chapter 3: part 3

continued from Chapter 3: part 2

Along with the abrupt change in our lives, I came to realize what a passive person I was. Opinionated but truly passive.
I had been raised in a completely father- dominated household where a woman’s views were not to be taken seriously and certainly not worthy of respect. I dragged along this attitude into marriage despite having a husband who believed in total equality.

In the past although we took turns with the household accounts, I was satisfied to leave any other business decisions to Hal when he would have been happy to turn them over to me. Business decision-making was of the few things he wasn’t good at and out of necessity around this time I took more and more responsibility and eventually I was pretty good at it.

These questions were no longer items just for Hal's consideration; is the house in both our names? Is the car? Is the cottage? Okay we didn't have one but if we did--
Alan reminded us that you can get tangled in estate problems if you don’t carefully examine the pros and cons of your particular situation

We had one joint checking account for bill paying, but then we branched out into “his” and “hers” Christmas accounts, “rainy day” funds and heaven knows what else. Despite the fact that we had made each other our beneficiaries, Alan advised us to condense our personal bank accounts and make them joint accounts so that the survivor would be the sole owner without legal intervention.

We took his advice with the tacit understanding that we would leave one another’s accounts alone. The exception was an account that Hal maintained for gifts for me and he wanted his name only on this one. Closing out this account after his death caused me uncountable pain. I had to take to his bank a notarized copy of his will, his death certificate and his bankbook. I’m not that private a person but handing these things over to a stranger was terrible. The bank clerk stood in front of me and read the will from cover to cover, despite the fact that I was named sole beneficiary at the top of page one.

to be continued in chapter 3: part 4

chapter 3: part 2

continued from chapter 3: part 1

Our accountant loved playing the horses and hadn't much energy for his job in a respectable accounting firm; eventually he departed hastily and quietly.
Hal was intrigued by quirky characters and he thought this man was okay despite some questionable business advice in the past.

This same fellow had referred a lawyer to us and so what did we expect? This lawyer didn’t work from an office when we first knew him and he handily rode the subway to our house when we needed to see him. We did think this was a tad unusual but we never investigated his past. Eventually he rented a corner in a large legal firm but that didn’t make him any more successful.

This man failed us miserably when we needed his skills. We had one meeting with him, told him what had been happening to Hal and asked him to put the wills together quickly. He never completed the task. We took turns phoning him every few days and he always replied they would be ready “next week” and he would call us but he never did. Finally, I sent him a letter literally firing him and he responded by billing us for three hundred dollars,” for financial advice”.
You will get an idea of our mind states when I tell you I paid the bill, although I had the satisfaction of telling him what a sorry specimen he was.

Quirky characters were beginning to lose their appeal and Hal remembered a lawyer he had met through a writing assignment and called him. Alan remembered Hal and made an immediate appointment when he learned the reason. Hal was frank about his cancer and his prognosis and Alan thoroughly covered what the law requires and went over everything we might need to know.

While we were at it, we made a separate memorandum to be attached to our wills telling the children how we wanted our personal possessions disposed of after our deaths. We took a hard-nosed approach here. When it came to leaving things to the kids and their mates, we couldn’t assume each marriage would remain intact, but the kids were ours forever, so we simplified by dividing everything up between the kids and omitted specific bequests to mates and offspring.

I asked Alan what would happen if Hal were to be physically or mentally incapacitated during his illness or anytime for that matter. Would I have the authority to make business decisions for him or even sell the house if we needed cash to make him more comfortable? Alan suggested that power of attorney was a good vehicle. This document assigns complete power of your personal and business affairs.

He also said, “Pat, what makes you think you’re exempt from running into health problems? Both you and Hal should assign one another power of attorney. You sign these forms and leave them with me and if they’re ever needed, there won’t be a delay of many months while the province sorts it out.”

To be continued in chapter 3: part 3

chapter 3: part 1. "I Should Do What?"

continued from Chapter 2: part 5
The practical side of me kicked in about this time and I was thinking a lot about how Hal’s death would impact on our lives. We will all get around to dying and when we do, we will leave this planet stark naked, no baggage allowed but we can plan for what we leave behind.

A life-threatening illness is a good motivating force. Your mind turns again and again to the implications of dying; it’s like poking your tongue into a new cavity. Have we got enough money? Can we afford our present life style? The questions run round and round, and common sense dictates that you get these questions settled quickly in order to get on with the business of life.

In the early days of his illness, Hal and I talked in a detached way about the possibility of his dying. It was as though we were speaking of something that might happen to a stranger, but we knew no matter how fuzzy our thinking, that we had business to get out of the way.

I’m a list maker. We sat down together to discuss these worries and this is the list we drew up for Hal:

v Write personal letters to family members or do an audio tape. ( never done)
v Write own obit. ( never done)
v Order lumber to rebuild sagging back porch. (ever practical).
v Call Lawyer to discuss updating will and ask whether Pat needs power of attorney for future.
v Call Real Estate friends about appraising house for possibility of selling.

Nowhere does it say, what are our assets? Are we okay?

We began by getting our wills in order. You can buy a will kit at a stationary store and do your own or blow the hundred bucks or go see a qualified lawyer, once who specializes in estates. You may think you haven’t enough worldly goods to bother, but remember, someone has to distribute your things, and why not have it done your way?

We made an appointment with the lawyer who handled Hal’s one-person company. Our existing wills were done years before when the children were still dependents and a lot of tidying up was due. This should have been a simple assignment but it turned out to be a nightmare.

To be continued in chapter 3: part 2

Chapter 2: part 5

continued from chapter 2: part 4
Hal’s good friend Bob gave us another welcome push. He sent Hal a copy of the book, “My God, I Thought You Died,” written by Claude Dosdall, a man who was diagnosed as terminally ill with brain tumors several years ago and lived to start a support system that endures today. We devoured the book and were amazed over Claude’s search to prolong his life. He tried diet, expensive self-healing groups in the U.S., Philippine “miracle” cures, everything. We were learning there were many ways to fight the disease and there were many people out there who found the right way for them and were joyously alive.

