Chapter 5 - The New Year

I decided it was time to see a pulmonary specialist. I asked around and the same names kept coming up and we got an appointment pretty quickly. One of my biggest apprehensions was that these doctors would scoff at the course of treatment we had chosen and be very negative. My fears were allayed when we met Dr. Comp. He listened and took notes; then he wanted to see our test results. I showed him the x-rays and CAT scans from early October and then the final x-ray from Mexico. Charles and I were sitting in the examination room and the doctor was outside viewing the films. I heard him say "Oh, my God!". He could not believe the evidence of the progress from the Mexican treatment. So whether he believed in alternative medicine or not, the evidence was in front of his eyes.

We scheduled Charles for another bronchoscopy that same day; Dr. Comp’s colleague would perform the test. 

After several hours waiting outside the surgical unit, the Dr. came out, his face told the story - not good news. Charles’ airway was severely blocked by tumor; he was breathing through a space about the size of a drinking straw. The Dr. was as kind as he knew how to be; he admitted Charles immediately and said the only chance he had was to begin radiation therapy immediately and hope it would shrink the tumor enough to allow him to breathe. What was the alternative? Suffocation.

More panic; as soon as Charles was settled in his room and they took him downstairs for tests and radiation prep. I called Mexico to speak to Dr. Rique and thank God, he was available. I told him the story and asked about the radiation; he gave his approval and recommended higher doses of some supplements and addition of others. When Charles came back to his room I told him what I’d done; we were both still skeptical of the radiation. Once he knew that Dr. Rique said OK, he was fine with the idea. By now we had complete faith in our Mexican advisors. I also called Dr. Armold and got the same reaction, but they both were adamant about one thing: no chemotherapy. We agreed wholeheartedly.

From this point forward, the story becomes more difficult to tell, the details are more blurred in my memory. The radiation therapy was to go on for six weeks. Charles was in the hospital for a week or so and they began treatment with steroids to reduce the swelling from the radiation and to allow him to breathe more easily. He did feel better. 

He came home from the hospital and once again, we settled in with hope.  He was a strong man, we had a totally positive attitude; there was no reason in the world why we were not going to beat this thing.

During this entire time, I continued to work 8 hours a day. I can’t say much about my effectiveness, but I showed up and attempted to be productive. My boss and co-workers couldn’t have been more supportive.

Charles went to radiation treatment every week day.  Our wonderful neighbor, Larry  drove him over, waited for him and drove him home.  They would make a nice outing of it, get something to eat and because of the steriods Charles had to take, his appetite was huge, he was gaining a little weight back and his spirits were very good.  Several weeks passed; I came home one day and Charles said "Darlin’ we have to go to the hospital; every time I swallow something I start to cough. I’ve called the doctor and he wants me to come in." 

Why didn’t I know this was the beginning of the end? This is the part of the story I dread most; it’s the part I still can’t remember without tears and that terrible pain in my chest. 

Tests revealed that a hole had developed where the tumor had shrunk away from between the trachea and esophagus. Whatever Charles swallowed went into his lungs.

More doctors consultations, more specialists; no more radiation until the hole could heal. Could it heal? The radiation specialist was positive – don’t see why not. But in order for it to heal, Charles can’t swallow anything; he would have to use a feeding tube.

The memory of this is very dark, so I’ll try to get through it fast. They performed surgery to insert the tube into his stomach; I had to learn how to feed Charles through this tube with liquid food. But wouldn’t he be hungry? How could I eat when he couldn’t? It got worse. 

Within a week, the tube clogged; it was the stupidest thing I’d ever seen, it was a very skinny, flimsy little tube with a small opening - very difficult to use and it would leak.  A call to the surgeon who had installed it and another office visit. All my efforts to clear the tube had not worked, it had now been clogged for more than 12 hours ; Charles couldn’t even take in water. He was weak, stressed and disgusted, I was frantic.  At the doctor’s office, we thought we had gotten it clear; once home we quickly found out we hadn’t. Charles was very brave; I was more frantic. I called the doctor’s office back and we were scheduled for surgery the next day to replace the tube with a better one; another 18 hours where Charles could take in no nourishment or water. It was one of the most stressful times I've ever lived through.  Every muscle and nerve in me was on edge.  The next day, the technicians who installed the new tube told me they couldn’t figure out why the doctors ever used the first type anyway. This new tube was a huge improvement, but the procedure had been very painful for Charles; he was spent.

But unbelieveably, he was still optimistic. I remember that on the way home from the hospital, he was looking around at restaurants and remarking about how we would have to try this one or that one when he got better. I remember thinking what a great sign that was; I was hopeful again.

We lived in the family room. Charles needed a lot of equipment and things to be right within his reach, so the couch and coffee table was perfect. My routine was to get up a 4:00 am to start his morning "cocktail". What I haven’t mentioned until this point were the pills. Charles was taking about 60 pills a day: vitamins, immuno-stimulants, etc. How? Before the feeding tube, he just spaced them out over the day. Now I used a mortise and pestle to grind them up; 10, 12, 15 at a time, then I’d mix them in a nutritive base, put it all in the blender, strain it and put it through the tube, three times a day. By 5:30am, I was on my way to work, put in 8 hours, fly home, put down my purse and start again. By about 9:00pm, I would start the overnight feeding of the liquid food, so that he could get enough calories to sustain his needs.

