Sunday, September 28, 2008

Jeff's Obituary

For those of you who do not have access to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, I thought you might like to read Jeff's obituary as it ran in today's Sunday edition:

DODD, JEFFREY NEAL

Jeff Dodd, age 36, died on Thursday, September 25th 2008 from metastatic melanoma, a deadly form of skin cancer. He has promised to always be with his wife, Kelly, his daughters, Aubrey (age 13), and Regan (age 9), and his sons, Jack (age 7) and Finn (age 16 months).

Jeff was grateful for the life he lived. In time, he lived in Lincoln, Nebraska, Maynooth, Ireland, and South Bend, Indiana before settling in Wauwatosa. For eleven years he was a work-at-home Dad and freelance writer. His passion was creative writing and he completed many poems and a screenplay with hope of one day being a published novelist. His other passion was home maintenance and remodeling which extended even to his own home—parts of which he designed, built, and maintained with his own hands.

When he found out that he had an inoperable and incurable form of cancer, he felt no regret nor did he feel a need to make drastic changes in his life. He was grateful for the opportunity to take his children to school, eat lunch with them, and play with them everyday. He instilled them with values and morals and influenced their personalities.

Jeff is survived by his parents, Mary and Gary Dodd, and four siblings, Patrick Dodd, Mary Margaret Clay, Michael Dodd, and Michelle Wait, and a large extended family consisting of far too many relatives and friends to possibly mention within the limitations of this small column. Most importantly, Jeff is survived by his best friend and wife, Kelly, who will love him and honor him all the days of her life. His personal strength, obedience, and trustworthiness lives in his daughter, Aubrey. His persistence, commitment to his convictions, and directness continues through his daughter, Regan. His beautiful face, inherent goodness, and love of God lives on in his son, Jack. And his lovely sparkle, playfulness and sense of humor shine in abundance in his son, Finn.

Visitation on Monday, September, 29, 2008, at the Funeral Home from 4 p.m. until the time of Rosary Service at 7 p.m. A Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated on Tuesday, September 30 at St. Jude the Apostle Catholic Church, 800 Glenview Drive, Wauwatosa at 10 a.m. Burial to follow at Wauwatosa Cemetery.

Many people and causes were important to Jeff. Among them are the communities at Perry Court, Wilson Elementary School, St. Jude the Apostle Parish, and the Notre Dame Alumni Association of Milwaukee. Jeff gave selflessly to each of these organizations, serving in leadership roles and collecting friends who would generously comfort and support him throughout his last illness. He wishes to continue to support them through his death and asks that if you wish to make a memorial, you make it to either St. Jude the Apostle Parish, the Wilson Elementary School PTSA, or the LaTour/Dodd Scholarship of the Notre Dame Alumni Club of Milwaukee.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Funeral Arrangements

We will celebrate Jeff's life at a visitation on Monday, September 29th from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. at Schmidt Bartelt Funeral Home, 10121 W. North Avenue, Wauwatosa (414-774-5010) with a rosary to follow starting at 7:00 p.m. A funeral mass will be held on Tuesday, September 30th at 10:00 a.m. at St. Jude the Apostle Parish, 734 Glenview Avenue, Wauwatosa. We will immediately proceed to the Wauwatosa Cemetery, (on 76th street behind Longfellow middle school). After internment, will will likely serve a light lunch (details will be announced as they become available).

Please spread the word. It's shaping up to be one for the record books!

In the meantime, thanks for all of your calls, flowers, cards, visits, etc. It has made all of this so much easier to bear.

THANK YOU!

(And if you're just tuning in . . . make sure to read Jeff's Final Blog below. I hate to displace it with a funeral notice).

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Everytime a Bell Rings . . .

Our angel got his wings this morning at 7:45 a.m. The end was peaceful and so quick that it was unexpected. It appears that his surge of energy on Monday was a final "Hurrah" before another rapid decline. He spent Tuesday and Wednesday knocked-out on Atavan and pain medication in response to a lot of pain he was having in his left ankle (of all places?). He never really awoke and slipped away peacefully in his sleep. I stayed with him until his warmth left him and until he became stiff. Even in death the human body is amazing. I was so glad the kids and I were able to be with him and to say our final goodbyes. The kids have been incredibly resilient and I am so grateful to have such competent, caring, people around them right now who know exactly how to handle the situation and who aren't afraid to be part of all of this.

