere. 

Anywhere but signing his death paperwork and planning his funeral. Anywhere but saying goodbye. 

My father took his last raspy breaths just before I entered his hospital room. 

  

I paused briefly at the door. My brother Shawn, the first one to arrive, looked up at me, his grief-stricken face streaked with tears.

He didn't have to say a word.

I'd seen that same anguished look on the faces of my children three years earlier when I told them their father had been killed.

I was too late. My father was gone. 

  

I quickly crossed the room and placed my hand on his still warm cheek. With my other hand, I stroked his hair as his lungs exhaled their final breaths of air. 

  

I barely recognized the shell of the man left in the bed, his face sunken and hollow and contorted in death. 

  

The night before I had kissed him goodnight before I left. 

  

I love you, Daddy. 

  

He was so heavily medicated, I wasn't sure he'd heard me. 

  

"I love you too." 

Are you sure? I'd asked. 

  

"Yep, pretty sure. Night dear."  

My father's death was neither sudden nor unexpected. We had been anticipating it for several days beforehand.  

In truth, I'd been expecting it for months.  

And yet, that made it no less painful. 

My dad died of metastatic lung cancer. Seven months after he was diagnosed, he was gone. 

Last year, I knew nothing about lung cancer.  And now I know more about it than I ever wanted to know. Cancer has a sharp learning curve. Biopsies, thoracentesis, pleural effusion—it was so hard for me to keep all of the terms and procedures straight. The amount of information overwhelmed me. And I wasn't the one living with cancer; I can’t even begin to imagine how he felt.  

Late last fall he'd developed a cough he couldn't shake. He never told any of us about it though. It was no big deal. Just a cough.  

A retired industrial electrician and former smoker, my father had been cigarette free for almost a decade. It never occurred to him he had cancer. 

  

It never occurred to any of us he had cancer. 

  

In hindsight, we should have known something was wrong, long before he developed the cough. He hadn't been himself for months. He was always slightly grumpy (my kids even called him Grumpy), but over the previous year, he'd become withdrawn and irritable. It seemed like he was always complaining about something. 

"Your mother never listens to me."  

"Your mother can't remember a thing I tell her."  

Your mother this, your mother that. My poor mother couldn't seem to do anything right.  

We chalked it up to old age.  He’d turned seventy-five on his last birthday, and had definitely slowed down over the last couple of years. He didn’t seem to have the same energy he used too. But it wasn’t just old age, it was cancer. His fifty year, two-packs a day smoking habit finally caught up to him ten months ago when the cough first started. 

But really, it caught up to him long before that. He’d had a ticking time bomb in his lung for years and had no idea. 

  

My dad was dying long before we even knew he was ill. 

  

Last January, I'd sat beside him as the doctor gave him the results of his first biopsy. Non-small cell carcinoma; squamous cell carcinoma to be exact, the type of lung cancer most strongly linked with smoking. He had a tumour the size of an orange nestled against the membrane of his heart. Surgery was impossible; his only options were radiation, to shrink the tumour, and ease his symptoms, and chemotherapy to try to stop the cancer from spreading. 

  

And then the news went from bad to grim. Two more biopsies subsequently revealed he had a different type of cancer, adenocarcinoma, in his right lung. 

  

Concurrent primary malignancy.  

My Dad was living on borrowed time.  

His mood didn't improve after his diagnosis. He was angry—angry at the world, angry at cancer, angry at the health care system that was letting him down, angry at himself for ever having smoked in the first place.  

“Everyone else is making the decisions. It doesn’t matter what I say,” he’d grumbled to me after his last visit from the palliative care nurse.  

“I’m just a passenger along for the ride.”  

Yes, Dad and cancer was driving the car.  

He had every right to be angry.  

Cancer is such a cruel, merciless disease. My once strong father, who could haul lumber and logs effortlessly, was bedridden for the last six weeks of his life.  

Cancer robbed him of his breath and his strength, it took his dignity and then it took his life.  

He never made peace with his death. He clung to hope for a miracle cure, until the bitter end.  