Along with these discoveries and the refocusing of our interests something special happened within our marriage. We were a verbal couple who talked and talked our way through any difficulties, which led some friends to call us the Bickersons, after the couple Frances Langford and Don Ameche made popular on radio many years ago. This couple didn’t listen to one another but waited for a break in the conversation to jump in and tell their side. We were both adept at snapping off brilliant one-liner rejoinders that may have honed our entertainment skills but did nothing to improve our ability to listen to one another.
One day, post-surgery, Hal launched into one of those dialogues and I realized I wasn’t going to play anymore. I loved this man and I listened carefully to what he said because I wanted our time together to be precious and good. Farewell old worn-out game. Hal realized soon enough that I wasn’t playing so he hung up his verbal sparring gloves too.

During some darker moments when I was working in my study, I wondered what life might be like living alone, and swore to myself that if Hal died first, I wouldn’t make a saint out of him in my memory, so the next time we had a dispute, a minor thing but something that used to drive me nuts, I wrote myself a note about this irritating habit and tucked the note into the pocket of a jacket I don’t wear too often. It’s not a bad idea to remember some of the irritating habits when you’re alone and feeling sorry for yourself.

Childish? Sure, but it helps.

We said, “I love you,” a lot. Hal was always a romantic and since the beginning of our marriage, we’ve had candlelight dinners, first with the kids and later when we were back on our own. He never failed to thank me for preparing a meal and often sent me flowers for no reason; now we continued to appreciate one another more consciously. I had a habit of tucking a love letter under his pillow if I was going to be away overnight or longer and he saved them all, I discovered later.

Something we didn’t expect and it happens, is that once the incision healed, Hal felt fine and continued that way for some time. He felt and acted like a well man and it would have been easy to forget that this disease was buried deep inside him, and he certainly had retreated deeply into denial.

I was confused; perhaps the gloomy cancer movies were not entirely accurate. How was it possible that this man with cancer in his liver and colon could be feeling so well and energetic? Had the tumors disappeared? Had he cured himself?

Our focus was on the cancer but it was easy to forget for chunks of time that our lives weren’t the same as before. Hal felt well, he had his old energy back and had resumed his workload.

We were being given the gift of time to re-evaluate our lives and the way we spent our time, and unconsciously we were using this gift to shore up for what might be ahead of us.

to be continued in chapter 3: part 1

chapter 2: part 4

cntinued from part 3

Phoning the Cancer society was a good start. I called the office nearest our house and explained Hal’s condition to the kind voice on the phone and told of my worries, that we were new at this and that we needed to talk to other people in this predicament. What resources were available to us? The woman on the line described various support groups including the one nearest to us, and promised to mail all the information we needed to get started.

"There now," said the inner voice, " You’re beginning to take charge."

A big envelope stuffed full of pamphlets arrived two days later. I felt such relief that someone had responded to my need. I studied everything. There were casual drop-ins, formal paid self-help classes, one-on-one buddy services. Hal was curiously content to leave the sorting-out to me and agreed that he would follow any course I thought was right. He focused on the thought that if he returned to work then he would remain well. Unspoken was the understanding that he would work at staying well and I would do any fighting necessary to help keep him there.

This was the beginning of our new team effort. After sifting through the pamphlets and consulting Hal with a synopsis of what I’d read, I arranged for us to join a casual Wednesday afternoon drop-in group of cancer patients who met to encourage one another. They had an informal staff leader and it was very low key. It turned out to be an excellent place to start the journey back.

We got a kick out of walking the several city blocks to the meeting on the twelfth floor of an office building. That simple act gave us a feeling of control. We were directed into a large sunny room with about nine people there; we were greeted by everyone and invited to have refreshments. Punctually, the leader brought the group to order and the format was: each person introduces himself, tells a little about his cancer and what he’s doing with his life, and so on. Not one person in the room looked sick. I was the only caregiver in the room that day. That’s what we’re called, caregivers. It was made clear that I was there to support and if I needed support myself, then find another group. I was there for Hal. Period.

Some members had been in remission for months, even years, but kept returning to give and gain strength from the group. We met James, a man in his mid-thirties who had the upper lobe of his left lung removed five years back and was told then that his time was limited. He lost his fiancée over this, but he feels good and he’s alive with continued positive results from his periodic check ups.
There was Sylvia, a woman in her late sixties, who was the only survivor in the world of her particular type of cancer, diagnosed seven years previously. She made her living writing crossword puzzles and children’s’ books and the morning after her surgery, she claims she sat on the edge of the bed and worked steadily on her latest book. The doctors came in to tell her the grave news. She positively twinkled when she continued, “Nonsense, I’m too busy finishing my book.” No matter what happens, she could die tomorrow and chances are it would be of old age. I got the impression that being feisty is an asset.

When Hal described his condition, several people murmured, “Mary. You’ve got to talk to Mary.” She was one of the members, not present that day, who also had secondary cancer of the liver. That is something that’s hard to earn at first; the original site is the main cancer and forever takes precedence, and anything after that is the secondary site. Thus, Hal had colon cancer.

We learned of the anger people can show to cancer patients. One man said his next-door neighbor of many years at the cottage turned hostile when she learned of his cancer and slammed into her cottage whenever he came into view.
At the other extreme, one member refused to tell anyone and swore his wife to secrecy. He claimed he wanted this privacy and yet he came to the group to talk. Actually he sat there and mostly listened, except to complain, “No one would understand.” I wondered then and wonder now whether some of the complaints were a way of displaying anger at being the “victim” of a disease. Perhaps this causes shame.