I'm sorry if you have not received a personal phone call regarding the news. I am preoccupied making arrangements. Jeff drafted a final blog before he died and he asked that I post it upon his death.

So, here are his parting thoughts and words.

(P.S. I, Kelly, will continue to post here to let everyone know about funeral arrangements, etc. and will also use this blog to communicate about the aftermath of Jeff's death--about how I and the kids are doing etc. So, I hope you'll keep reading).

MY FINAL BLOG

Hi! The fact that you are reading this means I have died. I asked Kelly to post this after my death. She did not read it beforehand so its content is as fresh to her and the kids as it is to you. I weighed carefully whether I wanted to post a final blog like this. On one hand, a “letter from the dead” seems a bit morbid. But ultimately I decided that I wanted to share some thoughts that provided comfort to me in the end. I hope that they give you some insight into how I viewed my battle with melanoma and my approaching death.

Where’s The Justice?
Before this happened, I had never questioned why things happened. To me, the answer seemed clear: they happened because there were causes. A tsunami wipes out a village because an earthquake shakes the ocean floor. A plane filled with business travelers crashes into an office tower because a mob of cowardly terrorists chose that flight for their suicide mission. The innocent bystanders don’t deserve to die, and certainly they (and their friends and relatives) deserve great compassion for the circumstances in which they find themselves. But God didn’t make those things happen. People or nature did.

Then this happened to me.

And of course I questioned why it happened, looked for justice in the situation. I felt like I had led a healthy life, had made wise and careful decisions about how I conducted myself, had done plenty of praying, and was an asset to my community. So why would I get stuck with a diagnosis like this? When there were so many people who had abused themselves in one way or other, who had made bad and dangerous decisions, who ignored God completely, and who were not assets to their communities—and yet these people were living to ripe old ages—why was I the one who had to face the prospect of an early death? If God was a God of justice, where was the justice in this?

And then, as I pondered the situation for the umpteenth time, it dawned on me that this was justice. The facts are that I have fair skin and I was sunburned many times as a kid. One time, when I was 19, the burn was so bad I ended up with painful blisters on my face, shoulders, arms, legs, and feet. And I remember the exact thought that struck me as I looked at myself in the mirror and realized the extent of that particular sunburn: “I probably just killed myself with skin cancer.” It was obviouds then; I know now as I knew then that I have this cancer because of my own actions. I may be blameless for those actions, at least to the extent that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t use sunscreen in those days; few people did. But the outcome could not be called unjust. It was simply the inevitable consequence of my actions.

Opportunities
I spent a lot of time begging God for healing during those first several months after my diagnosis. I prayed almost constantly that he would perform a miracle and rid my body of the melanoma. I also spent a lot of time wondering—for the first time in my life—whether there really was a God, whether there really was an afterlife, and whether there was any value to prayer. I hadn’t given much thought to these subjects in the past, but they suddenly seemed very important now that I faced the possibility of dying. The lessons I learned in religion class looked quite feeble when I viewed them next to the apparently iron-clad proofs that scientists and atheists made for a wholly material world.

They looked feebler still after the melanoma metastasized to my brain and I underwent brain surgery, lost the use of my leg, and spent a month laying in a bed in the hospital. This rather dramatic sequence of events might have seemed to be an emphatic answer to my questions. See, these might say, this is what will happen. Not because of God but because there is no God. The universe began with a disinterested bang, and it’s been operating in a disinterested cause-and-effect ever since. Prayers are irrelevant.

It would have been difficult for me to dispute this argument, except for a strange event that happened six days before my craniotomy. It was a Monday afternoon, and I had jogged three laps around the Hart Park track in Wauwatosa. Those were the first three laps I had run on a track since high school. I had given up running for more than 15 years because it wasn’t fun for me anymore. But that particular Monday, as I walked past the track, the thought struck me that it might be fun to run again. And it was. Seeing once again the lane markings, feeling the spongy recycled-tire surface under my feet, striding past the grandstands, it all made me remember why I had enjoyed running as a boy and motivated me to want to do it again. Moreover, it renewed my desire to beat this cancer. The fact that I couldn’t extend my left leg when I got home seemed irrelevant.

It wasn’t. That was actually the first symptom of a swelling brain tumor. The following Saturday morning, I underwent a craniotomy.

