The Most Powerful Tragic Light

 [This post is from diary entries from last summer, when Frank was first diagnosed. It serves as context for the rest of this blog]

June 20, 2024
Frank has been in pain for six months now. He says it's from splitting wood all winter-long. I am worried, naturally. He saw his doctor a few weeks ago and blood tests are in the works. We receive a phone call this morning from Dr. F, a locum at the clinic. She is shaken by Frank's results, especially his prostate specific androgen (PSA) levels. We can hear it in her voice. She says she's never seen anything quite like it before. A PSA test result above 4 is concerning. Frank's is over 1700. He has excruciating bone pain; so much that he cries when he rises from his chair. "I'm confident to name what will eventually kill you," she says. A strange and abrasive way to phrase, "You are dying." He has prostate cancer. And, more than likely, it's metastic prostate cancer.

We are both numb, speechless. And Frank is still in unbearable pain.

June 22, 2024
Frank talks on the phone to a different friend every hour during the morning. He wants to share the news. He is deeply loved by his many friends. C arrives this afternoon from New Brunswick in his $150,000 Corvette. They've had a fifty-year friendship. "It didn't take long to get here," he smiles. I bet, I think, as I look out the front window to the car parked far too close to my front garden.

As always, Frank tells stories, some embellished, but mostly true, and they laugh and laugh. As C leaves, Frank weeps and says, "I love you, brother." He will visit again tomorrow. I have not offered tea or coffee to anyone yet. I have not baked or made food for anyone yet. This is usually my love language but I can't seem to focus on what needs to be done, what I have or don't have in the pantry. I want someone else to feed me. 

We danced together in the kitchen this morning to one of Frank's favourite songs. He shuffled in pain, singing softly, while I quietly wept. To share in the presence of someone's dying is to stand in the most powerful, tragic light. It feels like we are the only two people on earth right now. We are cocooned together, enfolded in the quiet that surrounds this little green house.

June 23, 2024
A hospital bed arrives this morning from the Red Cross. The palliative care team suggests that it will be easier for him right now and for when the time comes for his dying. The house is so small, the bed is so cumbersome, and I fret about it. The only place it will fit is in the mudroom. We laugh at the irony of this because the mudroom is a feature in the beginning story of our relationship. "We begin and end in the mudroom," he chuckles. He hasn't lost his dark sense of humour and I doubt he will. I pull out the light-weight duvet and try and make it comfortable for him. He is pleased but, as he always says, he would be happy in the forest in a tent with a dirt floor.

We are saying the long goodbye to each other. We have moments of gut-wrenching heartache. But it soon passes and the gratitude of this time together makes us forget the sorrow. It is sacred time. We have built a relationship that radiates calm, peace and, most of all, love. It is a place where we can be fully ourselves. It is one of Frank's legacies. Being in his orbit is like being enfolded in the warmest of blankets.

July 19, 2024
I crept into Frank's hospital bed last night and laying down, with my hip teetering on the edge, I placed my hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. This is my safe place. He is my nest.

It is 6 pm now and he sleeps. I've lit a fire to warm the house because it has been raining hard and a cold front has descended, bringing relief to the parched ground and tired plants. The profound quietness of this time, especially in the early mornings, has already left an indelible mark on me. A softness has entered me that I don't yet understand. 

August 10, 2024
Six weeks have come and gone since Frank's diagnosis. His palliative care team has been on-board since the beginning. They perfected his pain control almost immediately. A bone scan and CT scan has shown that the cancer has spread to his entire torso, spine, pelvis, both limbs and both arms. His cocktail of pain medication is immense but it works. He is virtually pain-free and is once again, slowly, mobile. It's been a month of quietly watching him gain more confidence with his living and dying. We talk endlessly about his death; what he wants, what he doesn't want, where he wants to die, how he wants to die. He is not afraid and lets everyone know. Most people he talks with are uncomfortable and most do not know how to react. But it doesn't stop him from talking. 

Rhubarb knows there is something different in the house. She is a very perceptive creature. She sits quietly on the end of my bed each morning, listening to the outside noises. Usually she will bark at an unfamiliar sound but these days she just perches, listens, as if holding space for me. I love her deeply. My soul dog. 

The day is always easier than the night. Frank cries at times, mostly about his deceased son; what could have been, the loss of legacy, the passing on of his skills and experience. He wonders what he will leave behind and what he will be remembered for. My list will be endless.