For months, I silently watched my father die. I didn’t have the heart to tell him there would be no miracle, at least not for him. Hope was all he had left. And I couldn’t take that away from him.  

I knew he would never have chemo. His cancer was far too advanced, and he was far too weak. Chemotherapy would shorten his life, not lengthen it. 

  

At his last appointment, his oncologist explained to him why he couldn't have chemotherapy. She outlined the side effects of chemo as she told him how ill it would make him and then asked him what he thought.  

 “It sounds to me like I don’t want to have chemo." 

  

His shoulders slumped as he said it, his voice barely a whisper. He was exhausted. I knew he was nearing the end. I wondered if he knew it too.  

If he did, he never said it out loud. 

"We don't have to worry about that for quite a while yet," he told me, two weeks before he died.

  

He adamantly refused to speak of his death. 

  

The week before he died, my mother had to call the EMT's three times. The palliative care nurse called me the morning after the third visit and told me it was time, we had to move him to the hospital. At that point, my father was refusing to go. As his medical guardian, it was up to me to sign the papers. 

  

It was a position I'd never wanted to be in. I knew my father wanted to die at home, but I had to do what was best for him, and for my mother. 

Fortunately, I never had to sign those papers. By the time, I arrived, he had relented and agreed to go. On his terms, of course.  

"I'll go, but just for a week until I feel better. Remember what the doc said, I can come home whenever I feel up to it. A deal’s a deal. Right, Lib?" (Lib was his childhood nickname for me.)  

Right, Daddy.

He would never get to make that trip home.

He died the next day.

  

I started composing his eulogy in my head months before he died. 

"My father died of lung cancer. I would like to say he died after a courageous battle, but the truth is he never had a chance to fight. The war was over before the battle even started. Lung cancer was the victor, as it all too often tragically is.” 

The other day, as I was stopped at a stop sign, a man with his little girl crossed the crosswalk in front of me. She had dark curly hair and was talking a mile a minute. He held her little hand in his. With his other hand, he took a drag off of a cigarette. 

I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. She reminded me so much of a little girl I used to know. 

As I wiped away a tear, I couldn't help but wonder if she would be holding her father's hand in his doctor's office one day.  

Lung cancer is the leading cause of death from cancer for both men and women in Canada. Lung cancer kills more Canadians then breast cancer, colorectal cancer, and prostate cancer combined. Despite the large numbers of Canadians dying from lung cancer, lung cancer research is the least funded in the country. There are no national or provincial screening programs for high-risk populations. Partially because of this lack of screening, most lung cancer patients are diagnosed in late stages.

  

The five-year survival rate for lung cancer is a dismal 17%.

  

More than 85% of lung cancer cases in Canada are related to smoking tobacco. The risk of developing lung cancer increases with how lung you have smoked, how old you were when you started smoking and the number of cigarettes you smoke each day. The risk is also higher if you smoke tobacco and have other risk factors such as exposure to asbestos, radon, certain chemicals, and air pollution.

  

For more information on lung cancer and lung cancer prevention please see the Canadian Cancer Society

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica Bobbitt on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/

Home is Where Your Story Begins

My house went on the market a few days ago.

Not surprisingly, after I posted the picture of my For Sale sign, I received a lot of messages. And questions.

"What? Why are you selling your house?"

The answer is actually pretty simple.

And no, it's not because I enjoy moving that much. Moving is a colossal pain in the ass. And house selling and buying is never not stressful, even when it's your own choice.

In fact, I would argue it's in many ways more stressful (and expensive) when you choose to move instead of having the army tell you where and when to move.

Because this time it's entirely my decision, I have no one to blame but myself if it doesn't work out (but it will).

It's all on my shoulders.

Fortunately, I've built a lot of upper body strength in the last few years.

I decided to move for a very simple reason: I'm not actually where I want to be.

I live in a beautiful house, on a beautiful street in a beautiful neighbourhood in a beautiful town.

It's just not the right town.

