My stepdad was diagnosed with liver cancer on October 4, 2013. The oncologist told him that he might live 4 to 6 years with treatment. My family was optimistic, and we prayed and hoped for my stepdad as he underwent two surgical radiation procedures and oral chemo.
He was dead eight months later.
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I don't remember the details of the first time I met my stepdad. Most of it is an incomplete memory, shadowy with portions of lightness from what my mom and my stepdad told me years later about that day. They met at a park in Storm Lake for us to have a picnic; I was five and my brother was seven. My stepdad would recall how shy I was, staying close behind my mom's legs, my hair likely in pigtails. My mom usually mentions how nervous she was to have him meet my brother and me for the first time. Her nerves were not because she was afraid that he would like us -- she was sure of it -- but that we would like him, our soon-to-be stepfather. They both could recall the feelings of that day and how we looked and acted with each other. All I remember from that day was a piece of playground equipment that was in the shape of Yogi the Bear. I don't remember riding it, just seeing it across the park. To this day, I still think of my stepfather whenever I see Yogi the Bear. The two will forever be linked in my mind: my Jerry...and Yogi the Bear.
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My parents almost made it to their 29-year-wedding anniversary; my stepfather passed away just six weeks before they could celebrate together. I had always assumed they would make it to their 30th anniversary; my mom always planned for a huge celebration together. Since their marriage started later in life for them -- a second marriage for both that came to them when they were in their 30s -- my mom seemed to think that they wouldn't celebrate their 50th anniversary together. I think she always assumed that the 30-year-anniversary was a shoo-in, an easy feat to accomplish with both of them being in their 60s and in relatively good health. No one anticipated the cancer.
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When my stepdad was diagnosed with cancer, I avoided reading statistics about liver cancer survival rates and life expectancy. It wasn't until after he had had his second surgical radiation treatment that I began to read the statistics, and then I couldn't stop reading. By then it was apparent that the cancer and radiation were affecting more than just his liver. He was still my Jerry, but his memory and sense of humor started to be overshadowed by his liver's inability to process the toxins in his body. During the last few months of his life, it was horrifying to watch his personality and his quick wit fade away and be replaced with confusion and quietness. The weight loss and shutting down of his body seemed less meaningful compared to the loss of his being. During the last few weeks of his life, there would still be moments where my Jerry would glimmer through. A subtle joke or soft chuckle; his toes tapping as we listened to The Beatles. Sometimes I would sit next to him, my fingers laced with his, and think about the times I held his hand when I was a kid. His hands were always large and strong, dark hair on his knuckles. As I got older, I didn't hold his hand as much, but I would lean into him to feel his strength and sturdiness. When I came home from college and later during my adult life, I would wedge myself next to him on the couch. He was always warm and sturdy. Toward the end, during those last few weeks, I had to be careful not to lean on him as he was so frail. I made sure to hold his hand loosely, so as not to bruise or damage his weak hands.
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One of the last weekends I was home before he passed away, after they had stopped treatment and told him that he had just a few months left to live (and ended up being only seven weeks), I sat inside with him. We watched through the living room window as my mom swept the front porch. Initially it was just me talking to him, rambling on about nothing, trying to fill the air around us with words that might make time stretch longer for him and me. He was easily confused at that point, and his comments often didn't make sense. He had a burst of clarity and suddenly started talking about his mom, who had died shortly after my parents married, and his dad, who died when he was ten. He told me about all the things that he missed and loved about them, the important things that his father had taught him. He paused for a minute, and I thought that he had drifted to sleep. But his grasp tightened on my hand as he asked, "What did I teach you?" Caught off-guard, it took me a minute to respond. How can you summarize in just a few words all that your father has taught you? And I tried. I tried to capture the little moments and the monumental lessons that I carry with me close to the heart. From the proper way to hold a baseball card to riding a bike to the importance of making sure I had enough oil and gas in my car before going on a date, there were the small lessons. But the two that I hold the closest include the emotional lessons that were never said outright: it's important to have silliness and laughter in your life, and that blood doesn't bond a family or make someone a father -- it's love and acceptance.
In the last year, I've forgotten how to be silly.
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My brother and I took turns accompanying my stepdad and mom to my stepdad's
oncologist appointments. During one of his last visits, when he was
still slightly mobile and cognizant, he and I slipped into the Two Wild-and-Crazy Guys characters that
Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd made popular while
we were walking down the hospital hallway. I always thought my stepdad
had originated those characters, he did them with such perfection.
Suddenly my stepdad and I were just two wild and crazy guys weaving and gyrating
down the hospital hallway, my stepdad throwing "Heeeys" at my mom, who
shook her head at us and chastised us for causing a scene. She was
scared that my stepdad would fall over and hurt himself, but my Jerry and I just laughed.
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My mom has always said that my stepdad
was her best friend and that she was lucky to spend 29 years with him. I can't imagine how lost and lonely she is without him now.
Throughout his last few months of his life, especially during the last
few weeks as he lost control of his body, she cared for him. She fed him, bathed him, clothed and changed him. During the
last night of his life as he struggled with every breath that came, my mom sat beside his bed and didn't sleep.
She held his hand and comforted him the best she could. The last words I
heard my stepdad speak was to call out her name the one moment she left him that night.
My husband is my best friend; I don't want to imagine life without him. The entire time I watched my mom take care of my stepdad,
I kept thinking how I hope my husband never suffers like
that, that he lives until a solid old age, that he passes away gently in his sleep with no pain, that we see our 50th anniversary. And then I would have to leave the room because the guilt and sorrow of such feelings were too much. When I returned home to my husband after spending time with my parents, I carried the shame of my thoughts with me.
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My brother and I always called our stepdad by his first name. Over time, we thought less of the term "stepdad" and more of him as just our Jerry, our father. I often called him "Geraldine", a silly take on his formal name. He would call me his "Little Megan", setting it to the tune of the old TV commercial for Beggin' dog treats that rang out as "It's bacon!" I never realized how much I would miss having someone call me Little Megan.
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My Jerry liked to laugh. He liked to make others laugh. He loved watching old television shows like The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Andy Griffith Show on Nick-at-Nite. He loved baseball and was a die-hard Chicago Cubs fan who never gave up on the Cubbies, no matter how bad they played. He loved collecting baseball cards and memorabilia, gin and tonics, going to the movies, and the casino. He had a temper and pouted when he didn't get his way, but could make up quickly with you using his humor -- he rarely apologized. He had the utmost patience when it came to meticulous tasks, such as puzzles and sorting baseball cards, but couldn't stand waiting. He loved chips and salty foods and would have ate cereal for every meal if given the choice. His favorite meal to cook was something he called "Bachelor Goulash", which was essentially everything canned and bad for you dumped into one bowl. He loved to travel and came remarkably close to seeing all 50 states with my mom. He could tie a cherry stem into a knot with his tongue and had dozens of different imitations and voices that he could use to entertain you. He hated attending weddings, parties, and any other social event, but once you got him there he usually threw off his grumpiness and quickly became the center of the party. His go-to dance song was Love Shack; I've never seen someone dance with so much joy and zaniness as he did to that B-52s song. He loved our family pet dog, Hali, and was devastated when my parents had to put her down at the age of 15 (or 105, in dog years). He was loyal and had the same core group of friends for a majority of his life. He was a teacher, giving years of education, guidance, and support to his students. He loved his community and was always looking for ways to give back to the town and its residents.
But most of all, we were fortunate that he loved us: his family. And we were fortunate enough to love him.
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