The wonderful grapevine did its work and that night, Mary called Hal. They had a long talk and she told him about the less traditional treatment she had opted for and explained it in detail. She said she was free of the disease at present, two years later. Hal felt good after the talk but was prepared to hold off any decision making about treatment until he heard what the cancer specialist had to say.
He remained content to have me find approaches to handle his recovery; he would continue to concentrate on his job assignments.
to be continued in chapter 2: part 5

Chapter 2: part 3

continued from chapter 2; part 2

Cancer. The fear of the disease is one kind of burden, but actually dealing with it is another. How many times have I heard friends say they would never allow a doctor to “butcher” them to remove the tumor? Or, they’d rather die then suffer the indignity of a colostomy? Funny thing, if the unthinkable becomes reality, the desire to live longer overshadow those bold statement made from a position of good health.

We spent a few days using the “C”word until it was no longer a stranger. This was a necessary first step to get out of the way before preparing our battle plans. Try battling an unknown, unseen enemy. It takes strategy, imagination and information. But we knew its name.

There were subtle differences in our lives now, though. We stopped rehashing the past months of not knowing what was wrong with him and Hal took job assignments once more. We took long and longer walks to build his strength and he began having pre-dinner drinks again. I was fearful of what this was doing to his already beleaguered liver, but kept this fear to myself.

Already I was noticing that Hal changed the tone of the doctor’s remarks so that a stranger would believe Hal had just had routine appendectomy. He convinced himself the doctor had changed his mind about his “less than 40% chances.”
I wasn’t about to burst his bubble, but besides that huge denial there was, buried just beneath the surface of my mind a nagging worry. What are we supposed to do now? What is the cancer doing to him? Why didn’t anyone tell us what to do next? How could the surgeon simply release him without seeing that he was monitored daily or weekly? Should he be?

On one of those back-to-normal mornings as we sat together at breakfast, the permanent lump in my throat threatened to strangle me or at the least, embarrass me into bursting into tears, I felt so helpless. I took a deep shaky breath.
“Shouldn’t we be doing something?”

“Yeah, I think we should.”

He knew what I meant. We weren’t seeing a cancer specialist, at least until our in-the-future appointment was arranged; we had no idea how fast the cancer cells in the liver were growing. I woke up and went to bed with a feeling of panic and can only wonder what was behind Hal’s calm façade. The children were calling and expressed joy that Hal was bouncing back but still, I kept imagining those pervading cells invading deeper and deeper into his body. We needed some guidance.

“We’ll be seeing the surgeon next week; what’s wrong with waiting for him to tell us what’s next?”
“No, I just know we have to start helping ourselves.”
My inner voice kicked in.
“I’m going to phone the Cancer society and ask for some advice. At least that’s a start.”

to be continued in chapter 2; part 4

Chapter 2: Part 2

continued from chapter 2; part1

At first we behaved like two people out of a heart-wrenching drama.
We said, “I love you,” twenty times a day and if one us took a trip to the corner store, the farewells were bloody dramatic. You can’t keep this up—you’ll wear yourselves out with raw emotion.

We were kind to one another. We automatically gravitated away from negative people although there were few of those. We were automatically taking those first steps without being aware.

Our first objective was for Hal to gain weight and to heal the nine-inch incision. He had a worrisome setback when he developed a knotted pain behind his right shoulder blade, but it eased with the help of Tylenol, and we attributed the pain to a muscle spasm. Later we learned this is a side effect of the liver damage.

While Hal was gaining back his strength, we settled back into our old ways. In the past I had often joked to friends that although neither of us was retired, I could write a book on preparation for the event. We both lived and worked in our house, and still managed to have something to say to one another in the evening. We managed this by having our offices on separate floors and conversation occurred only when I came down to the bathroom beside his study or when one us received a phone call with too-good-to-save news. At noon, we stopped for a one-hour lunch on trays in the living room and then we usually watched part of a pre-taped movie on television and saved the conversation for the evening.

Hal’s appetite returned and I made milkshakes with ice cream, milk, fresh fruit, eggs and anything else I thought might put on pounds. When we went out on Saturday errands, he was less protective about his incision, and stopped holding his hands combatively in front of him, like retired fighter who had taken one hit too many.

We fell further back into other old routines. He was the breakfast maker and I was the lunch and dinner maker; we had shared these tasks when I held down a full-time job and we kept the chores when I quit to stay home and write.

Still there was this presence in our house. Hal had recently undergone a shocking trauma, and here we were, tiptoeing into life pretending what happened was behind us forever.

A major obstacle to clear out of the way was to learn to use the word CANCER It was a tough thing to do. It’s not difficult when you’re talking about someone you hardly know, but when it suddenly becomes a personal thing it’s like having to speak civilly to a rude stranger. At the moment this word was commanding our lives. We hadn’t said the word for the first few days after the surgery and then, almost in unison, we said it out loud.
“It’s cancer.”

to be continued in chapter 2: part 3

Chapter two part 1 Okay, Now What?

Continued from chapter 1, part 12

At last we could go home. Hal's hair was shaggy, he was ghostly pale and his clothes hung from his gaunt frame. He looked wonderful to me and his attitude was upbeat. He behaved the way he would for the remaining year of his life, like a well man with an inconvenient health problem.

He asked for a long-way drive home to see the neighborhood and watch people walking by on the street and he grinned with delight when I found something quite rare, a parking spot in front of our house.

Hephzibah was glad to see him. She was our nineteen-year old part Persian, part Angora cat who was sinking into senility and had it fixed in her mind that our new broadloom was her litter box. After nineteen years, it was hard to discuss “putting her down,” especially when we were now dealing with a life-threatening illness. She and Hal were such good pals that she’d even settle down to wait or him outside the bathroom door.

After the two pals had a good chance to say hello, I took Hal’s hand and led him upstairs where the bed covers were turned back and his pajamas paid out.
He gave me a stony stare.
“I can tell by the look of determination that you have in mind treating me like an invalid,” he muttered, “go find another hobby.”

He headed down the hall to his study to read his mail and I went down stairs to make him a calorie-laden milk shake.

For the first couple of days, we rambled about the house like two marbles in a shoebox, getting in one another’s way and not knowing what to do next. He was protective of his wound and walked about slowly. If it had been like old times, he would have been working at his computer and I would have been on the third floor working on mine.