It's also a retirement/university town. Half of the population is under the age of twenty-two, the other half over the age of seventy-two. And then there's me, the monkey in the middle.

When Dan died, I had absolutely no idea where I wanted to be. I just knew I couldn't stay in Petawawa.

Before he deployed to Afghanistan, we decided if anything happened to him, the kids and I would move home. So that's what we did.

But you can never really go home. Because home is not the same, and neither are you.

When I left Nova Scotia, I was a twenty-two-year-old bride embarking on my life's adventure with my new husband. I was so young back then, and so naive.

I had absolutely no idea what life had in store for me, good or bad.

I came back home, alone as a forty-three-year-old widow. I was not so young. And I was definitely not naive.

I still have absolutely no idea what life has in store for me. But I do know that whatever it is, I'm strong enough to make it through it.

I've always wanted a barn red house in Nova Scotia, it was my maybe sometime-years-down the road daydream.

I had no idea that I would actually get that house or that it would come at such a steep price.

Perhaps what they say is true.

Be careful what you wish for.

I will never regret the decision to move home. I think in many ways I needed to be here to know this was not where I wanted to be.

It was a good place for my girls to finish high school.

I was here when my Mom and Dad needed me the most. I was here when my Dad died.

And it was the right place for me to figure out just who I am. And where I want to be.

Deciding to move is not a decision I took lightly or made quickly. It was one that was gradually made with much introspection over many walks over many months.

I am not unhappy in Nova Scotia, but I will be if I stay here alone after Katherine leaves for university.

The reality is my children will never live in Nova Scotia. And neither will my closest friends.

Ottawa offers me the opportunity to be nearer to both.

And it is the geographically perfect place for me to grow professionally.

The Annapolis Valley is beautiful, it will always be one of my homes.

But there is so much more life waiting to be lived, a new story waiting to be written on the other side of these hills.

It's time for me to start writing the next part of my story.

My life is my story. And I intend to write it well.

In a lovely office in a beautiful house on a beautiful street in a beautiful neighbourhood in Ottawa.

But not a barn red house, I've been there done that.

I'm thinking dark blue this time.

Poppies and Christmas

It's as inevitable as the leaves falling off the trees.

As soon as the calendar turns to November 1 the argument begins.

And neighbours will start telling their neighbours that they shouldn't decorate for Christmas before Remembrance Day because it's disrespectful to our Veterans.

And soon my Facebook feed will be filled with more vitriol about decorations than it will be about the people we should be remembering.

And that makes me incredibly sad.

I honestly don't remember when this became a thing.

And I certainly don't understand why it became a thing.

Because one has nothing to do with the other.

People who decorate for Christmas before November 11 don't do so to be disrespectful.

And we should never assume they are.

As a military widow (and mother) I don't care when anyone puts up Christmas lights.

I care if they wear a Poppy and donate to the Poppy Fund.

I care that they take the time to stop and Remember my husband and all the others who have given their lives and all those who still serve.

As my friend, a 93-year-old WW2 Vet says,

"Wasn't that the point of it all anyway? So we could live in a country where people could put their damn lights up whenever they choose."

Decorate or don't decorate.

The choice is yours.

Because it's not about the decorations. Or lights or Christmas music or peppermint flavoured coffee.

It never was.

It's about them.

They are what really matters.

Remember them.

Odes to Our Fallen

Sometimes Facebook can be hard on my head (and my heart).

This morning as I was scrolling through my newsfeed, I came across a blog post, Canada Doesn't Need Yet Another Military Memorial

The blog post was about Canada's War Memorials and referenced planning of the construction of the National Memorial to Canada's Mission in Afghanistan.

The author pontificated that war memorials and museums were part of the military's propaganda system.

"Why do we build monuments to war rather than to its absence?" he mused. (Engler, 2016)

And I, in turn, found my myself musing as to why some people are so obtuse.

War Memorials are not monuments to war, in fact, their purpose is quite the contrary.

They are built as a testament to the true cost of war.

And to remind us that we must never, ever forget that cost.

