bittersweet symphony.. *depressing post ahead*
There's nothing like spending time with a dying man to make you snap out of twenty something self-absorbtion.
Not something I usually talk about here.. too close to home maybe. Plus I know I wouldn't want to read it. Yet sunday was simultaneously one of the most beautiful yet heartbreaking days of my entire life.
My dad's best friend was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer over easter. Sadly I know too much about this particular type of tumour. It killed one of my best mate's friends when they were only 16. Basically the majority of people don't survive. Median survival from diagnosis is 12 weeks.
My uncle chris is one of the most amazing people i've ever met. He met my dad when they were at uni together in the 70s, went through med school together, then travelled overseas, and even had kids at around the same time as my brother and I. One of my earliest memories is of this man literally saving my brother's life. I was about 3.
For any scrubs fans out there chris and my dad are in many ways a real life JD and Turk. Chris was the surgeon. Tough bastard, used to drink hard, live hard, party hard, but one of the most intelligent and sensitive men I've ever met. Loves art, poetry, music, and above all worships his wife and kids.
He had a massive stroke that nearly killed him over the easter long weekend. I came home to find my dad in tears one night. Third time i remember seeing him crying in my life. Yet being the tough bastard he is it looked like chris was going to make a full recovery, he came through open brain surgery, being in a coma for days, was lucid, talking, and most importantly still himself.
On the 24th of April the diagnosis of the tumour was made. Nobody expected him to live more than a month or two given how massive the stroke was and the size/position of the tumour. The worst part for awhile was that the tumour affected his short-term memory yet left his longterm memory essentially unaffected, meaning that for weeks he didn't remember that he was dying. In a way it made it easier to spend time with him- as for him he still vividly remembered my dad and my family so it was more like catching up with an old, much loved friend. There were heartbreaking moments though, as he started to plan his return to work (he was a professor at my uni).
But now- so much harder. Months on and he's still with us, physically fine.. yet having to come to terms with his own death with a brain that doesn't work the way it used to.
Sunday was the last time I saw him. We went to the art gallery, it was a gorgeous sydney day, free music was on.. and for a few hours all was well. I'd been warned that he'd been very depressed of late, but he wasn't nearly as bad as i'd feared. But towards the end of the afternoon my father and I went for a walk with him outside and sat on the grass.
He asked my dad perhaps the hardest questions I've ever seen someone face: whether he should end it all, how dad thought his family were coping, and whether the depression would lift.
He said to me a long time ago that my father's one of the only doctors he trusts, as a friend and as a man. The thing that killed me the most was when my dad asked him whether he still enjoyed music. His words were "no, that bit has a hole in it now". The thing that almost makes it the hardest is to look at him you wouldn't know anything was wrong with him. Yet those that love him are watching him slowly losing the ability to enjoy everything he loved in life. I can't begin to imagine how terrifying it would be, yet the problem with this disease is nobody has any idea how or when it will end.
I'll cut this. Depressing post I know.
Not something I usually talk about here.. too close to home maybe. Plus I know I wouldn't want to read it. Yet sunday was simultaneously one of the most beautiful yet heartbreaking days of my entire life.
My dad's best friend was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer over easter. Sadly I know too much about this particular type of tumour. It killed one of my best mate's friends when they were only 16. Basically the majority of people don't survive. Median survival from diagnosis is 12 weeks.
My uncle chris is one of the most amazing people i've ever met. He met my dad when they were at uni together in the 70s, went through med school together, then travelled overseas, and even had kids at around the same time as my brother and I. One of my earliest memories is of this man literally saving my brother's life. I was about 3.
For any scrubs fans out there chris and my dad are in many ways a real life JD and Turk. Chris was the surgeon. Tough bastard, used to drink hard, live hard, party hard, but one of the most intelligent and sensitive men I've ever met. Loves art, poetry, music, and above all worships his wife and kids.
He had a massive stroke that nearly killed him over the easter long weekend. I came home to find my dad in tears one night. Third time i remember seeing him crying in my life. Yet being the tough bastard he is it looked like chris was going to make a full recovery, he came through open brain surgery, being in a coma for days, was lucid, talking, and most importantly still himself.
On the 24th of April the diagnosis of the tumour was made. Nobody expected him to live more than a month or two given how massive the stroke was and the size/position of the tumour. The worst part for awhile was that the tumour affected his short-term memory yet left his longterm memory essentially unaffected, meaning that for weeks he didn't remember that he was dying. In a way it made it easier to spend time with him- as for him he still vividly remembered my dad and my family so it was more like catching up with an old, much loved friend. There were heartbreaking moments though, as he started to plan his return to work (he was a professor at my uni).
But now- so much harder. Months on and he's still with us, physically fine.. yet having to come to terms with his own death with a brain that doesn't work the way it used to.
Sunday was the last time I saw him. We went to the art gallery, it was a gorgeous sydney day, free music was on.. and for a few hours all was well. I'd been warned that he'd been very depressed of late, but he wasn't nearly as bad as i'd feared. But towards the end of the afternoon my father and I went for a walk with him outside and sat on the grass.
He asked my dad perhaps the hardest questions I've ever seen someone face: whether he should end it all, how dad thought his family were coping, and whether the depression would lift.
He said to me a long time ago that my father's one of the only doctors he trusts, as a friend and as a man. The thing that killed me the most was when my dad asked him whether he still enjoyed music. His words were "no, that bit has a hole in it now". The thing that almost makes it the hardest is to look at him you wouldn't know anything was wrong with him. Yet those that love him are watching him slowly losing the ability to enjoy everything he loved in life. I can't begin to imagine how terrifying it would be, yet the problem with this disease is nobody has any idea how or when it will end.
I'll cut this. Depressing post I know.