life | courage | love

The following is an inspirational letter written by our father to friends & family upon learning that he unexpectedly had just a few days left on this earth. He was diagnosed on a Tuesday and gone by Sunday. Ron was a vibrant healthy man prior to feeling ill for just a couple weeks. Ron was an honest loving man who valued family above all else, his priorities were always in the right place. It was never about ‘things’ or ‘status’ with Ron — it was always about doing the right thing and making others feel better about themselves. Ron was a true intellect, educator & fierce outdoorsman — an amazing husband & father & grandpa. This letter is a testament to a life well lived, loved & appreciated en route.

Greetings and goodbye -

Six o’clock Thanksgiving morning, 2014, finds yours truly in a hospital bed, incarcerated by a set of tubes and wires, mind all a flutter BUT mostly mentally reviewing — reliving — a wonderful, much more than one could ever hope for, an overflowing basket of blessings that has been my life.

‘Why six in the morning?’ And what’s up with writing in a hospital room? The gentle reader may inquire?

The short answer: Several weeks ago the power above all things large or small, posted a notice on my door to life; Warning! Get your affairs in order. Your number is about to be called.

Hah!

Can’t be meant for me. My Doc says I’m the healthiest, most active senior in his practice.

“Sorry up there,” I respond, but you got the wrong guy. Better check the address again.’’

Meantime these night sweats, growing shortness of breath episodes, Mr. Gravity pulling a smidge harder every day, are just the result of a tick bite. No big deal. Something I can take care of when I come home from the cabin Nov. 7th. Make a quick stop by to see Dr. ‘B’, do a blood draw, get a prescription antibiotic to knock Mr. wood tick Lymes to the ground, and I’ll be good to go late season bow hunting.

‘Not so fast!’ says the big guy up above. ‘Did you really think Lymes would be the agent of choice? You’re not paying very good attention!”

True. I wasn’t. Another week of increasing night sweats, darkening urine, strange aches and joint pains expanded to plague the quickly aging body. Yet however, all of these could be explained as side effects of the heavy duty antibiotic being ingested to knock Mr Lymes for a loop.

Phone call from the doctor middle of last week. “Better come back in, no positive test result for a tick borne disease but your white cell count seems much too high. We’ll need dig a little deeper, draw some more blood, and take a real good look at what’s going on.”

“Okay, I’ll make an appointment. How about Monday or Tuesday?”

“Should work. I’m out of the office until then anyway.”

Thursday evening, as I pass by my bathroom mirror on one of the many forays to the porcelain bowl, I see a stranger staring back at me.

Dark circled, sunken eyes, parchment skin yellowing color of a newspaper left to lay in the sun.

“What the H…….! Who is that man?”

Rush back to read the antibiotic side effects possibilities list. There! Halfway down. ‘Yellowing of skin a possibility. Check with your doctor.’

Whew! I will, this Tuesday, ten-twenty in the morning.

Horrible weekend, sweats, bits and pieces of sleep, right knee pounding like a post hole digger banging on a rock. Continued yellowing of skin, which is now the color of an overripe lemon.

My angel caretaker wants and needs to go along on office visit. Wonderful, as I’m too tired to drive anyway.

The doctor pauses inside the door and stares before coming all the way in.” After introductions to Madeleine, he takes a longer look at his long known patient. “Ron, he says, you look like shit.”

I laugh and reply, “Doc, is that a new medical term?”

No, but we’re not doing anything here this morning. You’re going straight to the North Hospital E.R. They have all the tools and labs to get answers ASAP.”

My angel and I proceed to North, go directly to check in desk. Doctor has called ahead. They are expecting us. Five minutes later I’m having blood drawn . . . twenty minutes later the very soft spoken young ER doctor comes back. The look on his face is as easy to read as a huge road sign; not good news ahead!

“We’ve done the preliminary blood work. Your white cell count is through the roof. Unfortunately the white cells are the wrong type — immature blast cells that have begun attacking your good cells. In other words, you have leukemia. We’ll be doing more lab work to determine just what type of leukemia you have, chronic . . . the mildest form, or acute, the aggressive form.

Twenty minutes later he returns, same sad tilt to his lips. “Sorry to say, the blood slides show you have the acute form, the aggressive type.”

Within minutes I’m whisked away into what seems to be the bowels of this giant medical complex. I’m lined up with others, awaiting my turn through one of the multiple the CAT scan tools.

Whoosh! Through the CAT tube, back into the elevator and up to a private, end of the hall, window to the world, hospital room.