During the following weeks, it became increasingly more apparent that the surgery had left me with a permanent disability and I would never run again. Surprisingly, I was not particularly angry about this new development. I was grateful that the doctor had been able to remove the lesion. I was grateful that I was close to home and could have lots of visitors. And I was grateful because I had run those laps around the track. Some people might call it a coincidence. From my perspective, however, it was as if God had given me the opportunity to run—and I had chosen to take advantage of the opportunity through my free will—because He knew I would never have that opportunity again.

I began to think of some of the other “opportunities” that had presented themselves in the past year. I had pulled my bike out of the shed for the first time in seven years and taken several rides with each of the kids. Coincidence or opportunity? In the days immediately prior to my diagnosis, I had completed the last task in our home renovation. Coincidence or opportunity? We had taken our first big family vacation the summer before my diagnosis, and the Christmas that preceded my diagnosis—by a mere eight days!—was undoubtedly the best Christmas we had celebrated as a family. Even if I had gone into complete remission, we couldn’t have had another vacation or Christmas like those, so carefree and hopeful with no worries about the future. Coincidence or opportunity?

And then there was Finn. Kelly and I were not expecting to have any more children. Jack was five years old, and we were starting to get comfortable with the notion that God had given us all the children we were meant to have. Then Kelly found out she was pregnant. It took us by surprise, and we wondered to ourselves why God would give us this baby at this time. The timing seemed even worse after my diagnosis. But then Finn was born, and God’s answer was clear. If ever a family needed something to celebrate it was us at that time. Here was a special person that we could love and, equally importantly, who could love us at a time when we needed it most. Coincidence or opportunity?

I am an objective person by nature. I think logically and believe firmly in rational thought. I considered all of these situations carefully and, while admitting that some of them might be coincidences, cannot accept that so many seemingly random events would coincide in such a way by pure chance. Assuming there is a God—and I am convinced that there is for several reasons, not the least of which are Thomas Aquinas’ Five Proofs—and assuming that He interacts with His creation, then these kind of “opportunities” seem to me like the most probable way He would do so. These opportunities respect the gift of free will and provide comfort without interfering with the forces of nature. Miracles, by their very nature, are not common. And I really do not think we would want them to be any other way.

For some reason, my recognition of these “opportunities” seemed to quell any doubts I had about prayer, Heaven, and God. I think this feeling of acceptance—you might call it Faith—is probably also an answer to a prayer.

You Have To Die
But enough philosophizing. The real issue, at least in many people’s minds (including my own), was whether the treatments would work or not. In other words, was I going to live or die?

As you might expect, I have found that contemplating my own death has been both sad and worrisome. Questions arise that have no answers: Who will give away my daughters at their weddings? Who will take my sons to their first Notre Dame games? Who will comfort Kelly when she is feeling lonely or overwhelmed? Will Kelly be able to make it as a single working mom? Will the kids have problems coping without their father? Most of these questions, I decided, are not worth worrying about. Anything can happen in life, and I don’t know what the future holds for my family. What I do know is that Kelly is an amazingly strong woman and my children are incredibly resilient human beings. They will handle whatever comes along the same way they always have: with hope and with courage and with prayer.

One question, however, I could not dismiss so easily: what is the purpose of all this? It seemed like there should be a moral to the story, but I could not find one. I don’t see how it benefits my wife and kids in any way to be stripped of their husband and father at such a young age. I don’t think my disease and death have advanced the scientific understanding of melanoma. I considered so many reasons why my death would have a purpose, but ultimately none of them satisfied me. Of course, you often find answers where you least expect them.

Last summer, Kelly and I rented “Stranger Than Fiction.” I had looked forward to seeing this movie ever since my friend Marc Schulte had recommended it during his visit to see me in Houston. I had expected to enjoy the film, in no small part because of Marc’s recommendation. But I had not expected it to speak so directly to my situation. The movie, which stars Will Ferrell, Dustin Hoffman, and Emma Thompson, involves a man named Harold (Ferrell) who begins to hear a voice in his head. He soon discovers that this voice is actually the voice of an author (Thompson) who has a reputation for killing off her main characters. Afraid that his end is near, Harold asks a college literature professor (Hoffman) to persuade the author to let his character live. The professor succeeds in talking to the author and getting a copy of the work in progress. He then—in what to me was the most important scene in the film—meets with Harold to discuss the situation. Here’s how it goes:

Professor Hilbert stands near a window, looking out at the street below.
Harold enters the room.

