My cousin Don is dying of cancer. Stage 4 liver cancer. A big ole tumor is tied around a pathway that allows bile to leave the liver through the bladder. This complex connection involves liver, bladder and pancreas and is therefore inoperable. They tried to insert a stint down through his throat to expand the pathway, but it was so restricted by the tumor that another method to release the bile was used. They went in through his side using local anesthetic to insert a tube. The bile drips into a bag he has safety pinned to his T-shirt.
He is 65 this year, same age as me at about six months younger. He’s okay with dying and expects heaven to be another place he just walks into. Great attitude, when facing terminal words when talking with the doctors. Terminal seems so final, inpersonal, cut and dried. A person’s life should represent more than that simple word.
In a recent visit we looked at Don’s meager possessions and couldn’t help but notice the million things that need help. Dusting and cleaning to mention a few. A leather chair and ottoman with torn seats piled in a spare room along with other items once useful, now in some sort of broken disuse. Clothes folded neatly on a shelf. A glance into the closet that didn’t have any hangers.
Don lost a lot of weight. It seems when the bile can’t escape the body, the appetite disappears and really you lose track of when you were eating. I imagine his clothes really don’t fit him anymore. I brought him a bathrobe, sweats and T-shirt not really knowing what he would need. He was so genuinely appreciative. I hadn’t seen Don in several years and had little understanding what we would encounter when visiting a dying person.
I wondered where he was getting food. He said under normal circumstances he went down to the Salvation Army about a block away for a hot meal once a day. Some folks in his apartment gave him a ride to the local food bank. The near-by Safeway has closed, but there is a small shop he can buy a few things. I’m not sure when or where he gets his food as he is too weak to walk anywhere.
I’m guessing his towels and linens need washing. However, with limited disability funds from the government I doubt that it was an easy choice to buy a pack of cigarettes for $5 bucks instead of laundry soap and quarters to run the washer down the hall. I can’t remember that I ever gave a box of dish or laundry soap to any of the many local food drives.
It seemed that Don had quit smoking or maybe was too weak to walk out and get a pack of cigarettes. His apartment smelled fresh the day we visited even before he sprayed some air freshener. The remains of years of excessive smoking linger on the walls, chairs, slats of the shutters and on the peripheral piano keys that aren’t worn clean from use as much as the middle ones.
Don said he would like to play for us, but the lady on the floor below is ill and he didn’t want to disturb her. The music he was composing rests on the piano stand crisp and neat. The pride he takes to meticulously hand write in the notes on the staff paper is amazing. This one area of neatness is so apparent compared to so many other areas of neglect. I hope someday to hear this music played.
I asked if he needed anything. He shrugged in an independent way that a person would who has managed for himself for so many years. Finally, he asked if Stan could take a look at his vacuum. Stan fiddled with it a bit, plugged it in, turned it on with a great flurry of dust then back off. Don found him a phillips head screwdriver. He went to work doing what comes so natural to him, assessing the problem and digging in to fix it up. When he opened the vacuum the broken fan belt just lay inside the machine. Luckily there was another in a little compartment on the cover to the bottom of the vacuum. Stan pulled out wads of dust from the hose. Plugged it back in. The cloud of dust increased as the now the rotary beating pounded around. He opened it up at the top and picked out more wads of dust. This was pretty good considering he had no tools and doesn’t particularly like to get his hands dirty. A couple more times of start and stop and the tubes were clean on this Oreck. A new bag, which Don found, made the vacuum good as new.
I made a quick run at the carpet going around the pull out sofa bed in the living room. I noticed a spare console TV, probably long since useful. The smaller TV on the end table was working. I couldn’t help my emotions as I vacuumed, not at Don, but at systems created by our government that allow rent to be paid like a clock each month to apartment owners in the name of welfare for the needy, but no real care to determine if carpets need replaced, cleaned or extra guidance required. Don said they did allow cleaning every so often.
I just had to stop, put the vacuum away and call it a day. There are so many things wrong with our system of welfare to care for the disabled and still allow years of marginal care to result in such degradation of humanity.