Remember that scene in “Jaws” when the Captain is sliding into the shark’s mouth? They’ve battled all afternoon but the shark has won, it chewed up part of the boat and the ship’s going down and the Captain can’t escape. All he can do is slide right into the great white shark’s jaws. He gets in a few punches on his way down, but they don’t amount to much.
It reminds me of the nature shows when the lion gets the deer, whose thrashing has proven futile. The deer, the seal, the turtle, the fish - they all die. Somehow the worst part is watching them watch themselves. I always wonder if they realize they’re being eaten.
My father-in-law is dying of cancer. And the doctors, who ignored his symptoms of pain for over a year, who told him he just had kidney stones, who treated him like he’d become a drug addict when he went to the ER over and over again – they’re all of a sudden really interested in documenting his illness.
They couldn’t see it before. But now they can. Now that it’s spread to his liver and his lungs and there’s no hope, no point.
In fact, now they can look at the old x-rays from the many, many hospital visit and see it there, too. Hiding in plain sight.
And … I just don’t see the point. The oncologist makes the next appointment. To discuss options (there are none) and prognosis (you’re dying).
But let’s do a scan, the doctor says. Let’s do another scan. We did one last week, let’s do one next week.
I used to think if I had a terminal illness, I’d want to tell people. Because I’d want their support and love, and I wouldn’t want them to be shocked by my death.
I don’t think so anymore. It’s dreadful, watching someone you love slide into the shark’s mouth, being completely helpless to stop it.
My father-in-law had a stroke. It followed the pneumonia, which came about a week after the first round of chemotherapy. He had rehabilitation and can walk and talk again – and drive. He’s driving. His son objects. I asked him if he had his physician’s permission. He doesn’t want to discuss it. He’s stubborn.
And there’s still the unfinished business. The imperfect relationships, all around. He’s going to die with a million loose ends, even given the advance warning. Because impending death hasn’t given him any new tools with which to deal with life. That’s movie fiction.
I keep thinking we should be doing something significant - I should pull the kids out of school to spend his last days with him. Except it would completely backfire. Two hours with them is about his limit.
So all I have to give is ordinary days and sporadic visits and phone calls where I try not to sound falsely enthusiastic. “How ARE you?” gets old. On one of his hospitalizations he counted 67 times he’d been asked that question.
I think he’s why I adopted two kittens the other day. Even though I’m terribly allergic to them. Their liveliness is a delight.