Surviving Cancer, My Story Part 16: Walking Dead

Part 16: walking dead

After being in the hospital for more than a week Dan was finally released to come home.  It was July 3^rd. I had been running all over town getting things ready for the next couple of days. I scrounged up some money to buy mini fireworks and sparklers for the fourth.  Dan’s birthday was the following day. I needed to order a cake and wrap presents. Cancer needed to be out of the picture, even for only a few days.

Although he was well enough to come home Dan was still very sick.  He felt weak and looked frail.  Pneumonia had crept into his lungs while he was at the hospital. His throat was sore, and a nasty cough kept him throwing up several times a day.

(Fourth of July 2007)
We attempted to attend a get together with friends for fireworks. They had three young boys close to our own son’s age.  They hadn’t seen Dan since we started treatment.  Everyone tried to act natural, but were obviously shocked at his pale thin body.  He had dropped so much weight; 60 pounds at this point from his tall and lengthy build from before.

Nobody said anything as we got ready to start the festivities.  Dan sat on the couch and zoned to his half zombie-like state. He called my name a few minutes later and as I sat down next to him on the couch I already knew what he wanted.  “Take me home, I’m not going to make it”.

I didn’t know how to feel; worried, panicked, fear, anxiety, sympathy, sadness, annoyance, bitterness and loneliness. Did I feel these things for my husband, or just the cancer? I knew he was legitimately sick.  I also knew I was living in two different worlds. I was young wife and mommy to two beautiful boys moving forward with the ‘American Dream’.  But I was also old, worn, broken-down, nursemaid to a man I didn’t recognize but had been married to my entire adult life.  It was hard to separate the two.

 Dan climbed back into the car, and I took him down the street to our home.  I helped him into bed and told him I wouldn’t stay long at our friends.  Cole was left behind to not miss out on any fun and I intended to go back for 30 minutes before bringing the rest of our family home.  The sadness I felt not having a complete family trumped my desire to do anything without my husband.  He had been the center of my world for 6 years, and the boy of my childhood dreams that I would spend my ‘happily ever after’ with.

My children were tired from the lack of routine, naps, and all the chaos that surrounded our lives because of what we were going through.  Dan convinced himself to participate in a family sparkler party on the front lawn for 15 minutes.  It was just the four of us, not quite dark yet.  Three parachute guys were shot up in the air for Cole to run and catch.  He was fascinated by them and the colors of their chutes.  After retrieving them from their landing spots he ran into the house to hide them away for playtime later. My three year old was undoubtedly suffering from the same symptoms I was suffering from. He grasped at anything that meant security and happiness, even if it was temporary. Dan lit some mini tanks and a fire engine, less entertaining than the pricey packages had promised.

After a few sparklers the day was over. It had gone by too fast.  I was happy to have Dan home from the hospital.  My heart ached inside telling me a different story.  I forced those feelings to stay deep inside, keeping them from forming into words or emotions.  Dan had become a physical zombie by this point, but I had become an emotional one. How could I act so normal when everything around me was anything but normal?  I couldn’t handle a realization that I was a mere 30 year old doing what I was doing everyday.  

 Where were my 'Norman Rockwell' moments?

Dan went to bed right away. I wrapped up presents for his party the next day.  Phone calls had been made to my family members weeks prior, reminding them of Dan’s birthday.  I asked them to send something to make it special for him.  Our funds were non-existent, and my time to hunt for meaningful gifts were short.  Although he was becoming a man I didn’t fully know anymore my convictions for him were deep and my loyalty strong.  If love could cure a disease, he would have been healed instantly.  I finished getting everything ready for his party the next day and crawled into bed next to him.  My body curled up next to his 'Ethiopian' frame. The bones in his body stuck out everywhere. I was snuggling a skeleton, yet grateful my bed wasn’t empty. The nights he spent at the hospital were the times I got up half way through the night, crept into my son’s room, slipped under his covers, and held him close just to not feel alone.  

 I was a child that needed comforting.

(My parents, Cordell & Starla Briggs)
My parents drove an hour up to our house for Dan’s birthday.  Our son, who was enamored by ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’ obsessed over the birthday series we watched on a regular basis.  Balloons and silly hats were the theme for a successful party according to Thomas.  My mom brought balloons and I furnished the silly hats to personalize it for Cole.

“Happy Birthday Dan”, I whispered to help him wake up.  If he only stayed awake for a couple hours I wanted him to remember that he had a happy birthday and that he belonged to a family who cared about him.  My brother, had driven up the night before from Vegas to visit with us.  Ryan, who developed a unique form of epilepsy when we were in grade school, could sympathize with what we were going through.  He had been through horrible things that were life changing for him and our family. As newly weds we visited him in the hospital for his own scary surgery on his brain. The connection we had through disease and it's impact gave us an unspoken closeness. Dan fit into my family well. He was youngest in his own family, well behind his siblings in years. They hardly seemed close. My siblings and I were a close year apart from one another and they adopted Dan as their own. Both sets of my parents took more interest in his life than his own parents who rarely called or visit did.

