Why he thought to tell me the story then, sharing dinner al fresco amid a dozen strangers, I do not know.
What I do know is that part of this support I give him is to listen.
No matter how sad it is, no matter how much it makes my heart break or my stomach churn, I want him to be able to unload some of the stress, pain, and helplessness that come with being a doctor.
He starts with the man’s struggle.
There was nothing left to do. All the treatments had been tried. All the surgeries had been performed.
But whatever disease had hold of him, it would not be beaten.
This is the worst part of my husband’s – of any doctor’s – job.
To give up. To say, there’s nothing more we can do. To say, go home and wait to die.
* * * * *
There’s this scene in Friday Night Lights where Julie is upset about a death. She collapses onto the couch next to her father, and, without saying a word about what’s hurting her so deeply, begins to cry.
Her father, Eric, wraps her up in his arms and kisses her head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
I’m all teary on the couch next to my husband, which makes me uncomfortable. (For an emotional person, I hate showing emotion sometimes.)
“My dad would just say something like, ‘everyone dies,’” I tell my husband. “Which is not comforting at all.”
“It’s true though,” Husband says. “Everybody dies.”
My father – like my husband – has always been very matter of fact about life and death.
I suppose you have to be, to deal with it every day.
The thing is, I’m a relatively intelligent woman. I know that everybody dies. I know this.
But I still want to hear those close to me deny it. To say, “I’ll be here forever.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “Don’t worry, that won’t happen to me.”
I am not deluding myself into thinking it’s the truth. But I want to hear it anyway.
* * * * *
I’m looking sympathetically at my husband, over the hummus and pita we’re eating. To have exhausted your options, to know this patient you tried your hardest to save is not going to make it after all… It must feel so hopeless. So pointless.
But he’s not finished with his story.
He tells me that the man won’t go home.
This poor guy – nothing’s working, but he won’t give up. He wants the doctors to pull out all the stops. He wants them to keep treating him, keep reviving him, keep him alive.
No. Matter. What.
And this is a familiar story. One my husband struggles with frequently.
When you’re a doctor and you see exactly how futile the treatments are, you can see that going home and preparing for death is the best thing to do.
But when you’re a patient, or a patient’s spouse or child or sibling, I would guess it’s damn near impossible to accept that there’s really nothing left to do. I can’t imagine not wanting to spend ten bajillion dollars to keep my husband alive, even for just five more minutes.
* * * * *
My father tells me he doesn’t want anyone to be sad at his funeral. He wants us to play the Rolling Stones.
I try to hold back tears. He’s one of the four people in the world I don’t think I can exist without.
“Which album?” I tease him, trying to keep it light.
“Oh that doesn’t matter,” he says. “And Jimi Hendrix, too.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I say. “But we’re not going to need that for many years yet.”
I’m shivering a little, willing myself not to cry. The fact is, I know that “many years” is not a guarantee. In the past three years, I said goodbye to an aunt and a close family friend – both younger than my parents.
“I hope so,” my dad says. “I’m not planning on dying any time soon.”
* * * * *
My husband is still talking.
I can tell this man’s story really affected him.
This patient is different somehow.
He’s not clawing at life for himself. He’s doing it for his daughter.
She is getting married in a few weeks.
And my husband’s patient cannot miss her wedding.
* * * * *
My husband – then boyfriend – went hiking with my father in the summer of 2006.
They hiked for something like nine miles, up a mountain, while I worked and my mother painted.
It was a hot summer day – mid 80 degrees, cloudless sky, no breeze.
They left at around 7:00 in the morning.
Although this was the first time they’d spend so many hours alone together, one-on-one, I wasn’t worried.
My father – both parents – love my husband.
He is very much like my father. They share the same dry sense of humor. The same quiet confidence. The same gentle hearts.
They even practice medicine the same way – full out, with compassion and kindness, but with the practical knowledge that medicine is not a cure-all, that doctors are not omnipotent, that death is a part of life.
I thought they’d have plenty to talk about.
I was done with work by 3:30, and still no sign of them.
My imagination started playing tricks. What if my husband had fallen? What if my father had a heart attack? What if they’d crossed paths with a hungry bear?
I was stuck where I was, with no car, waiting for them to come pick me up.
I tried their cell phones. But the mountains have notoriously bad service. No answer.
So I sat down, rebooted my computer, and tried to concentrate on projects I had for the following week.
By the time they showed up, I had worked myself into quite the frenzy.
Everyone was accounted for. My husband and father were dusty and sunburned. They’d had an exhausting hike.
Months later, I found out that my husband had waited until they’d come down from the mountain, breathing heavily, sweating like pigs, too tired to move… and then he’d asked my father’s permission to marry me.
The tale of that hike is my father’s favorite story.
* * * * *
When they found out that their patient was delaying the inevitable out of desperation to see his daughter get married, my husband and his team had to do something.
So my husband made some calls.
And he set up a little impromptu wedding at his patient’s bedside.
The daughter and her fiancé got to say their vows to each other, in front of a pastor, in the presence of her father.
* * * * *
I remember waiting in the stairway of the little chapel in the mountains with my father. I am fussing with my veil and putting on a last coat of lip gloss and telling my dad I am so nervous.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about!” he says.
As we’re walking down the aisle, I’m a mess of emotions. My husband is there, the windows at his back, sun streaming in. All our loved ones and friends are crowded into the pews.
I’m gripping my dad’s arm so hard my knuckles are white. I clutch at him, unsure of myself, afraid I’ll fall, afraid of taking this final step into adulthood..