We were anxious about his future appointment with Dr. Beam, the surgeon, to make sure the wound was continuing to heal and after that Hal was to be turned over to an Oncologist at Princess Margaret, the cancer hospital. We had expected the turnover would have happened before he was discharged from the hospital and we couldn’t understand why everything was so casual. The surgeon had explained to us that the Oncologist was on vacation but still, shouldn’t someone be monitoring a man with cancer in his colon and liver? Why didn’t I telephone and ask? I still don’t know. Traces of that previous passive stance remained. I simply felt a constant nagging worry.

I can be more objective about these times now, and while I question whether our family doctor should have let him suffer so long without the intervention of a specialist, I'm more curious about the passive behavior we exhibited during that time. That simply wasn't our usual style. I don't recall, either, ever allowing myself to think that this condition might be cancer. If one of our children had these symptoms we would have been demanding some immediate answers; somehow we just did not believe this painful episode in our lives was serious. I suspect that a lot of people reading this went through the same experience.

I understand better now the way cancer works; we sought help as soon as Hal felt any symptoms but even then in his case the disease was too far along.
There isn't anyone to blame. Time and again when I talked about this with friends who had gone through this, each recounted tales of misdiagnosis. It simply isn't easy to identify.

We were just beginning to grasp the most important message we were to learn, that it just isn't enough to put your life into the hands of the doctor; you have to take control yourself. At first we had felt helpless, like puppets with an invisible person pulling the strings. We had felt sorrow, and then confusion and anger, and then we felt hope. I know the human mind can win over body symptoms and I know Hal made the rest of his life count because he focused entirely on living.

Those early rules we'd been raised by came into play. You face your obstacles and you clear them out of the way. We set out to do just that.
to be continued in chapter 2; part 2

Chapter 1: Part 12

continued from part 11
What is it about being a hospital patient? After spending a few hours on a narrow cot your will and identity fade away and you turn into a hospital gown with legs.

We learned there were two important components to Hal's post-surgical recovery; first was the resumption of eating solid foods and the other was the passing of gas. It’s all pretty basic; food in, gas out, nature’s way of signaling that the body is functioning. The blockage was corrected, at least for now, the incision was healing properly and the body gases would once more be passing through instead of backing up and causing pain, as before.

The first couple of days after the surgery, each nurse approaching the bed asked, “Passed any gas yet?” That’s what it’s all about, getting the machinery to function. We added body gas to our daily conversation.

That was the first victory.

Hal took his first solid food with a casual air but it hit me with almost dramatic impact. There had been the usual round of clear broth and gelatin, but finally a tray of identifiable food was brought in. With each mouthful he took I visualized padding returning to his body so that I could no longer count his ribs and vertebrae. That was as far as my mind could travel ahead; just imagining him with his weight restored.

Next on the agenda, nurses carrying scraps of paper and pen would ask brightly, "Had a bee- em today?" It cuts through all that idle chitchat, such as, "How did that missile crisis sort itself out?" Hal was passing his tests extremely well and was beginning to grumble about missing his own bed and his computer, in any order.

Six days after the surgery a resident popped in during breakfast to tell Hal he would be released later that morning. Hal telephone the news to me and I raced around preparing for his homecoming, changing the sheets, laying out fresh pajamas and searching our neglected city garden for fresh flowers. I rushed to the hospital.

Then, we waited. And waited.

“He can’t leave until the release is signed, “ said the nurse.
“So, let’s call the doctor and get is signed.”
“Doctor is in surgery; you’ll have to wait until he is finished.”
“Then, please call one of the residents.”
“Well, I’ll try.”
Silence.

I thought of who might be waiting in an uncomfortable emergency department bed, waiting and waiting to be transferred to a ward. To Hal’s bed.

At five o’clock, nine hours after the news that Hal could leave, the surgical resident was tracked down and came in to talk to us.

“You’re free to leave now, Mr. Tennant. You can resume your normal life and get back to work whenever you feel ready. Soon the surgeon will arrange for you to see an Oncologist, a doctor who specializes in treating tumors.”
“What restrictions are there in his diet?” I asked.
He looked surprised.
“Why, there aren’t any.” Just resume your normal life.”
“Then what about drinking alcohol?” I persisted.
“Well,” long pause. “A drink or two won’t hurt.”
In a damaged liver? This was our first write-off and I wasn’t prepared to face that yet. (The guy is going to die of this so let him do what he wants. The outcome will be the same.) He gave Hal a prescription for Tylenol 3, “ In case of discomfort,” and wished us well.

continued in chapter 2:part 1

Chapter 1: Part 11

Continued from part 10
On the third morning after the surgery I awoke very early and something crystallized in my consciousness. From the time we learned we were dealing with cancer, I had been hearing that little voice inside telling me that this illness was the most important lesson I would learn in this lifetime and I had a chance to make it a positive and strong time for us both. I was finally listening. We weren't going to quit. I didn't know what was going to happen but we weren't going to wait for someone else to fix this. We had to do something on our own.

I called our son, Scott in Vancouver. It didn't do much for his heart because western time was three hours behind us and he had been fast asleep.

"Cancel those funeral plans; we're going to fight this and we're going to win."

He sighed with relief. "You two have always been the leaders and I've been waiting for you to say something to give us hope." As we talked he began to sound better and promised to pass on the word to his brother Peter, who lived nearby. The Tennants were about to gear up for battle.

Later when I arrived at Hal's room I took his hand and declared,

"Sweetheart, I don't know how we will do this, but we're going to get through this and we're going to win."

He smiled and put a lot of chutzpah into his reply, "There was never any doubt in my mind."

We talked vaguely about how we would go about taming this intruder, absolutely clueless about what was involved. Once I remember interrupting this vein of thought to say,

"Strangely enough, I find the evenings okay without you, but I hurt so much in the mornings."

He looked steadily at me and said, "You've got to try to find a reason to get up every morning."