But Charles had another infection; he had several in the last few months; Dr. Armold treated him with natural antibiotics and immuno-stimulants, but then reverted to the synthetic antibiotics. Charles’ body just couldn’t take them; he would get diarrhea and feel terrible. Finally, I just refused to give them to him anymore. 

That final weekend of March 16^th and 17^th, I spent making him organic carrot juice and brown rice water and following it with liquid acidophilus. I just kept pouring it in him and the diarrhea stopped. Unfortunately, on Monday morning, March 18^th so did his heart.

In these final few weeks, I had been "sleeping" on the floor of the living room. The only place Charles seemed to be comfortable was on the sofa in the family room and he couldn’t sleep at night, so he would watch TV - of all things, old reruns of "Combat". I kept asking him, "why don’t you let me get cable, at least you’d have a variety of things to watch". " No", he’d say "I don’t really watch it anyway".

Every day on my way to work, I would pray. Since the tube had become necessary, I was still hopeful, but there was an underlying dread. What if the hole in his trachea didn’t heal? Would he want to live his life like this? How long could he take this? Charles was a man of great dignity, this was an embarrassment to him. I prayed: "God, I don’t really believe this is his time, but if I’m wrong and it is his time, please take him quickly and take him now."

Charles’ pain had continued to increase in these months and I had to give him liquid morphine through that awful tube. The attacks would come on suddenly, especially at night; I had given Charles my crystal tea bell to ring because there were times when he had difficulty waking me if I was in one of my brief periods of sleep.

4:20am, March 18^th: the bell sounded and I jumped up and ran in, shaking all over. I had learned to have a syringe prepared so that all I had to do was put it in the tube opening and he could have speedier relief. The pain subsided; I rubbed his back. In the last 5 months, he just loved me to rub his back "you just don’t know how good that feels", he’d say. So I rubbed his back and just sat with him. It was 4:50 am, we had just looked at his watch. I was planning on calling in to work; I wasn’t comfortable leaving him today. Suddenly, Charles stiffened upright and backwards; his head went back and his eyes rolled backward. I was on my feet calling to him: "Charles, Charles, can you hear me? Tell me what’s happening, talk to me! Talk to me! Charles !"

There was no response. I disconnected the J-tube, laid him down on the couch and performed CPR. I needed to call 911, but I couldn’t stop CPR, could I? I ran for the phone. Frantic call: "My husband is in respiratory arrest, please send an ambulance".  I could hardly breathe. I just kept pumping and breathing into his mouth, but the air didn’t seem to be getting in. I just kept going.

The paramedics were there in about 4 minutes, as usual. I had not been able to feel a pulse; I reported that to them. Those wonderful men, they are obligated to continue resuscitation efforts unless there is a living will. I asked them not to resuscitate; told them we had talked about it. I knew he would not want to be revived.  Noticing Charles' emaciation, the supervisor asked me what was his illness. I told him lung cancer; he phoned the hospital for permission to discontinue resuscitation attempts. 

It was over. Just like that.

I reached for the phone and the paramedic supervisor asked me if I’d like him to make the calls for me; I said no, I needed to do this myself. I pushed the button for our friends Diane and Bill; it was about 5:05am. The next call was to my sister, Mary in New York. "Hi Mare, it’s me. I don’t have good news, it’s Charles, he’s gone". "This is terrible", she said and started to cry. More phone calls, having to find the courage to tell each one of them. It was over.

My strong, loving, rock that I leaned on was gone.

The months that followed are a blur. I went back to work after two weeks, thinking it would help. What a myth! The first time I walked into my building; it hit me like a ton of bricks: the last time I had entered that building, I had a husband, now he was gone forever.

I was a widow at 47. April 8^th, 21 days after Charles’ death would have been our second wedding anniversary. We had met when I was 36, I had never been married. Charles had been divorced for 2 years after a 22-year marriage. We both knew within a week of meeting each other that this was "it". This was what we had both been looking for. 

Now he was gone. This man whom I adored and who adored me was gone from the earth. Where was he, where had he gone, how on earth had this happened to us?

The rest of the story is one you’ve heard before, the depression, the thoughts of suicide. It is now compounded and complicated by the loss of my Mother to cancer on March 4^th of this year and the sudden, terrible loss of my brother, Jim, to a cerebral hemorrhage, 7 weeks later on April 23^rd. 

I would never have gotten through any of it without the continued support of our friends and family. Anytime I needed them, they were there, spending a weekend with us in Mexico, the money collected and donated by his friends at the car dealership, phone calls to see how everything was going, staying with me after his death; never letting me be by myself until I was ready.

Charles’ immediate family, brother, sister and niece were wonderful. Each one of them thanked me personally for taking such good care of their brother and uncle.

Some days I am hopeful and my newly strengthened spirituality carries me. Other days, it’s just too painful to think about. I took a 3-month leave of absence from work this summer and attended a 12-week Grief Recovery class. I saw a counselor weekly for several months.
 

Next:

• Epilogue 

The Previous Chapters:

• Chapter 1 - The Beginning 
• Chapter 2 - The Journey 
• Chapter 3 - The Mexican Experience 
• Chapter 4 - The Holiday Season