The Love

(We're back, sorry it's been a while. The following is a report concerning the death of my beloved Sister last week. I wrote it several days ago and have been debating with myself whether or not to publish it, not only worried it would upset members of my family, but also whether you guys would want to read something a bit depressing this weekend. Well, I checked with some of the family and they all seemed okay with it. So I've decided to go ahead and post it for you. What I want you to get from this is not depression, however. I want you to feel and understand the love that I had the privilege of witnessing. And two more things before we begin. First, I could rewrite this a hundred more times and never think I've done this whole event justice. And finally, I'm aware this has happened to most all of you as well, and please forgive me if I don't phrase it just right. Love to you all, JP)

Our dear sweet Nancy passed away in Lowell early Tuesday morning, her husband George and son Reid at her side. This "dying of cancer" thing takes too goddamned long, if you want my opinion. When people die of this particular disease their family members invariably say something like "he/she fought bravely to the end." To say Nancy fought bravely to the end in this case is an understatement. A huge understatement.

It's one thing to have to lose someone you love to a tragic accident, like a car wreck, or a skydiving mishap - it's over in a matter of seconds or at most hours. I don't mean to diminish the emotions involved in those cases, I'm just saying it's something else entirely to watch someone you love slowly die over a period of six months or more. I'm going to say something completely stupid: It's more agonizing to those of us who are watching it happen than to the one it's actually happening to. That, of course, is nonsense, but if you've ever experienced it, you know what I mean.

Extreme life and death situations makes heroes out of some of us, whether we start out to be one or not. In my learned yet humble opinion Nancy's husband George is a Hero, capital "H". Well, to be honest, George isn't legally her husband, they've been "living together" for over 25 years. But to say George isn't really Nancy's husband is like saying I'm not really her brother. I'm linked by blood to the Winslow family, and was adopted into the Perry family immediately after I was born. I am her brother. George is her husband. And throughout this entire agonizing ordeal her husband George never left her side. Devotion and dedication like that are the things that make up a true Hero.

My mother Louise gave birth to Nancy some eight years before I came into the picture, on October 14th, 1937. Pictures of her show a beautiful blond-haired baby with near perfect features. She was healthy and fit, and the pride of my parents. Bearing her and taking her to term did not fair well on my mother, however, as Louise later found out that health complications would never allow her to have another child naturally. The young Perry family lived on a small family farm near Eugene, Oregon, and Nancy helped with the daily chores that all farms have, and indeed became quite the little farm girl. Her first pets were two small pigs, Flopsy, and of course, Mopsy.

I had just gotten home from from work one day a few months ago when she called with the bad news. She had had this cancer thing for a year off and on, going through the routine of treatments, radiation, chemo, making the 30 minute daily drive into Eugene for standard rounds of humiliating and often painful bouts of testings and proddings. All things one must endure to get your hopes up, and keep you going a little longer. Throughout the years Nancy and I have always kept closely in touch, calling regularly, if sometimes infrequently, and just chatting about anything and everything in our lives. She and I had begun talking more often since it all began, almost daily, and her mood was always upbeat, always cheerful, and never centered on her or the ordeal she was going through. She always was one tough-yet-gentle cookie, so I wasn't a bit surprised at her tone when she called. She asked me how I was doing, then waited while I babbled on for a bit with my usual patter, then she reminded me that she had seen the doctor. "And?" I asked, suddenly sober. "You won't like it," she said gently, as though she was worried about how all this would effect me, for heaven's sake. I realized for some reason I wasn't ready for this. "Six months." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was telling me how long it takes to grow cabbage. I didn't say anything for several long seconds, flipping through my mental Rolodex looking for something intelligent to respond with. Finding nothing, I simply said "Now what?"

My mother was one of the most emotional people in the world. Perhaps it was because of that she was so good at hiding it. She was sensitive and kind, smart and stubborn, clever and secretive, and made us understand that the outpouring of emotion seen in other people on occasion was not a desirable trait for the Perry family. Emotion, particularly weeping sadness, was not something to be displayed to other people. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a cold woman. Quite the opposite actually. It's just that to her "stoic" was not just a word, it was a lifestyle. In the early 1970's, on the night our mother died, Nancy and I weren't with her. We were at my little apartment on Harlow Road sitting stoically waiting for the phone to ring, for the Uncle to call, with the news. Mom had been in a coma for several months, in a "rest home," and we knew (we reasoned) Mom wouldn't have wanted us there anyway. It would have been too upsetting. For us. The phone rang, I answered, my Uncle Gordon said "your Mom died a few moments ago, I'm sorry." I hung up, turned to Nancy and quietly said, "It's over." We both got up, and leaving the rest of the people there in the room, walked out to the parking lot in silence, holding hands. It was weird. I could actually feel it coming. We stopped, turned and faced each other and just started bawling. We hugged each other as tight as we could, and Nancy said "You're the only one who understands." Those were the only words spoken. After a bit, we wiped our faces, straightened up, and walked back to our Mother's death with never another tear. To this day, I'm not sure what she meant by that.