That was the only time he ever indicated that he might not survive this.
continued in part 12

Chapter 1: part 10.

Continued from part 9

The next morning as I walked to the hospital, I stared into the faces of everyone I passed. Life was going on, just as though there was a reason, a plan. It was so hard to understand. Are the people on this street really so resilient? I felt so disconnected from them and from life.

They were eating hot dogs, bought from the vendor with the stainless steel cart, some were eating ice cream cones from another vending cart; no one seemed to know that life would never be the same again. Were any of them hurting? They had to be. Could anyone know I was hurting? Perhaps I hid it as well as they did.I felt tears on my face.

Hal looked uncomfortable and groggy. I kissed him and stroked his hair. I asked him if he had seen the doctor that morning and he said he didn't think so.

Then he gave me an intent look and asked, "Did they get it all out?"

I froze. I didn't know what to do; the doctor said he would tell him and I didn't know whether I had the strength to do this. I didn't even think of putting him off.

I said, "Well, there are a few spots on your liver."
He looked at me for a while, then nodded and closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep. I was falling apart inside.

The doctor and his team of residents entered around an hour later. As soon as they approached the bed, Hal opened his eyes and immediately became alert as he watched the doctor pull the curtains around the bed. This doesn't block the sound, you understand, it just gives a false semblance of privacy.

Hal listened carefully as the doctor repeated everything I had told him an hour before, adding that the tumor had been as big as a fist. He winced at the news and slowly I realized that Hal had not remembered my talk with him earlier. So much for Demerol. So much for the ulcer that I was probably growing that minute. The doctor spoke optimistically, pouring out a stream of statistics and the words "forty percent survival rate" were repeated again and again. He said Hal would be able to go home in a week. Go home. I never thought he would leave the building. Should he leave the building? I had no ideas what to expect and neither did Hal.

After the doctors left, Hal slept a while; then he opened his eyes and we silently looked at one another. His eyes looked so remote and so sad. We held hands.

I said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. I felt battered and I knew our world had come unglued; was I going to lose him?

This was the way we behaved for a couple of days; we clung to one another, talked about small household matters and avoided this horror that had invaded our world.

Continued in part 11

Chapter 1; part 9

continued from part 8

I leaned my forehead against the wall and tried to control the tears that were beginning to form. Melissa and Lorrie joined me in the hall and I told them. We hugged one another and cried softly, then collected Hal's things from the waiting room and left to find his new room and await his return.

The elevator was slower than ever that day so we kept busy walking up and down the nine floors several times getting things organized and waiting for my son Mike to join us.

I had everything arranged in his room, this time a four-person ward when Hal was wheeled in, groaning loudly. Once he was settled in bed, Mike, Melissa and Lorrie joined me at his beside for a few minutes, and then, one by one they raced from the room. They told me later they couldn't stand to see him so distressed. The nurses settled him with another shot of Demerol and when he dropped off to sleep she sent me home assuring me he wouldn't waken until morning.

Back at the house Mike stationed himself at the phone and called the rest of the family to tell them the news. I didn't want to speak to any of them but it was important for me to listen while Mike spoke to them. I think it became more real as I listened to him tell the same story over again. His voice was calm, but I knew how upset he was. The children at the end of the phone greeted the news with a combination of shock and acceptance.

Mike had brought back with us a box of barbecued chicken wings and we sat on the floor around the big coffee table and ate and talked. At the end of the meal, I felt heavy from overeating and discovered I had eaten only one wing. That was an important feeling for me. I knew, for the first time, what it felt like not to want to eat, and this feeling served as a guide later when Hal had no appetite.

We needed to stay close to one another and we floundered around trying to find a focus; we simply didn't know what to expect or what we should be doing. We were mentally shipwrecked. I wondered out loud how long it would take for him to get back on his feet and whether he would ever work again. Death was certainly on our minds.

My thoughts idiotically swung back and forth with questions and probabilities and when I thought about Hal possibly dying I heard myself ask, "Do you realize I might actually go out on a date sometime?"

The girls looked surprised and then startled when I continued. "Are you supposed to sleep with a man now, on the first date?"

They looked at one another and finally Lorrie said gently,
"Well, you have that choice; you don't have to do anything you don't want to."

I was taking on the double burden of projecting ahead to life on my own while also wondering whether I could be strong enough to give Hal everything he would need through this illness.
continued n part 10

Chapter 1: Part 8

Continued from part 7

Hal hadn't been sedated when I arrived at his room the next morning.

The surgery was scheduled for one hour from then, eleven o'clock. He was calm and loving and didn't show any signs of nervousness. Hal was never good at showing nervousness; he could cry at the sight of a terrible natural disaster on television but couldn't cry for himself.
We both felt relieved to know what the problem was and we firmly believed that this operation would take care of it. The thing is, you simply are incapable of seeing too far ahead when your life is splintering. We've always been lucky; so what's a little cancer? Or to use what was to become Hal's favorite expression, "Cancer shmancer, just so long as you've got your health."

Next came the hospital game called The Big Switch. Once the surgery was done Hal would be be moved from his medical ward to a surgical floor. The nurse instructed us to bundle up all his things and take them with us until the new room was designated. We each carried plastic bags full of the accumulation of three weeks enforced stay, with his clothing draped over our arms.

We found the special waiting room on the operating room floor. People behave in strange ways during a stressful time. Most people in this room sat hunched over their knees, barely speaking. We sat and gossiped and giggled. We were three manic women doing anything to keep from imagining what was happening down the corridor. The volunteer in this room checked a couple of times and reported the operation was progressing satisfactorily and should be finished soon. Finally she announced it was finished and the doctor would be along soon.

Another hour dragged by and the doctor hadn't come. We became very quiet, wondering what might have gone wrong. Finally the volunteer reported that because of several delays, the doctor had been forced to immediately begin the next operation and would be along after that.

At last he stood at the entrance to the room and motioned me into the hall.

"Your husband came through the operation very well. The tumor was in the large intestine, close to the join to the small intestine; it was very large and had become embedded in the intestinal wall."

