Writing about Ken's cancer here was difficult for a few reasons. First and foremost, he didn't want to plaster the news all over social media because he didn't want complete strangers reaching out. So we created a Facebook group for our family, friends, and coworkers. It was there where he and I most often posted about things. Funny enough, the man was so well-loved, that group had over 100 members. I made my first post there on February 6, 2021, and pinned it to the top of the page for newcomers to acquaint themselves with his story.
In a nutshell, after several tests culminating in a PET scan, Ken had been diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. The cancer was in the tail end of the pancreas and had spread to his liver and lymph nodes.
My memories of the month or so it took us to get from the agony he experienced on New Years Day to a diagnosis are a bit chaotic for the most part. A few things stand out. First, I remember him walking downstairs crying when he found out about the masses on his liver and me struggling to come up with any explanation other than cancer. Then, a week later, I remember sitting in the little room at our family doctor's office, holding his hand, while the doctor read us the lab results for the bloodwork that all but guaranteed it was, in fact, cancer. Next, I recall sitting in the parking lot outside the GI specialist's office when Ken gave me the good news about the colonoscopy results, the first bit of good news we had had since the New Year. The worst memory I have is hearing about how high the pancreatic cancer marker numbers were; I cried and cried while he held me on the couch. We didn't have a confirmed diagnosis from the oncologist yet but those numbers told us all we needed to know. Sitting in the oncologist's office and listening to them discuss their findings and a plan of attack was difficult, too, but by then we had had time to ingest the probability of his diagnosis. We fully expected them to tell us is was pancreatic cancer at that time but finding out it was in the lymph nodes as well as the liver was a blow.
We had so many conversations after his diagnosis. Some had to do with what to tell our boys and how. Many, once that task was handled, focused on what life without him in it might look like for me and the kids. These discussions were so necessary. Painful but necessary. How could we not have them? No matter how well this round of chemotherapy went, we were well aware there is no cure for pancreatic cancer. Even if he could put it into remission for a few years, it would be back. His time with us would be limited. He wanted to prepare us as best he could. He wanted - no, needed - to know we could function without him.
He made me promise to eat more than just cereal and frozen pizza for dinner.
He showed me how to change the filter in the furnace.
He told me I'd have to leave the broken old grill on the back deck because there was no shut-off valve for the direct propane line from our tank.
He showed me how to operate the mower on the John Deere.
Those are just a few examples of the many things we talked about and the instructions I received. I knew what he wanted me to do with a portion of the life insurance money should he pass. I've done all of them but one. The only thing left to do is to get a big dog for protection. I opted not to do that right now. Instead, I gave my son and his girlfriend permission to bring home a big dog of their own, one they will be taking with them when they eventually move out and get a place of their own.
Those experiences and discussions were the second reason I found it so difficult to write about things as they transpired. I was overwhelmed. I was struggling to hold myself together when everything seemed to be falling apart.
It is so damned hard to be positive in the face of a terminal disease.
It's even harder to watch someone you love suffer. No amount of care and comfort could overcome the ravages of this dreadful disease. Getting him to eat was a challenge not only because of the chemotherapy but because pancreatic cancer interferes with the body's ability to produce the necessary enzymes needed to properly break down solids and liquids.
It got a bit easier, though, to be optimistic when we were getting promising biweekly cancer marker updates. He was responding so well to chemotherapy! The cancer marker numbers were dropping exponentially treatment after treatment. In the beginning, they were over 500,000. When he passed away, they were down to 350.
So what happened then? If the numbers continually dropped, why isn't he still here with us? I'm no doctor, so I can't explain what happened inside his body. I can only tell you what happened in his last few days.
He ended up with pancreatitis at the end of April 2021. He was hospitalized twice for it and sent home. During his pancreatitis flare-ups, he developed ascites, which, in really simple terms, means he had fluid on the stomach. By the time we got him down to one of the better university hospitals in our home state, he was in really bad shape. He had lost so much weight he looked skeletal. His cognitive abilities were severely impaired. In his confusion, he couldn't remember his birthday or say who the President of the United States was. He was jaundiced and incredibly bloated with fluid from the waist down.
The hospital drained some of the fluid off his stomach in hopes of alleviating his pain and had it tested for infection and cancer cells. I don't know if there were cancer cells. They never mentioned it but they did confirm there was a great deal of infection. They also told me he was at end-of-life care and advised me to set up hospice care at home for him.
I will admit I was stunned. In my naivete, I expected them to get the infection under control, get the fluid drained, and maybe put him on a feeding tube. I thought he'd be hospitalized for a week or so, and then, like the times before, I'd pick him up and bring him home. I thought this was just another temporary, if thoroughly terrifying, setback. I didn't think he was dying.
I was wrong. Within two days, he was gone and our hospice plans never came to fruition. He never made it home again.
Luckily, the boys, their girls, and our grandson got to visit Ken in the hospital before he passed. They got to talk to him and say their I-love-yous. I think there were hugs and kisses, too. I'm sure there were.
I am grateful for that fact. It was a blessing the hospital let them in despite the fact that COVID was once more on the rise. Special accommodations were made for them and I will always hold that institution in the highest regard for their compassion during those horrible days.
I'm also very thankful I was able to stay with him overnight. It was a terrible night, one that has, quite frankly, given me nightmares, but I was there for him when he needed me most. He did not die alone. I was there with him, taking care of him as best I could, until he took his last breath. I will never forget that moment or the heartbreak I felt. It is etched into my mind, heart, and soul.
He was my love. I was blessed to have built a life with him and will do my best to take care of the treasures he left me.
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