Life is precious...treasure every moment.
It feels like an age since I last wrote; I'm feeling ready to write about the last month; it's been eventful but I am feeling ready to talk about what has happened.
25 days ago, my Dad lost his battle to cancer. He was only diagnosed on the 10th June this year. And we were told, he'd got one of the better cancers - cancer of the bladder where survival rate is 7 out of 10 patients. What they don't tell you is how weak, depressed and emotionally distressed you feel once you hear those dreaded words; "you've got cancer". My Dad was a real character, he was loud, brash, and his booming voice you could hear for miles. Once his diagnosis had been confirmed, he became introverted and sad. However, he never let down his guard, he always kept saying, once I start the chemo, I'll start to feel a lot better. Three sessions of radiotherapy later, he went for his first and last chemotherapy session. And after that, he just never recovered and seemed to be plagued with infections. In his own words, he kept taking one step forward & two steps back. He went into hospital for a few days at the end of July and throughout August, he was in & out of hospital as he couldn't seem to fight off the several infections he succumbed to. It transpired that an abscess had burst during the second stint in hospital in August and wasn't picked up in time, doctors were offering different points of view and ultimately, it impacted on his major organs as you simply cannot fight infections when you're trying to fight cancer.
I went to see my Dad in hospital at the end of August; although he seemed in good spirits and was extremely positive about my forthcoming wedding, he seemed to have lost his sparkle. The booming voice was broken and if you looked at him closely, you could see the lumps appearing in his lymph's, the cancer having spread viciously through his ravaged body. He was very philosophical; he knew that time was running out. He'd told me the songs he wanted playing for his funeral, where he wanted his wake to be held, he'd tell me about other patients that he'd met on the ward; his first question to them would always be "Wednesday or United?" At that time, he'd had a new catheter fitted, he seemed more excited about life in general and said he might even pop down to the rugby club to show his face. He was discharged on Thursday 31st August. He was back in by Sunday 3rd September having a procedure to fix the problem with his catheter. They let him home on the 7th September and for just over a week, he seemed to be mending. I actually felt a little relieved, my optimism was bubbling over as he just needed two weeks clear so he could start the chemo once more. We got ten days before I'd made my daily phone call to my Dad & my stepmum answered explaining that the sore throat that he'd been complaining about to me the previous ten days was causing breathing issues. My Dad had never had a sore throat so I knew deep down, the cancer had got him, and it was getting to him quick.
My stepmum was due to go to Gran Canaria to see her son, daughter in law & grand-daughter. On Tuesday morning, she confirmed to me that she wasn't going & that time was running out. I'd arranged to work from home for the rest of the week and so I travelled up to Sheffield on Wednesday lunchtime and sat with my stepmum for about half an hour discussing the Macmillan care packages that I'd been researching. I didn't want my Dad going in a hospice, even less did I want him dying at a hospital. When we arrived at the Northern General Hospital, I'd prepared myself for the worse. And I'm pleased I did. He was on oxygen, the sepsis red spots were starting to appear on his arms and chest and his mane of grey hair that he treasured was starting to thin and fall out. The doctor took no time in ushering us to a room to deliver the news that there was nothing more they could do for him. Both myself and Liz asked about the Macmillan care package but the doctor stated it wouldn't be feasible with how quickly he was deteriorating. I asked the unthinkable question, "how long?" The answer - "if he makes 24 hours, he'll have done well".
My Dad lasted a further 13 hours and 40 minutes. He was with his wife, son, daughter, son in-law, sister, uncle and our close family friend when he passed. He looked peaceful, rested and more importantly, no longer in pain. Before he lost consciousness, I asked him whether he needed something for his pain and his voice, a barely audible whisper, said, "I'm fine." As a parent myself, I understand why he would never want us to know the true extent of his illness nor did he want to admit that he was crumbling inside. To your children, you are invincible and never show any fear even when deep down you're scared stiff. He was an incredibly proud man too; he shunned the idea of friends and family coming to see him as he was a shadow of himself towards the end. Even my Mum who spent 38 years with him didn't get to see him; my Dad simply didn't want her seeing how he'd become and how the cancer had taken his soul.
We honoured every one of my Dad's wishes for his funeral. It was held at the biggest crematorium in Sheffield, we played the songs that he'd chosen and we secured The Loyal Trooper for his wake exactly what he wanted. There were many people there whose lives had been enriched by my Dad whether it be through his passion for football, his love of cricket, or knowing him through the Anston community where he had a strong presence. My Dad told me that his two ambitions in 2017 was to give me away at my wedding and to watch England in the Ashes series in Australia this Christmas with my brother. My Dad missed my wedding by fifteen days and although he will never have physically got to Australia, my brother will be taking some of his ashes to spread there. A really fitting tribute to someone who was so desperate to get there.
In light of what has happened, my outlook on life has changed. Although I am still a staunch optimist, I am done with firm plans and prefer only to have loose plans; you never know when things might happen. Enjoy the time you spend with loved ones and don't wait for a special occasion to wear a new outfit or a new piece of jewellery, every day is a special occasion - even if it's the first Monday back at work after a holiday.
I will be forever grateful to the staff at Weston Park, The Royal Hallamshire and the Northern General Hospital where my Dad spent his final days. I have times where I feel frustrated and angry but we must accept that those doctors and nurses are human beings and they cannot get everything right. Science is forever advancing and we should be thankful that in generations to come, cancer may be cured.