I breathed a deep sigh. It never for a moment occurred to me to ask the standard question, "Did you get it all?"

There was more.

" Also, I'm afraid there are some spots on the liver." I thought my heart would pound right through my chest.

" I couldn't remove them because they were pretty well separated; if they had been clustered in one lobe, I could have tried to remove the lobe."

He continued on and finally asked me the usual, did I have any questions. I felt as though a permanent, all-enveloping grey cloud had descended over me. My uncle had died of liver cancer and I tried to remember how long he survived. I thought it was about two years.

I said, "No one survives cancer of the liver."

This dear man then did me the biggest of favors and set the tone for the next part of our lives. He looked sternly at me and said,

"Now look, I promised your husband yesterday that I would level with him. He wanted the absolute truth about what I did and what I found. This is not a death sentence. I know of a man who lived another eighteen years with cancer on his liver. Don't write your husband off because of this. You've both got lots of living to do. Now I'll be in first thing in the morning to tell him what we found."

He squeezed my shoulder and left. I wasn't able to take it in just then, but his message would slowly seep into my subconscious over the next few days.

to be continued in part 9

Chapter 1; Part 7

Continued from part 6

I arrived home from the hospital around five o'clock and the phone rang. It was Doctor Kroll calling from Hal's bedside.

"Mrs. Tennant, I am here with your husband; we have now found the source of the problem. It's a tumour and I'm pretty sure it's malignant."

He paused to give me a minute to register what he had just said.

"The surgeon will remove it tomorrow morning. Are there any questions you would like to ask me?"

All I could manage was, "Will he need a colostomy?"

"No, no, not for this. The surgery will of course be more extensive now that we know what we'll find, but there won't be any need for a colostomy."

After I hung up the phone I stared out the window for a long time. Then I called the children to tell them the news. M'Liss and Lorrie, my daughter-in law would arrange to come to the hospital the next morning to wait with me while the surgery was performed.

Then Hal called. Somehow I thought the doctor would have given him a sedative and in my confusion and grief it hadn't occurred to me to call him.

"Now, don't you worry; I'm going to beat this thing. I love you."

I was emotional and crazed but he was calm and upbeat, as though he already recognized the battle ahead and the need for cool thinking. All through this puzzling time, I had been the solid one, perfectly calm and in control, but now Hal was the rock.

He had met the surgeon, Doctor Beam, earlier that day when they were still planning the more minor procedure. He was a young formal guy with reddish hair and Hal liked him. When he learned that Hal had finally been diagnosed he returned to his bedside to reassure him about the operation and tell him what he would be doing now that he knew what to expect.
Continued in Part 8

chapter 1: part 6

Continued from part 5

The next day we'd both had enough. Hal had patiently endured days of probing and testing and we now insisted on a medical conference.

We met that afternoon with Dana, Dr. K's medical resident. We pointed out that Hal had been without food for a long time and some sort of decision had to be made. We had read up on Crohn's disease and if this is what we were dealing with, we would learn to live with it. We had to have some answers and we needed to know what the doctors planned to do before Hal lost more weight.

On a practical level, he had clients getting impatient with his inability to finish his assignments.

Dana reported our feelings back to the doctor and he came in to say he had arranged to have a laparotomy performed in two days time. This is a look-see sort of operation, or an exploratory procedure. Since the tests weren't giving a clear picture of the problem, they would resort to this surgical procedure to tell them what the culprit was.

"Oh by the way, " he added, "Did anyone mention the possibility that we might have to do a colostomy?"

My god. There was a time when news like this would have sent us into shock, but if this procedure would put an end to the nightmare, they were welcome to go to it. We'd rather they didn't but life was much more precious now.

In the two days remaining the doctor, frustrated by the lack of significant answers, ordered three more tests prior to the scheduled surgery.

First, Hal was to drink some barium, and the course of its journey would be followed by X- Rays every three hours. The barium couldn't get very far, which seemed to surprise everyone but us, and he soon felt the return of violent pain. Despite his agony, we knew that in three hours a porter would come to fetch him, take him with his intravenous pole in a wheelchair downstairs to Radiology. Then, after the test there was another wait for a porter to be called to return him to his room. The delays were frustrating and I finally persuaded the nurses to let me take him down and back myself, managing the chair and pole with the help of anyone in the elevator. By the second trip down he was groaning so loudly with pain he got top priority and went to the head of the line, just to get him out of there before he agitated the other waiting patients.

After that miserable experience we learned that the test results were inconclusive and that filled me with resentment, but I didn't know then how to cope with a specialist's orders.

Next on the schedule was a C.A.T. scan, which was fine with us, because there wouldn't be any pain involved. When that got underway the technician angrily announced the procedure was useless because of all the barium sitting there with nowhere to go, blocking a view of the site.

There was one final test to try before the scheduled surgery, a Colonoscopy. This is similar to the Endoscopy except that the flexible illuminated tube is threaded from south to north through the rectum and colon. Hal had insisted on a large dose of Valium and was groggy but smiling after the examination.

I sat with him all afternoon but there was no sign of the doctor and I assumed he had taken tissue samples and hadn't heard back from the lab.

Continued in part 7

Chapter 1; Part 5

Continued from part 4

Hours passed and still no one came to take him to his room. M'Liss finally went home while Hal was still trying to find a comfortable way to lie on the board-like stretcher. A nurse started an intravenous and told him he wasn't to have any food or drink until the problem was isolated.

It would be nineteen days before he had a meal.

A Resident came along and threaded a tube through his nose down to his stomach. This was a nasal gastric tube, called N.G. The doctor explained that the pain had been caused by food passing through the stomach into the intestine and when it reached this mysterious blockage, the food was forced back, often causing vomiting followed by painful gas and a distended abdomen. Obviously, this blockage allowed some food through sometimes.

In the evening when he got sleepy, I left him and went home to feed the cat and get some sleep.