 (My brother, Ryan Bird)

I wrapped Dan in his 'bio-hazard' safety plastic so he could take a shower before I whisked myself off to the kitchen. I helped my mom make a late lunch.  My dad and brother played with the boys while they waited.  Dan emerged from the bedroom and came down the hallway.  He sat himself down at the decorated table and tried to smile as he said hello to everyone.  The mood was somber as we sat down to eat.  Dan piled his plate full of food, but never took one bite.  He picked at it while he chatted with everyone at the table.  It was painful to watch.  I desperately wanted him to eat something.  He obviously wanted that too.  Everyone must have noticed because lunch ended rather quickly and we lit the candles on the cake. We began to sing.  After he blew out the few candles we could find for his cake he just sat and stared at the frosting.

“How old does today make you?”, my dad asked trying to carry the conversation.

“Twenty-Seven”, Dan replied.  He paused, and then said it again, “twenty-seven years old”.

(27 years old)
He grazed his finger across the side of the cake, brought his finger to his mouth, and licked a small dollop of frosting for a taste.  Presents were next.  Cole sat next to him eagerly waiting for his dad to hand him the present. Dan would quit half way through because he couldn’t open it. From his speech to his thoughts and movements he was slow.  My family had come through for me and sent him gift cards and a few things to open.  It meant a lot to me.  I missed the birthday’s we spent with each other before the cancer, as a couple, on a private date.  I wasn’t certain if there would be more of those in the future or if they were a thing of the past.

Dan’s eyes were tired and distant as always.  The short party was over, he needed to go back to bed.  I was sad to see my parents leave.  I secretly wanted them to stay, to rescue their little girl from the hell she was in.  My breakdown never happened and my mom kissed me good-bye.  I was left to be 'the mommy', the one in charge, brave and rescuing everyone else from the hell they were in.

The house fell quiet after Dan and the boys were all down for naps.  I cleaned up the kitchen, put away the presents, and gathered up the balloons.  I walked in the kitchen, picked up a fork and plunked it into the cake.  I took bite after bite without taking much breathe in-between.  I had to force the lump in my throat down.  I was loosing the battle I was trying to fight.  Soon the tears fell fast down my cheeks. The fork fell to the counter and I wrapped my arms around both sides of my body and leaned over while I sobbed.  My mind was blank.  No thoughts or words could get me through all the emotions pent up inside. They would have to come out, even if only through rare moments of sudden breakdowns and uncontrollable tears.

Dan was oblivious to my pain. Cancer was never about me. 

I lived in the shadow of his disease.

Later that evening we spent more time with just the four of us.  I carefully planned out small tasks for us to do, understanding the importance of keeping us all bonded together somehow.  Dan forced himself to participate as much as he could. He was void of human ties and emotions most of the time; just existing and enduring what he had to, in order to get him to the point of remission and a body that functioned as if he were alive inside it. Until then I couldn’t expect much more from him than a walking corpse in my house.

The air in the night brought an eerie chill to my bones.  I was able to sleep, but felt dark and cold.  Before Dan had fallen asleep he had been dry heaving for several hours.  He hadn’t eaten anything solid for so long. There wasn’t anything that could come up except stomach bile.  The only thing I could do was sit next to him, hear and feel his body involuntarily shake, and pray that it would stop while hoping the knots in my stomach would go away. I was relieved when the drugs kicked in and he passed out. 

The next morning he was icy cold. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling when I awoke and looked over at him. “How are you feeling?”, I asked.  “Okay... I guess”, he responded slowly.  The doctor told him a couple days after he came home from the hospital the medicine prescribed for the pneumonia would fully kick in and he would finally start to feel better.  He opened his mouth to say something, but paused before he said it.

“I thought I was going to die last night…I didn’t think I would wake up.”

My eyes glossed over for a minute or two before I grasped what he had said.

“What do you mean? Why didn’t you tell me?”….what and why questions were pouring out of my mouth expressing my horror.

“I didn’t want to scare you”, he explained, “I could feel my organs shutting down”.

For a moment I felt like my husband had come back to me.  He held me close and we comforted each other without words.

What the doctor had told him was true.  After the scary brush with death that night Dan started to feel better.  Mr. Jekyll had slipped away while ‘Hyde’ slowly came back.  He ate a little food and kept it down.  After most of the day, he felt well enough to get up and move around.  He had several gift cards in his possession and expressed his desire for some alone time to do some birthday shopping.  I was nervous about him driving a car considering he could barely walk his skeleton body to the bathroom from our bed, but agreed to let him try it.  Being a prisoner in your bed or your body was one of the worst things I could imagine.

While he was gone I called my mom to unleash the secret I forced myself to downplay all day long. I was panicked as I told her what Dan had said about dying in the night.  There was no shock on the other end of the phone, only explanation of a similar fear.

“On the way home from your house Dad said he didn’t think Dan looked like he was well enough to make it through another night.”

Although conversation on the drive home from our house eluded to seriousness of Dan’s condition I think they dismissed the feelings and talk as paranoia.

I was horrified at her admission, and immediately thankful that I didn’t wake up to a dead husband.  I couldn't stand to think of what would happen if he died.  What would I do if that had happened?  No matter how hard what I was going through was, as long as he didn’t die I knew I could get through it. 

What I hadn’t considered at that point was 'death in increments'.  Dan was dying, in small doses. He was changing and different every time I brought him home from the hospital. The possibility I failed to consider was that the body might survive the cancer although the soul it harnessed might not.