Harold
Professor Hilbert?

Professor Hilbert
Hi Harold.

Harold
Hi.

Professor Hilbert
You look tired.

Harold
No. No, just calm.

Professor Hilbert
Harold, I’m sorry. You have to die.

Harold
What?

Professor Hilbert
It’s her masterpiece. It’s possibly the most important novel in her already stunning career, and it’s absolutely no good unless you die at the end. I’ve been over it again and again, and I know, I know how hard this is for you to hear.

Harold
You’re asking me to knowingly face my death?

Professor Hilbert
Yes.

Harold
Really?

Professor Hilbert
Yes.

Harold
I thought you’d, I thought you’d find something.

Professor Hilbert
I’m sorry Harold.

Harold
Can’t we just try to see if she can change it?

Professor Hilbert
No.

Harold
No?

Professor Hilbert
Harold, in the grand scheme it wouldn’t matter.

Harold
Yes it would.

Professor Hilbert
No.

Harold
I could change. I could quit my job. I could go away with Anna. I could be someone else.

Professor Hilbert
Harold, listen to me.

Harold
I can’t die right now. It’s just really bad timing.

Professor Hilbert
No one wants to die, Harold, but unfortunately we do. Harold. Harold, listen to me. Harold, you will die, some day, some time. Heart failure at the bank. Choke on a mint. Some long, drawn-out disease you contracted on vacation. You will die. You will absolutely die. Even if you avoid this death, another will find you. And I guarantee that it won’t be nearly as poetic or meaningful as what she’s written. I’m sorry, but it’s, it’s the nature of all tragedies, Harold. The hero dies, but the story lives on forever.

This scene seemed to sum up so much of how I felt about my experience with melanoma and at the same time it provided great comfort. Like Harold, I was sad about what was happening; I didn’t want to die. But, as Professor Hilbert explains, each of us has a story. And each story has a particular way it is meant to end. We may not understand the why, but at some point to some one it all makes beautiful sense.

Prayers Answered.
So this is my story. And I’ve been privileged to have so many of you as a part of it. I am so grateful, not just in what you have done for me since I received my diagnosis but—far more importantly to me—in what you have done and continue to do for Kelly and the kids. I have been blessed to be surrounded by friends, relatives, and neighbors who genuinely care about my family and have proven they will do whatever they can to see that my children thrive and Kelly has the support she needs.

It is my fervent belief that, in spite of my death, prayers have been answered. The answers may have come in a way—or at a time—we didn’t expect, but sure enough they came. And they will continue to come. So keep praying for me and for each other. I’ll be praying for all of you.

Bye!
Jeff

Monday, September 22, 2008

Day to Day

Kelly here, again. After sleeping for most of the day yesterday (from noon until midnight) without so much as changing positions, Jeff awoke at midnight and announced he was starving and wanted to eat. He turned on the T.V., ate some pudding and visited with me and the nurses. He told me he was no longer in pain--he wasn't even using the self-administered pain pump--and he slept easy through the night, even asking me to crawl in bed next to him at 4: 30 a.m. which I happily obliged.

This morning, he is conversant and alert. He ate a normal breakfast, has talked on the phone, and watched T.V. We have visited for most of the morning.

So, it appears that the weekend of lethargy and pain was cured by a marathon nap and a few more milligrams of Dilaudid.

Jeff requests that if you are planning to visit you bring some vanilla ice cream and a prayer for the whole family. He reminds you that he needs to keep conversations to a minimum, but otherwise is feeling quite well.

Kelly

Sunday, September 21, 2008

An Eventful Update (of the no good kind)

Hi Everybody. I am sorry to report that Jeff has taken another downward turn. The Hospice staff called me away from 9:00 a.m. mass this morning to let me know that Jeff was having considerable pain and that they were going to install a "PCA" (which is a self-administered pain pump). They also informed me that he appears to be weaker and that his overall condition has declined.

He battled pain and discomfort for most of last week and was also suffering from shortness of breath. In response, the Hospice team increased his pain medication to effectively combat both symptoms. Jeff had a ton of visitors on Friday, and his brother and father came to visit over the weekend and actually stayed with Jeff in the hospice. Rumor has it, Jeff even attempted to eat a Big Mac and french fries (which would have been his first solid food in three weeks). So, right now it's hard to tell how much of his lethargy and sleepiness is due to the stress of a busy weekend and how much is due to the disease simply running its course.