He’s this calm presence beside me. Steady, confident, and proud.
Just like he’s been for my whole life. Confident that I can do anything, from riding horses to skiing to attending the best school in the country – he’s been there, to guide me when I didn’t know my way, to hold me up when I was in danger of falling, to cushion me with love and pride no matter which path I took.
When we get to the end of the aisle, to where my future is waiting, my father takes my hand from his arm and transfers it to my sweet husband.
And then he gives me this gentle but firm push forward.
Away from him. Into the arms of the man who will care for me and love me and provide for me for many years after my father is gone.
* * * * *
My husband’s patient went home the day after his daughter’s impromptu wedding ceremony.
He was finally at peace, having performed the last responsibility of a father.
He died the next day.
Whoa. Beautiful and sad and… life. (Deep thoughts from me this morning.) But really, this is beautifully written. Thanks for sharing.
Tears, oh the tears.
That was such a beautiful an amazingly well written post. Thank you.
Oh sweet lady…
That was amazing. What an amazing tribute to the amazing men in your life… absolutely wonderful.
And for the record – you are an absolutely captivating writer. It is like nothing I have read before 🙂
You’re making me cry!!
My fiance’s father died when he was 9 and so I always beg T not to die and leave me. He humours my and tells me he isn’t going anywhere. It’s one of my biggest fears.
I love that you have such a wonderful relationship with your dad. 🙂
So precious. You are so blessed to have a wonderful Daddy, AND a great husband.
This is such a beautifully written and heartfelt story, and you had me crying over my keyboard.
Darn you and your beautiful writing, I am crying like a total moron.
I want to be cremated. Death is a hard, hard, thing.
What an amazing tribute to the men in your life and father’s everywhere. I love the story of the hike.
Tugging. Heart Strings. Love it!!!!
Oh, wow…what a wonderful tribute to your father and your husband. And I teared up at the walking down the aisle part…I’m going to be there in 3 months, and I know I’ll be feeling all of those same emotions.
Such a beautiful post!
This is such a sweet, but also heart-wrenching post. You wrote it beautifully, and my sappy self is crying. What’s new? I hate that your husband has to go through all of that in his day to day work, but I also love that he and his colleagues pulled through to give this man what he wanted so much. Love the story about the hike. Very sweet and I hope you and your husband had a very wonderful father’s day together.
me, along with everyone else, totally bawled like a baby after reading this.
Seriously amazing, well written, and beautiful.
thank you for sharing. you are brilliant and I loved this.
Wow, I am choking back my tears right now. Your husband and your dad both sound like very amazing men. Great job writing this; thank you.
Oh my goodness. I just found your blog …. covered in goose-bumps and tingles. You are amazing. Amazing.
oxoxo
Denalee
Like Denalee above me, I have goosebumps. And tears in my eyes.
So sad… and truly how amazing to have such a relationship with your father… neither of my parents are stable enough to really have fostered any sort of healthy relationship with me… so although I’m touched to hear stories like yours, it all seems so foreign to me… like an idea from a fairty tale, you know something like one day I might kiss a frog and he’ll turn into a prince, in my world that goes right along with one day my father might remember my birthday – a pretty thought, and a nice story, but we all know fairy tales aren’t true… it’s strange how for each of us our current existence becomes normal and we cant imagine anything different… you can’t imagine your life without your father, your husband’s patient can’t imagine death without walking his daughter down the aisle, and I can’t imagine a healthy thriving relationship with my father….
Beautiful stories, beautifully written!
Just lovely.
Yesterday was the second year anniversary of my dad’s passing. I knew it would fall on Father’s Day sooner or later. It was a hard day for me.
Working in the medical field can be so difficult! Sometimes I don’t think I can handle some of the stressors that it brings… but then I think that there could be someone else here in my place that wouldn’t be doing as good a job, who might not show the same compassion or understanding. And if I were in opposite roles I’d want the best taking care of me. Your husband sounds like a wonderful doctor and man…
What a great tale about someone who went the extra mile to have a dying father’s wish come to life.
PS. I love Friday Night Lights
Wow. Great story. Poetic.
It WAS an awesome tribute. (I didn’t mean to sound rude above it I was!)
This is the first blog post I’ve ever read that made me actually shed tears.
We are all bound by mortality. If only more people realized it, the world might be a better place.
Loved it, the end of course, got me!
Wow lady…I can see why you do this for a living. That was beautiful!
This was amazing. What a beautifully written piece.
This story brought more than a few tears to my eyes. I can’t even imagine what that man was going through, it’s heartbreaking. It’s so incredible that they were able to get married with him there. Thank you for this touching story. It’s so true about how we all feel about death. We know it’s inevitable, but I still don’t want to imagine it for my loved ones or myself.
I’ve also heard countless stories of my husband’s patients coming to the end of their lives. He says it never gets any easier to inform the family, it never seems right. I cry every single time he tells me these stories. Not because I know the patient, I don’t. But because I can imagine the heartbreak the family must be feeling. Thank you for this amazing story.
Valerie
You’re so lucky to have such a great father and husband and writing ability – thanks for sharing all three.
This post gave me goosebumps! I’m glad the father got to see his daughter get married before he passed away. Such a sad story. I love your writing.
I found your site recently, and have been working my way through your archives. Hopefully you’ll still see/get notified of this comment 🙂 But I just had to comment!
This entry was soooo sad and sweet and well written!
My husbands parents passed away a few years before we got married and I’m sad that our future kids will never know them.