The shortage of beds forced him to endure the entire night in the emergency cubicle and he reported later that the night was punctuated with cries from a senile old woman a couple of stretchers away; she kept trying to escape to god knows where and an exasperated nurse kept dragging her back to her pallet. Finally, around seven o'clock in the morning, a bed was found for him and he was taken to a room on the seventh floor.

The next two weeks were painful, both physically and emotionally; X- Rays were done, and then an endoscopy was next. This is a tube with a camera and light at the end, threaded down his throat through his stomach and on from there and the doctor could follow what was happening. After that experience, Hal made a point of insisting that if they tried anything like that again, he wanted a strong dose of sedative first. Makes you wonder why that wasn't done as a matter of course.

Doctors now knew the blockage was somewhere near the join of the small and large intestines and believed it was in the small one. They thought chances were Hal had Crohn's disease, a chronic and often painful disease that can cause inflammation of the alimentary tract. Still, the results were inconclusive.

When this last test didn't show anything, the gastric tube was removed to see if the blockage had cleared up on its own. Hal had a pleasant day drinking any liquids he wanted but by early evening he was writhing in agony and the tube was re-inserted. Everything he drank that day returned to the bottle at the end of the tube, proving conclusively that nothing could pass all the way through his intestines. He continued to be in terrible pain for hours and when I called the nursing station around ten that night I learned he had just been given his first shot of pain killer, Demerol and he slept like a baby until morning.

Why did I let them wait so long to dull the pain? I spent the night at home wide-awake pondering that question. There is so much blind trust involved when you're dealing with doctors and hospitals. They know what they're doing, right?

Continued in part 6

Chapter 1: Part 4

Continued from part 3
The staff was expecting him when we arrived at the emergency department.
He changed into a hospital gown and eased onto one of those uncomfortable stretchers while I stood beside him holding his hand, babbling on about how relieved I was that we could now get this pain sorted out once and for all. A resident came in to take some information and do some prodding and finally the doctor came in and sent me away while he did a more thorough examination.

It wasn't long before the doctor pushed through the door into the waiting room. Funny, what I remember most about that moment is that I took the paperback I was attempting to read and carefully stuck my finger in as I closed it, to mark my place. So tidy.

"Mrs. Tennant, there is definitely something going on in there and I don't know what it is just yet, but I am going to admit him for some tests."

He waited for me to ask questions but I couldn't think of anything to ask; I was just grateful that something was going to be done.

He told me to go back to Hal and disappeared into an elevator. I was overcome with a mixture of relief and apprehension. I was feeling the first stirring that this might not be a simple problem that could be corrected with a prescription.

Before I returned to Hal, I phoned our daughter M'Liss, who was home on vacation from her job. I managed to say, "I've brought Hal to the hospital," and then felt the sobs beginning to take over in my throat. I am a private crier and fought for control before continuing.

M'Liss pleaded, "Just tell me which hospital, and I'll be right there."

I finally choked out the name and she promised to get a cab and come right away.

When I returned to Hal he looked pretty chipper now that he was getting some attention for his problem. Surprisingly, he was free of pain and curious about what would happen next. M'Liss arrived and she stood beside the stretcher clutching Hal's hand, with tears running down her face.
"Hello Luvvie," he said as always.

All at once we began to get a sense of the terrible pressure we had been through for those frightening weeks. We clung to one another for a bit and then settled down to talk, returning again and again to this mysterious problem. When a couple of hours went by and no one had come to take Hal to his room, I sought out a nurse to ask what would happen next. She gave me our first clue.

"Your husband has a bowel obstruction and we are waiting for a bed for him."

I returned gleefully with this nugget of information and we behaved as though we had won a lottery. He'd get his bed soon, we hoped, and his condition now had a name. Bowel obstruction. Already I worked out in my head that "intestinal obstruction” sounded more discreet and I'd try to use that term despite the fact that the owner of those particular bowels loathed euphemisms and would ignore my prissy approach. I didn't know then that within days good old-fashioned bowels would be the chief topic and focus of our lives, but we were still new at this.
Continued in part 5

Chapter 1.Part 3:

Continued from part 2
We had fallen into a horrible pattern of accommodating our lives and actions around the pain; it had become an uninvited third party in our home and we seemed powerless to evict it.

Our fragile hold on the comfortable life we were used to finally come to a crashing halt early in July, two months after that emergency trip to the hospital. Waves of pain started ripping through Hal's body on a Friday night and continued off and on right through to Monday morning. He'd fall asleep for a while, then he'd waken and groan, "Oh no," as fresh waves tore through him. I held him and stroked him until he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Finally, finally, I faced up to the fact that this terrible thing was not going to go away and we had to stop waiting for the family doctor to make it right.

At dawn on Monday morning I crept down the hall to the study to find the name and phone number of the specialist he was to see in two months. I'd never noticed before how superbly organized Hal was; there were labels on everything and I quickly found the appointment calendar kept in a binder on his desk. Then I paced up and down the hall to wait for the doctor's office to open, which I hoped would be at nine o'clock.

Hal fell into a deep, quiet sleep around six o'clock. I dressed and tiptoed downstairs to continue pacing until I could try reaching the office secretary.
Exactly at nine, the phone rang and it was our accountant calling with a couple of questions. I remember calmly answering and chatting briefly without mentioning the hell we had gone through over the weekend

I was shaky with relief when the doctor's secretary answered on the first ring. Astonishingly the doctor was standing by the desk and took the phone from her. I told him what had happened, that Hal had been in violent pain since Friday night, no he hadn't vomited but he hadn't eaten anything either, but he couldn't go much longer without help. The doctor's office was located in a general hospital within walking distance from our house; he told me to bring Hal right over to the Emergency department where one of his residents would be alerted to see him immediately.

My relief was indescribable. At last we were going to get this straightened out. I raced upstairs and gently woke Hal.
"Honey, I just spoke to Doctor Kroll and he wants to see you at Wellesley emergency right away."

Hal was dazed from lack of sleep, but he pushed back the covers and unsteadily got to his feet.