For now, he is comfortably resting and his pain seems to be largely under control. I remain watchful and hopeful. I will udpate you again soon.

Take care!
Kelly

Thursday, September 18, 2008

An Uneventful Update (which are the best kind, these days)

Despite the best intentions, Jeff has not felt strong enough to write a new post so, again, I am doing the honors.

Yesterday, they increased Jeff's oxycontin (sp?) because he had doubled the dose of Dilaudid for break-through pain the day before. The doctor said that instead of continuing to up the break-through pain meds, he would increase the baseline meds to give Jeff more consistent and more effective pain control. Therefore, he should require less mediation for the breakthrough pain. The downside of upping his oxycontin is that it makes him extremely tired and groggy. The doctor said this should only last a couple of days while Jeff's body adjusts to the new "baseline."

So, visits were short yesterday because Jeff was too tired to participate. I took Regan to see him for a one-on-one visit and after about 15 minutes she came to find me in the playroom with Jack and Finn. I said, "are you done visiting already??" and she said, "yeah, because Dad fell asleep." Later when we got home, she told me that she was sad he fell asleep and that she didn't really get to visit with him because "it's just one more day that I don't get to be with him." I felt so sorry for her. But, overall, the kids continue to do well and talk openly and honestly about their concerns. Except for Finn--Finn continues to express his anxiety by being extremely clingy at bed time. He cried solid from 8:30 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. last night before finally giving into exhaustion. At first, he was consoled if I held him or laid with him. But after a while, even that didn't work. He flopped around on the bed, rearranging himself and his pillow and his baby octopus that he sleeps with. He was angry and uncomfortable and finally cried himself to sleep around 3:00 a.m. I felt like doing the same thing, but didn't have the energy or an octopus.

My friend Barbara is going to take one for the team tonight. She's going to spend the night at our house with the kids so that I can spend the night at the hospice with Jeff. (Colleen, you are going to get your turn too as soon as I get around to returning your phone call, so consider this fair warning! Ha!). Jeff has been very lonely at night and had repeatedly asked me to stay with him at the hospice, so I am happy that we have finally made arrangements to make it possible. Nightime is when we had our best conversations--after the kids were in bed and we could finally connect about the day's events. I don't think Jeff will have much energy for talking, but that won't stop me from yammering on about work (they have been wonderful to me!); Aubrey (she just found out she is one of the Captains of the Cheerleading Squad!); Regan (her coach took me aside to tell me that Regan is "AWESOME" at soccer and to thank us for putting her on the team); Jack (the informational meeting about Cub Scouts is tonight); and Finn (the naughty, naughty monkey who won't go to bed!).

I will also spend part of the evening reading your blog comments to him. (Jim--don't let me down. Jeff loves your stories and thought your bitter tirade about Hardee's was particularly uplifting!) Keep 'em coming. And if any of the rest of you have funny stories to tell--don't hold back. Now's the time to let 'em rip (George--behave.) Jeff has said several times that although he appreciates everyone's encouragement and positive thoughts, he especially loves the lighthearted comments that do nothing more than distract him and make him laugh.

In the meantime, I'll try to be better about posting updates, now that I know Jeff will likely have me be his scribe until he's more alert and energetic. Until then, take care as always.

And--thanks to everyone who has visited, brought us treats, fed us dinner, run errands for us, etc. Thanks also to the friends, family members, and even strangers who have provided a listening ear and unlicensed therapy to me and my kids! The list of names would be too long to print here, but each one of you has been an angel to us. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I can't say it enough!

Kelly et al.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Checkin In

Kelly here. It's been a while since the last post, so I thought everyone might appreciate an update. Jeff's condition is unchanged, so the good news is that he has not gotten any worse. He still requires substantial assistance to move anything but his arms and and his head. He prefers to sleep most of the time. However, when he is awake he is generally lucid and conversant. However, he is slow to formulate his thoughts and will sometimes wander off-topic, so visiting with him requires lots of energy and persistence on Jeff's part and lots of patience on the part of others.

He is still able to eat--mostly creamy soups and ice cream or shakes, however he doesn't have much of an appetite. He lies in bed most of the time--sitting in a chair has proven to be too much work and ultimately too uncomfortable.