All this, and it’s been less than two hours since we left our home clinic. (Amazing, but I’d certainly could have lived without having to learn about the communication efficiency of a modern medical facility.)

Madeleine and I sit in the room in an overwhelmed foggy daze. What the Hell just happened? Is this a dream, a bad nightmare we’ll both wake up and laugh about? Can this really be real?

Apparently so, because there’s a knock on the door and several young females enter. They wear white and their nametags announce them to be MDs.

After introductions, I’m in a such a daze I never really catch their names or official status in the medical gene pool. They get right to the point. I have leukemia, not just the worst kind, but the worst of the worst kind.

They’ve already conferred, opined, and planned. Treatment must start immediately.

“What kind of treatment?” asks the stunned and reeling retiree.

Two to four months of very intensive Chemo plus a host of other poisons.

Won’t that make me really, really, sick.”

“Well, yes, but it’s your only hope.”

“Only hope for what?”

“To stay alive.”

“So in other words, you want me to be tethered to a bed, sick as a glutinous dog, unable to poop or pee, sleep, nap, read whenever I choose . . . . For months on end, with the best possible outcome being, that if I live through it, I come out the other end almost as sick as I go in?” I shake my spinning head. “Not today, we don’t, uh-uh! We’re going to sleep on this decision . . . but I think my mind is already made up. No way, no how.”

My angel wife stays through the night but neither of us really gets any sleep. Our brains keep bouncing back and forth, tears and fears.

Early the next morning, yesterday, the head oncologist comes in and closes the door. She is a small framed woman with a lovely face and intelligent dark brown eyes.

“I’ve made a decision,” I tell her. “If you think you can pull it off, I’d like you to build me up with good pills, see I can get strong enough, just for a short time, to be able to spend Christmas with the grand kids. Then close out in hospice?”

She takes my large hand gently in her small grip. “Yes, Ronald. Your wish is what I studied upon late into the night. I had already conferred with all the top doctors at the University and Mayo. Because the blast cells have almost destroyed you liver function, your condition is a rare and nearly impossible situation to treat.”

She paused, “So I think, that in reality, the best outcome for all, and it is the same as you have just inquired about, is to see if we can’t give you at least a few weeks, maybe even a month or more — no promises made– of a fairly comfortable stay at home with friends and family.”

AND that’s where I am on this early Thanksgiving morning. Just two days after leaving home for a visit with my GP.

Waiting in the pre-dawn light for a set of ‘Build UP Pills”, followed by a straight dose of chemo to knock off a few of those immature killer white cells. So maybe, with a little luck, and some positive mental support from you, my friends and family, I’ll be relaxing in my own recliner in a few days.

That’d be great, even though I know it’ll be a ticket for a very short ride.

Love, Peace and Harmony. And as Ellen says, “do good in the World.”

Lots of tears, much more to follow, I’m certain as my eyes dripping right this second.

Also, there will be no “normal” or “traditional” funeral service following the day or night my lights are turned off for eternity.

Rather I have asked that I be burned and urned, and then, when real Minnesota Spring sets in, when the trees are leafed in frilly green, the lakes are sparkling jewels under a warming sun, hold a celebration of life. Hold it by a lake. Have it by a pond. And I Insist that my best buddies tell tales out of school. Poke fun. No long sad soliloquys allowed. Ashes spread on a few of favorite places.

So Long, Good bye, It’s been swell to know ya!

FOLLOWUP:

Ron wrote this on Thursday and walked out of the hospital on his own fleeting oxygen on Friday. He passed away in the wee hours of late Saturday night/Sunday morning. He did not get the time thru Christmas as he’d hoped — he actually lived only 5 days from diagnosis. He went home to the house he built with his own hands back in ’74 got into his favorite chair next to the fireplace and looked out onto his beautiful acreage while his grandkids played a board game nearby, he loved the sound of their banter & laughter. His sister & best buddies visited, he also received a few key phone calls that brought positive closure to those relationships. He died in the care of his wife & daughters. No nurse or hospice worker present. A simple at home passing to the other side. He felt peace, told us he saw white light upon closing his eyes & drifting and called us ‘his Angels’ as he let go of the sweet life he’d lived. Ron was never a particularly specifically religious man. He was a thoughtful curious man of soul, intellect & science. He was taken much to quick and abruptly from this world but passed with so much grace, divinity & peace that surely the way he chose to live is inspirational. Simply do onto others positively — the golden rules and honesty were paramount to who he was & how he lived. He also taught us all that it’s essential to fill up those around us with positive encouragement. He told us to “go and do good”. Indeed.

story by Rons_Angels