If you have ever had the privilege of visiting one of our War Memorials, you know how moving an experience it is.

Profoundly so

In Vimy, France, you can almost hear the haunting echo of artillery fire in the distance.

In St Julien, Belgium, if the wind blows just so, you can almost detect a faint pungent smell of chlorine gas in the air.

And at the National War Memorial in Ottawa, you might feel the dampness of a widow's tears caress your cheek.

At every war memorial, you will find it hard to breathe.

Your chest tight.

Heavy with loss.

And sacrifice.

And the sorrow of thousands and thousands of families.

And a grieving nation.

War Memorials do not glorify war.

They honour the sacrifice of all of those men and women in uniform who have given their lives in service to their nation.

Our nation.

Whether they served under the Canadian Red Ensign.

Or the Maple Leaf.

I am not a war widow. My husband did not die in battle on foreign soil far from home.

He died in a training accident on Canadian soil.

I am an accidental widow.

There was no glory in my husband's death.

There is no glory in any death, accidental or otherwise.

Instead, a crushing loss.

The weight of which our children and I will bear the rest of our lives.

War Memorials do not glamourize war, they are not odes to militarism.

They are odes to our fallen-- the men and women who lay down their lives so that we might live in a world where we are all free to write and express our opinions.

And where we are free to disagree.

Our National War Memorial honours my husband and all of the other courageous Canadians who came before and after him.

For our tomorrows they gave their today.

Let their names not be lost to the knowledge of our nation.

My husband's name was Dan.

And the widow's tears you felt standing at the National War Memorial? They might just be mine.

Please Accept My Sincerest Condolences

When Dan joined the military, he knew he was joining a profession that entailed risks. When I married him, we discussed those risks.

Did we ever in a million years think anything would happen to him?

No, not back in those days, long before the war in Afghanistan.

We were young and naive.

During the Afghanistan years, that naivety was shattered as the flag-draped coffins returned home to Canada.

And we were forced to acknowledge the harsh realities of war.

While he was in Afghanistan, I would brace myself every single day. Just in case. And I would pray.

"Please don't let my doorbell ring."

I would lay awake at night and visualize what would happen if he was killed.

And then I would force myself to not go there.

Because there was far too painful.

And incomprehensible.

After Afghanistan, I became complacent. I stopped holding my breath when he left home. It never occurred to me that anything would happen to him, especially on an exercise.

And then one May morning, at the bottom of a hill, a LAV rolled over.

His LAV.

My doorbell rang that day.

And my husband returned home in a flag-draped coffin.

A few weeks after he died, my phone rang.

"Hello, Mrs. Bobbitt. I have the Prime Minister on the line."

A conversation that had been rescheduled because the day he was originally going to call wasn't convenient for me.

Then Prime Minister Harper started the conversation by apologizing profusely for having taken so long to call me as he'd been overseas.

And he offered his condolences. Sincerely.

"I'm so very sorry for your loss."

I cried as he said it.

Because I knew he meant it.

I could hear the heaviness of his grief over my loss in his voice.

He was genuinely sad for my loss. For my family's loss. For the Regiment's loss. For Canada's loss.

And I was genuinely touched.

He spoke directly to my children and told them how very sorry he was they lost their Dad. His voice cracked as he said the words.

We talked about how long Dan had served. Twenty-five years, a quarter of a century. We even joked about how old we were. And we talked about Dan's father's service. And about Connor going to RMC. His son was heading off to university as well. We were both parents getting ready for a life transition.

We talked about military life and sacrifice. And, yes we spoke about soldiering being a dangerous profession.

And that Dan's death was a tragic reminder that accidents can and do happen.

Even at home on "routine" training exercises.

"Sometimes we forget how dangerous it is until a tragedy like this reminds us," he said.

He was right, sometimes we do forget.

I also received a letter from him in the mail. It was typed on the official letterhead from the Prime Minister's office.

On it, he had scratched out Dear Mrs. Bobbitt, and written in pen.

Dear Monica and family.

Please accept my sincerest condolences...