It was getting down to weeks and because I was still working regularly (am I ever going to retire?) I could only get out to Lowell to see Nancy on the weekends. She had begun to lose weight, slowly at first, then shockingly rapidly as the time grew nearer. The doctors were still working on her, a couple chemoes here, radiations there, but everyone knew it was hopeless, though you never want to talk that way at the time. You see, the Stoic Handbook says There's Always Hope No Matter What, but most intelligent people know that's a lie. There is not a "bad word" in the English language that's bad enough to use in describing the monster, cancer. The way it kills is to slowly destroy the host, a biologically insane thing to do, similar to burning your own house down to keep warm. And it doesn't care, it doesn't quit, it never gives you a break. It will take over half your body mass and reduce it by half. It will leave you on your last day with nothing but skin, bones, and memories. And your beating heart. Nancy's big strong beating heart took every last nano-second that this life had to offer, fighting, refusing to surrender to the monster.

George never left her side, or at least he made sure someone else was holding her hand before he would go use the bathroom, or step outside. George has always been a bit of a comedian, always been in mid performance when visitors were over, always entertaining and keeping the mood lighter than it would be normally, not allowing anyone to become morbid or depressing around Nancy. His whole world became Nancy. It was obvious. He'd be talking to other people in the room, but his eyes never left hers. He was like a one-armed man because one hand was always holding Nancy's, like he was afraid if he accidentally let go she'd float away from his grasp, and he wasn't about to let that happen. If he slept, it was only when she slept, and it was while laying next to her on the big bed. Each day there was less of her. Near the end she could hardly speak, so George did all the talking. He never quit talking to her. He talked about anything, everything, the weather today, the yard, the dog, memories, plans. Friends would come by, stay for a bit, George would talk to them, including Nancy in the conversation like it was just any normal rainy afternoon. And he never let go of her hand. And his eyes never left hers.

Day after day and night after night it continued. One morning she woke up and said to George "am I still here?" Then she smiled. She hadn't eaten for almost two weeks, the end was coming. Hospice had, of course been there by then, but after making sure she was comfortable there wasn't much anyone could do. George administered the morphine as he was directed to, watching for signs of intense pain, but Nancy actually was doing relatively well, and like the Stoic she was, didn't wish to be "knocked out" with pain meds, so he monitored it very closely. And her big strong heart refused to quit. There was nothing left of Nancy except skin, and bones. That night, as she slept, George and Reid watched a spot on the side of her neck that pulsed with each beat. Each beat became an act of defiance. One more second. One more. One more. Each time she awoke she would gaze at George, her eyes never leaving him.

In the middle of the night something happened to her. One half of her body tensed violently, then contorted, then finally drooped as though she had lost all control and nerves on that side of her frail body. George thought perhaps it was a stroke of some kind. It began to effect her face, something unseen pulling horribly at her mouth, wrenching one side into a terrible contorted look of what? pain? Her eye on that side clenched shut tightly but the other one looked intently right at George with what? fear? Her back began to arch and something was dragging her head over to her shoulder. George thought ohmygod she's in pain. She's in trouble. She needs me to help her. My girl needs me What what what do I do? He grabbed the liquid morphine and with Reid's help they both got the proper dose measured out and he put the drops into her mouth on the side that was drooping. It seemed to make what was happening to her even worse. Her skin, on her face and shoulders, suddenly turned hard and non pliant. He couldn't even leave an indentation on her cheek when he gently pushed on it. George was in absolute anguish. He lept up and began pacing, sobbing and pounding the air. He was afraid he'd done something wrong, put his Nancy in worse jeopardy than she was before. He frantically grabbed the phone and called the Hospice nurse, but it was in the middle of the night, and what could they do, anyway.

He went back to her and knelt down on the floor next to her and started praying. Praying loudly. Praying for God to take her, to ease her pain. To stop this madness. And then her body relaxed. Her skin softened. Her breathing calmed. George looked at her face. Nancy had both eyes open and she looked directly into his. And smiled. A warm and beautiful smile that said "George, don't worry, it's going to be okay." George said later that at that moment he felt a warm calmness wash over him, like something wonderful had just touched him. He looked down and she was holding his hand.

For the next hour George and Reid talked to her, to each other, to themselves, not looking at her, just being quiet and relaxed. During that conversation one of them looked down and noticed the spot on her neck was no longer pulsing. Later, George washed her body and dressed it in her favorite yellow nightgown. He said she looked beautiful.

But of course, she always was.