Jeff has had lots of visitors, cards, and letters. I visit him two or three times a day and generally try to work from his room via wireless internet when I am not in the office. The kids get to visit him everyday, too. Last night was Finn's turn for a one-on-one visit. As soon as we walked in the room, Finn lit up and said, "Da Da." From the beginning, Finn has been a real Daddy's Boy. When Jeff was at home, they had a nightly bedtime ritual where Jeff would lay in bed and Finn would crawl all over him giving him hugs and kisses. Jeff would sing to him and they would laugh. If Finn did not get this special time with Jeff before bed he would either not go to sleep or would wake up in the middle of the night. So, Finn's "Daddy Time" became a must. Now, as little as he is, Finn knows something is different and he misses Jeff's presence at home. Last night, Jack slept on Jeff's side of the bed in our room. Finn woke up extra early this morning and I brought him into bed with me in an effort to get him back to sleep. In the dark and the shadows of the room, Finn could only see that Jeff's side of the bed was occupied, and again, he was instantly alert and eager to play, and as he climbed onto a sleeping Jack, yelled "Da Da" as if for a moment thinking it was all just a bad dream and Daddy was back at home in his bed where Finn always expects him to be.

But despite everything that has changed since Jeff went into hospice, much remains the same. Life goes on and swirls around him. The kids started school, Regan started soccer ("Go Owls!"), Jack is joining Cub Scouts, and Aubrey is cheerleading again this year. I'm so grateful that the kids have been able to follow their routines and that we've been able to keep things as normal as possible for them.

In the meantime, I have to apologize for being woefully behind on returning phone calls and on writing Thank Yous. I'll do my best to get back to everyone. Please know that we appreciate everything everyone is doing for us! Also, I need to let everyone know that we found a new nanny to job-share with our regular nanny, Lauren, so between them (and the Murphys) our child care is covered. Jen is a nanny with a culinary degree from Le Cordon Bleu. She is the perfect complement to our other nanny, Lauren, who lost her own mother to cancer when she was nine years old. The kids love them both and they are the absolute Dream Team for us!

Finally, and on a happier note, my paralegal, Liz, (who is also one of my best friends) and I both became aunts on the same day this week! Liz's sister, Amanda, gave birth to a baby girl and Jeff's sister, Michelle, gave birth to a baby boy within three hours of each other on September 11th! Congratulations to both of them!

I'll try to post another update soon. Until then . . .

Warm Regards to All!
Kelly

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Welcome to the spa.

Hi. Friday they moved me to the Zilber Hospice in Wauwatosa. It's very close to home--literally over the river and through the woods--about two blocks away. It looks more like a 5-star hotel than a hospital room.

I would like to have visitors BUT it is essential that I not over-exert myself and that I get lots of rest each day. If you want to visit, please observe the following rules:

1. Please keep visits short.
2. DO NOT visit if you have a cold or are recovering from a cold or if you have another communicable disease.
3. Please plan to visit between noon and 1:30 p.m. You do not need to call in advance.
4. If you arrive when I am visiting with someone else, please wait quietly in the hallway.
5. I don't mind more than one visitor at a time, but please try to limit groups; young children (7 and younger) should not stay more than 3-5 minutes.

My primary goal is to get rest so that my body can heal to the point that it can accept another round of cancer treatment.

We will try to keep the blog as up to date as possible so that there is less need for phone calls.

Friday, September 5, 2008

On this day 7 years ago . . .

John "Jack" Gerard Dodd was fighting for his life in the hospital. I would have never guessed that seven years later, Jeff would be doing the same. Jack was born September 4th, 2001. He was due on September 20th, so I was very excited at the prospect of his early arrival. It was the day after labor day and while I was sitting at work I felt the familiar pangs of labor. I have a reputation for being notoriously bad at determining when it's time to go to the hospital--I showed up at the hospital dilated to 9 cm when I was pregnant with Aubrey--so, I thought it best to go to the doctor right away to find out if this was the real thing. This time, I was only dilated to 6 cm (whew!) so the doctor sent me to the hospital and said "yep, today's the day."

Aubrey was at school so I met Jeff at home and we sent two-year old Regan over to the Cox's, the first set of Heaven-sent neighbor's we would meet on Perry Ct. Jeff and I headed to the hospital and settled in for what I expected would be a relatively quick and easy delivery.