25 days ago, my Dad lost his battle to cancer. He was only diagnosed on the 10th June this year. And we were told, he'd got one of the better cancers - cancer of the bladder where survival rate is 7 out of 10 patients. What they don't tell you is how weak, depressed and emotionally distressed you feel once you hear those dreaded words; "you've got cancer". My Dad was a real character, he was loud, brash, and his booming voice you could hear for miles. Once his diagnosis had been confirmed, he became introverted and sad. However, he never let down his guard, he always kept saying, once I start the chemo, I'll start to feel a lot better. Three sessions of radiotherapy later, he went for his first and last chemotherapy session. And after that, he just never recovered and seemed to be plagued with infections. In his own words, he kept taking one step forward & two steps back. He went into hospital for a few days at the end of July and throughout August, he was in & out of hospital as he couldn't seem to fight off the several infections he succumbed to. It transpired that an abscess had burst during the second stint in hospital in August and wasn't picked up in time, doctors were offering different points of view and ultimately, it impacted on his major organs as you simply cannot fight infections when you're trying to fight cancer.
I went to see my Dad in hospital at the end of August; although he seemed in good spirits and was extremely positive about my forthcoming wedding, he seemed to have lost his sparkle. The booming voice was broken and if you looked at him closely, you could see the lumps appearing in his lymph's, the cancer having spread viciously through his ravaged body. He was very philosophical; he knew that time was running out. He'd told me the songs he wanted playing for his funeral, where he wanted his wake to be held, he'd tell me about other patients that he'd met on the ward; his first question to them would always be "Wednesday or United?" At that time, he'd had a new catheter fitted, he seemed more excited about life in general and said he might even pop down to the rugby club to show his face. He was discharged on Thursday 31st August. He was back in by Sunday 3rd September having a procedure to fix the problem with his catheter. They let him home on the 7th September and for just over a week, he seemed to be mending. I actually felt a little relieved, my optimism was bubbling over as he just needed two weeks clear so he could start the chemo once more. We got ten days before I'd made my daily phone call to my Dad & my stepmum answered explaining that the sore throat that he'd been complaining about to me the previous ten days was causing breathing issues. My Dad had never had a sore throat so I knew deep down, the cancer had got him, and it was getting to him quick.
My stepmum was due to go to Gran Canaria to see her son, daughter in law & grand-daughter. On Tuesday morning, she confirmed to me that she wasn't going & that time was running out. I'd arranged to work from home for the rest of the week and so I travelled up to Sheffield on Wednesday lunchtime and sat with my stepmum for about half an hour discussing the Macmillan care packages that I'd been researching. I didn't want my Dad going in a hospice, even less did I want him dying at a hospital. When we arrived at the Northern General Hospital, I'd prepared myself for the worse. And I'm pleased I did. He was on oxygen, the sepsis red spots were starting to appear on his arms and chest and his mane of grey hair that he treasured was starting to thin and fall out. The doctor took no time in ushering us to a room to deliver the news that there was nothing more they could do for him. Both myself and Liz asked about the Macmillan care package but the doctor stated it wouldn't be feasible with how quickly he was deteriorating. I asked the unthinkable question, "how long?" The answer - "if he makes 24 hours, he'll have done well".
My Dad lasted a further 13 hours and 40 minutes. He was with his wife, son, daughter, son in-law, sister, uncle and our close family friend when he passed. He looked peaceful, rested and more importantly, no longer in pain. Before he lost consciousness, I asked him whether he needed something for his pain and his voice, a barely audible whisper, said, "I'm fine." As a parent myself, I understand why he would never want us to know the true extent of his illness nor did he want to admit that he was crumbling inside. To your children, you are invincible and never show any fear even when deep down you're scared stiff. He was an incredibly proud man too; he shunned the idea of friends and family coming to see him as he was a shadow of himself towards the end. Even my Mum who spent 38 years with him didn't get to see him; my Dad simply didn't want her seeing how he'd become and how the cancer had taken his soul.
We honoured every one of my Dad's wishes for his funeral. It was held at the biggest crematorium in Sheffield, we played the songs that he'd chosen and we secured The Loyal Trooper for his wake exactly what he wanted. There were many people there whose lives had been enriched by my Dad whether it be through his passion for football, his love of cricket, or knowing him through the Anston community where he had a strong presence. My Dad told me that his two ambitions in 2017 was to give me away at my wedding and to watch England in the Ashes series in Australia this Christmas with my brother. My Dad missed my wedding by fifteen days and although he will never have physically got to Australia, my brother will be taking some of his ashes to spread there. A really fitting tribute to someone who was so desperate to get there.
In light of what has happened, my outlook on life has changed. Although I am still a staunch optimist, I am done with firm plans and prefer only to have loose plans; you never know when things might happen. Enjoy the time you spend with loved ones and don't wait for a special occasion to wear a new outfit or a new piece of jewellery, every day is a special occasion - even if it's the first Monday back at work after a holiday.
I will be forever grateful to the staff at Weston Park, The Royal Hallamshire and the Northern General Hospital where my Dad spent his final days. I have times where I feel frustrated and angry but we must accept that those doctors and nurses are human beings and they cannot get everything right. Science is forever advancing and we should be thankful that in generations to come, cancer may be cured.
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