"Should I take a shower first? What should I wear?"

I took over. "Just wash and brush your teeth and put on clothes that will be easy to remove."

This seemed to take forever and I paced back and forth, terrified he would have more violent pain before we reached the hospital.

We left the house perfectly calm and organized, but when I drove the car around the block near the hospital looking for a free parking spot, Hal jolted me back to reality by reminding me he wasn't capable of a stroll and why not live recklessly and pay at the nearby hospital parking lot.
Continued in part 4

Chapter 1: Part 2:

Continued from Part 1
Hal had always been preoccupied with his digestive system and each morning he downed a glass of orange juice mixed with a tablespoon of bran. He was convinced this mixture would keep his body in good running order.

The day after the trip to the Emergency department, he made an appointment to see Sara the family doctor, and then began a long and fruitless search for the source of the pain. The ultra sound led her to believe he might have acute gastroenteritis, an inflammation of the stomach and intestines. The medication she prescribed seemed to work for a while and then the pain returned.

I never accompanied him on those visits and I don't know how forcefully he presented his case if indeed he did.

This pattern of pain, no-pain continued off and on and next Sara tried treating him for lactose intolerance and put him on a milk- free diet, which did have its amusing moments. We drove to the Jewish end of Bathurst Street the next Sunday searching out bread made without milk. Believe me when I say you should not ask the proprietor of a kosher bakery if his bread is made with milk.

Sara took him off caffeine and alcohol and he found the former the hardest. He always drank his coffee so strong it had the consistency of molten lava.
"I can't get through the morning without at least a semblance of coffee," he lamented and we searched the stores for substitutes. He found one or two that helped; the flavour was pallid but the combination of holding a cup and saucer in his hand and his active imagination made him feel less deprived.

Throughout this time, he maintained his firm belief in working his health around his life and insisted on carrying out his work assignments and meeting his deadlines despite these upsets.

The pain returned without any real pattern and Hal was seeing Sara more frequently. She was concerned about the possibility of an ulcer, but still she was baffled and in July had her secretary set up an appointment for September with a Gastroenterologist; she believed the problem would be solved by then and he could cancel.

One evening the phone rang and it was the specialist calling; he wondered why Hal had made the appointment so far in advance, and Hal told him Sara's opinion and described his symptoms. The doctor said he thought from Hal's description that there was more than had been found so far and he might consider coming in earlier.

We were so surprised that a specialist would take this trouble that we irrationally did nothing.

The milk-free diet didn't seem to alter his condition. The pain lay dormant for a while and then attacked again, usually at night about the time he sat down to dinner. He'd leave the table and go upstairs and I'd find him huddled on the bed feeling alternately clammy and sweaty, often drawing his knees up and moaning, "Jesus." I'd stroke his head and rhythmically run one hand down his arm, hour after hour, trying to draw the pain away from the body. We didn't get much sleep.

I'm the kind of person who can read morbid implications into a hangnail, but when something real like this came along, I went into a denial phase that still astounds me when I think back. We both seemed to believe everything would be okay; this enormous belly pain would pass and we could get on with our lives. We discussed these pains with friends and no one ever suggested we get help from other sources and it obviously wasn't getting through to the two of us. We had never coped medically with anything more serious than a child's emergency appendectomy and occasional broken bones and our minds simply weren't geared for anything more.
Continued in part 3

Chapter 1: Part 1: Genie Flies Out Of The Bottle

It was almost spring when our lives changed forever. Hal began getting cramping abdominal pains that usually started at six in the evening and faded around two in the morning. We blamed it on a hiatus hernia he'd had for years and for which he consumed enormous quantities of Bromo Seltzer rather than curb his love for spicy foods and alcohol. We thought we'd wait it out and the pain would go away, but after a couple of weeks I was getting exasperated when he'd sit down at the dinner table and almost immediately the pain would take over. It was like clockwork and we couldn't understand what was happening.

Then late one night, the pain switched from strong to agonizing and I drove him over to a nearby hospital where our family doctor had privileges. A large imposing sign at the entrance clearly stated this hospital was not equipped for emergencies, but we naively didn't consider a bellyache a real emergency.

Two residents attended to him and actually localized the exact problem site, something,no one else would do for some time. They thought at first it might be a misbehaving gall bladder, but never reached a definite conclusion and finally sent him home with instructions to stop off at an all-night drug store for an antacid and to come back the next day for an ultra sound. The pain had disappeared before we left.

I used to believe that Hal and I lived under the protection of a benevolent cloud. No matter what troubles came our way, we managed to work through them together, often with a lot of pain.

Hal was a writer and editor, and in our thirty-seven years of marriage he had the same pattern of reaching the saturation point with each job just around the five-year mark. Then he'd joyfully cut loose from the bi-monthly pay check- plus- benefits package and return to the shaky life of freelancing. It's amazing how often this coincided with the birth of each of our six children. It was like working a trapeze without a net. He seesawed back and forth from job security to free-lancing, depending on how calmly I dealt with all those kids and bank overdrafts. It was an insecure life and often it felt as though we were clinging to safety by our fingertips.


With the children grown and on their own, we moved from the suburbs to a tall, narrow house in the downtown section of Toronto. You could say we were living in the guts of the city, because we had settled in the not-yet-trendy Cabbage town, full of flophouses and sad-faced people who drank aftershave for breakfast. We honestly didn't notice the facade of the neighbourhood because we were so dazzled by the space and charm of our ninety-six year old house with three floors and twelve-foot ceilings and space, lots of space. This was a thrill after years of shoehorning six children, two adults and varied animals in a small ranch style house. Hal set up his study down the hall from our bedroom on the second floor and hung out his free-lance shingle, permanently this time.

Hal was a funny, calm guy, even-tempered and loving. He worked harder than anyone I ever knew. He was special. We had good times and bad times like everyone, but the past few years had been fine years and our love had strengthened. We thought we had forever until our lives were altered without much warning. Continued in Part 2