My Father and My Dog

Sunday was the birthday-that-was-never-supposed-to-be, and easily the best birthday that Bailey has ever had. It was a wonderful day for many, many reasons. But leading up to it, I could not help but recall the birthday-that-never-was when I left Bailey with friends, as I visited my father for the last time. I have been thinking a lot about my father lately and how he handled his illness, decline and death.

My father was a man defined by many roles. He was a businessman, a husband, a father, a Jew, a liberal democrat and a dog lover (and spoiler). Above all, however, my father was a social being and a practitioner of the nearly lost art of gab. He lived for off-the-cuff social interactions and he was always ready with a subject to chat about. Be it a humorous anecdote, a family story or strong opinions about politics, he was a master at starting conversations and keeping them going. He would draw you in instantly and, before you knew it and without any intention, you would find yourself touting your own stories or arguing for your own opinions. As free as my father felt to vigorously say whatever he thought, he also reveled in hearing other points of view. When with him, you never felt lost for something to say and always felt welcome to speak your mind. As much as he loved to gab, he also loved sharing the gab. My father was definitely a social being—which is what made him such a good businessman, husband, father, Jew, democrat, dog lover and many other things.

Although I am certain that he would relegate it as the least important to his self-definition, my father also played one other very major role during the last fifteen years of his life—that of a patient with a terminal illness. He knew since the beginning that his condition was both chronic and terminal, although he acknowledged (even to his own family) only the chronic component. He refused to be defined by his illness, he refused to give up socializing, and he refused to have others interact with him as a dying old man. He never let his pain or fatigue prevent an opportunity to entertain or go out with friends and relatives, and rarely did he cancel a date due to his illness. As he did with any other topic, he readily gabbed about the management of his own condition with just about anyone. But, he rarely let anyone outside of the immediate family know about the pain and lethargy he experienced episodically at first, but nearly all of the time and with increasing intensity during his last two years. Almost no one knew about the morphine patches he wore as he gabbed with them over Chinese food or while walking the dog. Almost no one knew how he would collapse from overwhelming exhaustion no sooner than he would jovially say goodbye with one last anecdote. And almost no one knew about the morphine drip awaiting him in his bedroom that, during the last 6 months, he surrendered to for a little relief from the pain that had been building while he joked and chatted with them.

After my father died and others learned more about the course of his last two years, they would ask why he hid it from them; why he did not let them know that a visit would be too much. And they each would add that they certainly would have understood and would have gladly spared him the discomfort. But that is exactly why he covered his pain and hid his exhaustion. He wanted these interactions, he wanted these chances to gab, he wanted these small moments of joy. He hid and minimized his illness not because he was a martyr in any way, but because these small, casual interactions were his best medicine; it was what he lived for. So he would put up with the pain—perhaps even feel less of it—in order to gab and mingle.  And it worked. My father lived at least a couple of years longer than his doctors or research would have predicted.

Bailey (with Norman) at age 12 yrs-11.5 mos.

Nearing the ninth anniversary of his death, I could not help but think about my father as I watched Bailey rejoice in the best birthday ever—the birthday that was never supposed to be.  Although I do not presume that Bailey has made any conscious choices about how to define herself or her interactions in the face of a terminal illness, her behaviors nevertheless remind me so much of my father. Like him, Bailey is very much a social being and continues to live for the small joys of simple interactions. Even on very bad days, she springs to her paws and excitedly greets guests. She cajoles them to pet her, give her treats, and to interact with her. She becomes excited and remains that way throughout each visit, no matter how arrhythmic her heartbeat becomes, and no matter how much she struggles to get sufficient oxygen. And during her party, she played with the children, attended to food (that she might possibly borrow), and gleefully remained alert and attentive as she bounced and bounced and bounced. She was full of life during those few hours and, for the first time in many weeks, I did not hear her gasp for breath no matter how excited she got--and she was was excited throughout. Of course, as has been the case after nearly all interactions the last few months, and exactly like my father would do, she collapsed with a loud groan no sooner than the last guests left. She had expended every bit of energy that she had, and she hurt from the swelling and stiffness in her front shoulders. But while her guests were here, she demonstrated none of this and, perhaps, even forgot the fatigue and pain herself.

My last two conversations with my father (I’m not sure which was the last) were about how, according to him, George W. Bush was a complete damn idiot (I could not disagree), and about Bailey’s work as a therapy dog (he had been visited by one the day before). This was on the day of Bailey’s fourth birthday, the last day my father would be conscious, and less than three days from his eventual death. I did not know then that Bailey’s birthday-that-never-was and her birthday-that-was-never-meant-to-be would be forever linked with my father’s death. And I did not know then that this was the least important way that I would associate my father’s and Bailey’s illnesses and deaths. I am proud of the way that my father chose to live his last months in the face of an increasingly exhausting and painful illness that he knew would soon claim his life. I am glad that Bailey appears to be living her last months the same way. And I am humbled to have had the opportunity to learn about living and dying from both of them.