A Temporary Reprieve



Jeff presented with his company colors by his men.  
Jeff slept most of the time; I was at the hospital with him.  He was heavily medicated all of the time.  I don't think he was even aware that I was there.  Maybe he did because a couple of weeks before he died, he told me that his brothers and I were the only people in the world that cared about him.  So maybe he knew.

On weekends I would stay there until two or three in the morning.  It was, I guess, a death watch.  One of the cafeteria workers, an older lady, was always so concerned about him not eating.  Technically I suppose she had to leave the food, and when she would come back to pick up his untouched tray of food, she would get tears in her eyes.  She didn't really know exactly what his illness was.  One evening she asked me what was wrong with him.  "Terminal colon cancer."  She looked horrified, "How old is he?"  "Thirty-four."  "I'm so sorry; I knew it was something bad."  I tried to say something to her but couldn't; I would have broken down."  I just nodded my head.  After that night, she would come in and just look at me with a sad look and leave.  She did ask me if she could get me anything several times, but I told her I was okay.  I had my standard-issue, life crisis bottle of Dr. Pepper in the 1.24-liter size to hold me over.  I really wasn't eating much; at work, I would get a sandwich because I was light-headed and tired, and that would hold me over until the next day.

Occasionally, Jeff would be awake or would wake up, but he was always out of it.  I think that may have been a good thing for him as far as keeping him calmer.  He required more and more amounts of pain killers.  When they would begin to wear off, he could become borderline out of control.  He could get loud and act outrageously.  Those were tough times for me, trying to remain calm, trying to not say anything to upset him, and trying to comfort him.  Sometimes he thought he was anyplace, but in a hospital room, didn't know what was wrong with him, or would just say crazy things about what he was going to do in the future.  What future?  That killed me.

He had refused chemo early on because he was afraid his hair would fall out.  "Jeff, you wear your hair so short anyway that should not even worry you."   In reality, it would not have helped much, both sides of his liver had cancer in them, and one in every four lymph nodes were cancerous.  It may have eased his pain minutely, but he was adamant about not using it.  My opinion is that they should have been more insistent on giving him the treatments, but they weren't.  One Friday evening, his doctor did order it.  He was so debilitated by then that I was concerned about it killing him.

The night that they gave Jeff the chemo, I stayed with him all night.  He was frail before they even started it; his voice was just a whisper.  A nurse remained in the room all night and monitored him.  His heart rate dropped extremely low; it had been over a hundred for a long time and fell to fifty-something.  When she told me, it scared me.  He looked like he wasn't going to make it.  When she said that he had heard her and asked her if he was going to die.  His eyes were closed, but his mouth whispered the words.  I had to quietly walk out of the room for a few minutes; I had promised not to cry in front of him, not to ever let him see my pain or make him think that I had no hope.  His numbers stayed abnormal for several hours, and he never said another word.  I was afraid that it was going to be the end.  All night long, the nurse gave me his readings.  She said if he could make it just a little longer that he might improve for a while.  It was a very long, nerve-racking night.  When the new shift came on in the morning and took over, his numbers started improving.  A little at a time.  When he woke up, he asked what happened; he said he felt okay,, he wasn't hurting as much.  I can't explain it, it seems impossible, but he was better for about four days.  He couldn't eat, but his pain level was lower, and he was able to drink milkshakes and melted Frosties for a few days.  He wasn't talking crazy; he was almost the old Jeff again.  Almost.

This would be the calm before the storm.




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