Early in the afternoon, and shortly after we arrived, the doctor checked me and announced that Jack was attempting to be born "hand-first" in that his little hand was creeping out in front of his head. I was concerned that this would endanger my coveted personal record of zero C-sections, but the doctor reassured me that babies come out hand-first all the time, and that it did not necessarily forecast a C-section, but that he would need to closely monitor Jack to make sure he did not dislocate a shoulder on the way out. A short time later, the doctor checked me again and noted that now Jack's entire arm was trying to make its way to the finish line. The doctor recommended he try a maneuver whereby he would push up on Jack's head while I pushed down in an attempt to help him slip into the birth canal which would, in turn, cause Jack's arm to move back into place where it belonged. The doctor warned me that if the maneuver did not work, I would need to have a C-section because he did not feel there was enough room to safely deliver Jack's arm and head simultaneously.

As the doctor attempted the maneuver, suddenly half-a dozen nurses ran into the room; someone slipped an oxygen mask over my face and the doctor said very calmly, "things are going to move fast now." At this point, I was under the impression that the maneuver had failed and I was merely being prepared for the routine C-section I had been warned would happen. However, everyone was very serious and more and more people arrived in the room with each passing second. Within a minute or so, I was being rushed down the hallway on a gurney with people riding both with me and beside me and refusing to slow down for obvious road blocks such as doors and walls.

In a blur, I recall passing under the threshold of the operating room door and being mildly concerned that I had no anesthesia. I remember two doctors--one dedicated to each arm--pumping them full with syringes of something that made me feel both physically and mentally numb. I heard doctors shouting at nurses that there was no time to count the surgical equipment and to "go, go, go." Jeff was nowhere to be found, having been left in the dust of the delivery room where, I later learned, nurses were frantically trying to dress him in the requisite scrubs while rushing him down the hall to the operating room. As doctors tugged and pulled on me, I could sense the urgency in the room. I spoke out loud to God and to no one in particular to "please let the baby be OK." The doctors tugged and pulled and little Jack was free. I waited for the cry. And waited. And waited.

"They're working on him. They're doing the best they can for him" said the nurse as she petted my head and through all the fogginess of the anesthesia I felt cold fear and understood that something had gone terribly wrong.

I was suddenly very alert and started asking, "is the baby OK?" "what's wrong?" And the nurse would only tell me that they were "working on him" and that he was "in the best possible hands." I then saw a blur in the corner of my eye and a commanding and curt voice said, "kiss him quick because he's coming with me." And then I met Jack. He looked perfect--just like his sisters. He was swaddled with his little hands poking out of the blankets under his chin. His sweet baby fingers wiggled and stretched. He was pink and alert, but with tubes up his nose. He didn't cry. What had happened to him? What was wrong? Only now, did Jeff find his way to the operating room--no sooner had he arrived than he was diverted by the Jack-toting doctor.

Jeff went with the baby and I laid there filleted on the table and throwing up from the fast-acting anesthesia. It was only after I was in the recovery room that the doctor sat next to me on the bed and said, "I don't know if you were aware of what just happened, but you had a prolapsed cord." He explained that a prolapsed cord is a rare obstetrical emergency whereby the umbilical cord slips into the birth canal and is pinched-off like a garden hose between the baby's head and the pelvic bones. It cuts off the baby's blood and oxygen supply, so it takes only minutes for a baby to suffocate. It has a high mortality rate (most babies die) and the lucky ones suffer severe brain damage from the lack of oxygen. I learned that the entire scene that I just recounted above--from the time the doctor tried his "maneuver" until Jack was born--took only four minutes.

I also learned that when Jack was born he had an APGAR score of "one" (I believe the highest score is a 10) and that he scored one point because he had a heartbeat. However, he was otherwise blue and unresponsive and his heartbeat was weak. The neonatologist that responded to the emergency resuscitated him and quickly spirited him off to the neonatal intensive care unit.

They then took me to visit Jack. I was lying prone on a hospital gurney and was still numb from the chest down. He was in some sort of hood or incubator that made him look like a little astronaut. There were tubes everywhere--he had not been cleaned. I wanted to hold him, but they told me I was not allowed to even touch him because he had been very traumatized by the experience and his immature nervous system needed to recover from the shock and even touching him or holding him could agitate his tiny body and unbalance him. They told us he would need to be closely monitored for seizures and blood toxicity and several other very serious sounding "side effects" of near-strangulation.