It was simply signed,

Stephen

I've thought of that conversation often over the last three years.

Whenever I see a flag waving against the blue sky,

or draped over a wooden coffin.

Dan knew the risks when he joined the military, as did I when I married him.

But I didn't know the true weight of our flag.

Until it was folded and placed in my arms.

How could I possibly?

See You Later Old Man

How do you sum up a life in just a few words?  There were so many more things I could say about my dad, so many more stories I could tell. I hope I did him justice.

Shortly after Dad was diagnosed with cancer, I asked him what his funeral wishes were when the time came. I knew Dad well, and I knew I had to approach it like one of his long term projects.

Short and sweet was his response.

 “Kind of like me,” I said.

He looked at me with that little smirk of his. “No, I never said that.”

Of course, I’m sure he knew if I was speaking, it was unlikely to be either short or sweet.

To his oldest and dearest he was Bobby. To many he was Bob. To his grandchildren, he was affectionately (and appropriately) Grumpy. To my brothers and me, he was Dad. And to our mother, he was Robert, especially when he annoyed her, and he seemed to have a real knack for that. Of course, he’d had fifty-seven years of practice.

Bobby was the youngest of five and the only boy.

From the minute he was born, his sisters were told to “take care of Bobby, don’t hurt Bobby. He’s special.”

That really explains so much about Dad.

Little Bobby often terrorized his sisters and had them in tears, but somehow they were always the ones to get in trouble. Never him. Of course not, Little Bobby could do no wrong.

When he was younger, Dad’s favourite cohort in crime was his cousin Roseanne, who was just a few years younger than him. She was more like his twin than his cousin. They were always getting into mischief and blaming it on their poor cousin Garnet.

Dad never lost that mischievousness and was always teasing or tormenting someone, usually mom or me or one of my girls.

Dad was an understated man. Always in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, and an ever present cup of coffee. Day or not, he was always drinking coffee.

An introvert, he was never really comfortable in large crowds. He was a bit of a recluse, especially as his hearing got worse. It’s not that he didn’t like people, he was very friendly and kind, but he usually liked them in small doses and on his terms. If he liked you, he liked you. And if he didn’t, well, you’re probably not here today. 

He didn’t have a lot of time for foolish people—they “walk amongst us” he would lament, shaking his head. If only common sense were more common.

Of course, Dad was always up for a good argument— of which we had our fair share.

 He loved to be right, “You’re just like your mother,” he’d tell me when I disagreed with him.

To which I would reply, “Yes, and a little bit like my father too.” 

That would usually end the discussion; even he couldn’t argue with that one.

But when he was right, he was gleeful, “I told you so,” he would boast as he wagged his finger at you. Yes Dad, you certainly did. Many times, in fact.

Dad was most comfortable in his basement with his tools and his machines, of which he had many. I’m not sure how, but somehow he still managed to cram more junk down there.

“I’m cleaning it out,” he would say.

He’d been saying that for twenty years and it is no emptier now than it was then. Apparently, it was a work in progress. You can’t rush these things. 

And besides, the trouble was “you just never know, you might need that tomorrow.”

He could fix or build just about anything he put his mind to.  He was always fixing stuff for his family and friends; he never minded helping anyone out—he was quite generous that way.

He certainly had his own unique way of doing things. There was the easy way, and then there was “Bob’s way.” And he did like to do things his way. The more complicated, the better; which drove my poor brother’s crazy.  Partially he did this to keep them occupied, but also so they would learn to look at things differently and figure it out for themselves. Because that’s the way he learned—by doing, and by dreaming.

He would start a project and then halfway through he would move on to the next. The challenge to Dad was in figuring out how to build it or do it—once he knew that, well then it wasn’t so exciting anymore, so he’d move on to the next project. And that is why there is a half-finished windmill in their backyard. Yes, a windmill.

He recently told Shawn he could get that windmill running. Shawn told him he didn’t think he was smart enough to do that without Dad here to help him.

Dad responded “I’m not that smart, I just sat down with a little determination and figured it out. Anyone can do that.”