So, to make a long story not-so-long, we waited 10 days for our beautiful boy to recover. Slowly we were allowed to touch him and then hold him and then feed him. We watched coverage of the 9/11 tragedy in the hospital lounge. We brought him home to his big sisters and watched and waited for nearly two years when he finally "graduated" from the neonatal intensive care unit's follow-up program with a clean bill of health and no known adverse effects from the accident.

Today Jack is smart and happy and healthy. He is a miracle to me and joy to others. He proudly announces "I almost died when I was born" and tells the story succinctly and accurately to whomever will listen. Jack is a very spiritual child--if you ask him how many people are in his family he will say eight: Mom, Dad, Aubrey, Regan, Jack, Finn, Jesus, and God. And he seems to understand things like faith and love inherently. I often wonder if in those first moments after his birth, when he hovered precipitously between this life and the next, if he didn't catch a glimpse of Heaven.

And now seven years later--we are again in the hospital and we are, again, in need of a miracle. Jack visited Jeff in the hospital yesterday after opening his presents (a fishing pole, fishing tackle, and some books). He had cupcakes at school (THANK YOU, Theresa!) and an airplane birthday cake (THANK YOU, Liz!). He declared it to be the "best birthday ever" and I think it was too--except for that scary horrible beautiful wonderful day seven years ago.

Happy Birthday, Jacky! We love you so much!

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Words We Did Not Want To Hear

Hi! Yesterday, we heard the words we did not want to hear. Following our visit with Dr. Richards this past Friday, my strength continued to decrease significantly. We returned home on Sunday, the remainder of which I spent in bed. By Monday morning, I was so weak I needed Kelly’s assistance to get in and out of bed, walk to the bathroom, even kick off the covers. Kelly called the palliative care team at Froedtert, and the nurse said to bring me to the ER.

With help from my Dad and brother-in-law, Kelly got me loaded into the van and drove me to the ER. We checked in, and the nurses and doctors started their examinations immediately. They poked, prodded, measured, tested, x-rayed, and questioned me for several hours. Finally, the palliative care doctor, Dr. Marks, came to meet with me and Kelly. He said it appeared the cancer had progressed to the point where treatment was no longer possible. He also said I would stay in the hospital until I was strong enough to return home or make arrangements to stay in a hospice facility. He said—because I finally asked—the prognosis for someone with progressive cancer like this is generally measured in terms of weeks or months.

This was obviously not the news we wanted to hear, although it was not particularly unexpected. I knew I had been feeling progressively worse for quite some time. I could feel the lumps inside me, feel my swollen liver, my swollen kidneys, my throbbing subcutaneous nodes, my declining appetite, my growing fatigue and weakness (in case anyone wonders, I would associate fatigue with physical energy and weakness with physical strength).

Before sharing the news with anyone, we wanted to confirm Dr. Marks’ remarks with Dr. Richards. We called Dr. Richards’ office this morning and received his response rather quickly. He confirmed that the benefits of treatment—even a single chemotherapy with minimal side effects—would not outweigh the risks if I were so weak that I could no longer care for myself. Frankly, I agree with the assessment. I don’t want to be hooked up to tubes surrounded by nurses in a cancer ward when the end comes, nor do I want to hasten my death by pursuing treatment that will likely cause a fatal infection, fever, pneumonia, or some other harmful side effect.

Nevertheless, this has been hard news to hear, especially for Kelly. Ever since my cancer diagnosis, I’ve told Kelly that she has the heavier cross to bear. Today was one of those days when the extent of that weight began to reveal itself. Please pray for her when you can. We told the kids, and they took the news quite well. They have shown remarkable resiliency through this entire process. Their innocence protects them, I think; this is their childhood and they have nothing with which to compare it. Please pray for them, as well, as the coming months will be extra difficult for them I’m sure.

I will post another blog when we know more about what we’ll do when I get out of the hospital. If anyone wonders, I am in room 4NW-20 at Froedtert Hospital in Wauwatosa. My direct room phone number is 414-805-3400. If you want to visit, I recommend calling first and then planning to come between noon and 4:00 pm. My mornings are filled with doctor visits and my evenings will be preoccupied with visits from Kelly and the kids.