 Shawn disagreed, “You’re the smartest man I know.”

“Well, you don’t know many men then.”

He wasn’t just the smartest man we knew, but one of the funniest. You honestly never knew what he would come out with.

One day my girls noticed a broom on the roof of the garage.

“Hey Grumpy, why do you have a broom on the roof of the garage?”

Without missing a beat he replied, “That’s your Grandmother’s. She overshot the driveway one night when she was coming home.” 

Mom didn’t find that nearly as amusing as we did.

And that is what we will most remember about Dad, his humour and his determination. He held on to both until the very end. He was so determined to hang on—for himself, for our mother, and for us. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving us.

“I worry about your mother,” he would say over and over. I promised him she would be well taken care of, and she will.

As much as they loved to bicker, what old married couple doesn’t, he would have been lost without Hazel, who rarely left his side these last few months.

Dad’s greatest treasure was us—his family. We were his pride and joy. He was so proud of all of us, his children and his grandchildren, and our accomplishments. He loved us all fiercely and ferociously, and even though he might not have said it when we were younger, we always knew. And we always knew he was there, waiting for us whenever we needed him.

He was always a shoulder to lean on.

And now that shoulder is gone.

But Dad gave us all the tools we need to go on without him-- his strength, determination, stubbornness, and his sense of humour.

“Don’t ever stop laughing,” he would say. “You have to keep laughing.”

That we will Dad,  that we will.

“And where we go you can be sure,

In spirit, you shall never be alone.

For where you are is what matters most to us,

Because to us that will always be home.”

We’ll see you later Old Man.

We love you.

What Grieving Friends Wish You Wouldn't Say. 10 Things Not to Say to A Friend Who Has Lost A Spouse

by Monica Bobbitt

When someone experiences a loss of a loved one, we want to comfort them and offer them support. But often, those words of condolences can do more harm than good.

Here are ten things not to say to someone who is grieving:

1 I know how you feel.
No, you actually don't. Even if you have suffered a similar loss, everyone's grief is unique to them; different relationships, different circumstances, different people--different grief.

2. If I were you.

But you're not and you can't possibly know what you would do in that situation. Also, see #1.

3. Call me if you need me.

Someone who has just experienced a loss is very unlikely to reach out to you for help. It's better for you to call them, leave a message if they don't answer. "I'm here for you. I'll check in again in a few days." Sometimes just knowing you are being thought of and are not alone is more than enough.

4. What do you need?
A grieving person in all likelihood has no idea what they need. There are so many things that have to be done, pick one and offer to do it. Groceries, pick up/ drop off kids, laundry, cleaning, mowing, shoveling. The list really is endless.

5.They are in a better place.
Really, a better place than here with the people who love them? Not everyone shares the same belief system, so don't assume the grieving person believes in your views about the "afterlife."

6. It was God's will.
I'm no theologian but just no. Also, see #5...not everyone shares the same religious beliefs.

7. They had a good/full life.
Don't assume you know what kind of life they lived. They may have suffered for years with a debilitating physical or mental illness, or they could well have died with anger and regret.

8. They had a long life- while this may be true, it is never easy saying goodbye to someone you love, no matter how old they are. We all want more time with the people we love.

9. You'll get remarried.
No one can ever replace the person they have lost. Even if they do get remarried or have another child, that doesn't mean they no longer miss the spouse or child they lost. Also, you don't actually have a crystal ball to predict the future.

10. Nothing at all.
Silence isn't always golden, especially when it is in the form of avoidance. It's actually hurtful. Don't avoid a bereaved friend because you don't know what to say. If you don't know what to say, start with "I'm sorry."

Grieving the loss of a loved one is the most excruciating pain someone can endure.

The best way you can support them is to be present, listen, and allow them to grieve in their own way, at their own time.

After all, it's their grief, not yours.

Let them own their own grief.

"Easy for you to say God needed another angel—since God didn’t ask you for yours."~Angela Miller

Chat soon,
Monica

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica Bobbitt on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/