The Eulogy I Wrote For Frank’s Memorial Service

I had no problem writing his eulogy and truly thought I could read it at the service. But once I was there I knew I wouldn’t be able to. Instead, Reverend Jack did it for me and he did a wonderful job. In fact, he choked up a bit himself while reading it.

Enjoy:

I made note in Frank’s obituary that he had beat the odds against kidney cancer. That may have raised an eyebrow or two because if he beat it, why isn’t he here?

Frank beat the odds because only 5% of those diagnosed with advanced kidney cancer make it 5 years. Frank’s original diagnosis was made in March 2005 so that means in my mind, it was close enough to say he beat the odds.

He is part of that privileged 5%.

I am most proud of Frank’s unwavering determination and upbeat attitude throughout his cancer journey. Not once did he give up or admit defeat. He literally fought the cancer to the very end. I don’t know if I could have fought as hard as he did, and with jokes no less.

One of the things Frank started to do over the past few weeks or so as his illness advanced, was signal to us that he needed more time to process an answer to a question. To do this he would raise one finger, smile and then say “I’m still here.”

I firmly believe that Frank is still here with us in spirit and always will be. He is here in our hearts as well. I think Dr. Suess had it right when he said “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” I think Frank would have appreciated that quote because he was all about enjoying life to its fullest.

I still have a lot crying to do but I also have so many, many happy memories that I can think about to help me heal through this next part of my own life journey. Just remembering his smile makes my heart flutter and makes me happy – I guess that’s what true love must really be if something as simple as his smile can touch me that way.

I will love Frank to my dying day – he was my first true love.  I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have had him in my life for nearly 15 years. He was one of the most well-read people I’ve ever known, always searching for knowledge, always looking for answers. In fact, I can just see him at the pearly gates telling St. Peter – “Hold on, I’m not quite ready – I have another question for you.”

I would like to express my heartfelt appreciation to Frank’s friends for their unending support and love for him, especially during the last month or so while he was in the hospital and then at Presbyterian Homes and finally, at home.

You were all there for him, night and day, without question, even if that meant yet another spur of the moment trip to the Mall of America, wheelchair transfer and all.

You have all also been there for me. I could not have gotten through this time without you. We have all talked about Frank’s loyalty to his friends – you are all just as loyal. For that I love and thank you.

I feel so lucky to have been a part of Frank’s life and of course, part of his family. Thank you for sharing him with me.

Cheers to you, Frank, my love. May you find peace and happiness wherever you are.

 

February 25 – February 27

His passing is getting closer. I can feel it. In fact, I feel it’s so close it’s almost a physical sensation. I don’t think I’ll sleep much tonight.

I had the nurse put in a catheter today so as not to cause any further undue stress when he feels the need to urinate. He panics and has trouble holding the urinal jug. I hated the thought of doing it because it signals a closer end when he’s not doing something as simple as peeing – something he should naturally be able to do by himself.

It was painful for him to have it inserted. He held my hands and I told him to squeeze as hard as he wanted to – he said so quietly you almost couldn’t hear it, “f**k! that hurts – stop!”. When she was done I gave him another dose of pain medicine. His strength is ebbing – he could barely squeeze my hands though I could tell he tried so hard.

It is now nearly 12 hours later since she put in the catheter. He doesn’t seem to want to pull it out, which is what I was worried would happen so I’m relieved. He’s slept most of the day and I’ve noticed that noise, even quiet music, is making him fidgety and agitated. I’ve started giving him one of the medications to help ease that under his tongue. The hard part about that is that he isn’t taking in fluids so I’m worried the pill won’t dissolve. But the nurse said I could crush it and put it under his tongue and it will be fine.

I was initially going to allow visitors tomorrow but I changed my mind. It’s simply too taxing on him and as I am his health care agent – not to mention the fact I am his wife, I can make this determination.

I would love to have others visit him but you know what? It’s not the Frank they know and love now. What we have here is a wondrous soul that’s ready to travel to another place and begin another journey, that resides in this broken shell. The broken shell that’s hard to look at and understand why it had to be this way.

I want him to find peace and start his new journey. Wherever that might be.

I hope he sees the white light, and soon.

 

February 23 – February 24

Since Frank got home I’ve noticed his level of confusion has increased, words are jumbled, out of context. Seems to be withdrawing a bit also. Today for the first time he wasn’t even able to hold the urinal jug to pee into it, his friend and I helped him and then cleaned him up and put adult diapers on him. I know he hated that when he had to do it before but it’s either that or change sheets (which is a feat in and of itself, not only difficult on my part but tiring on his because he has to keep rolling back and forth) each time this happens.

I sense that he’ll be gone even sooner than I thought. Knowing that I’m okay with people visiting but I also don’t want to overwhelm him. It’s going to be a tough balancing act between allowing people to see him but also not wanting to hasten his passing by the obvious stress it puts on him.

He’s slept probably 20 out of the last 24 hours and I’m sure that will continue to increase. I just hope I can still continue to get him awake enough to take his pain medication, otherwise we’ll have to find a non-oral option.

Big sigh…

 

February 5 – February 14

I cannot continue with this blog without telling those who take the time to read it, my husband’s real name. The fact that I am finally expressing all of my feelings and not censoring them, means that I must be completely honest. Not even just with who reads this but with myself.

My husband’s name is Frank, and my name is Patty.

I think the reason I came to this conclusion is because of the events that have transpired since February 2.

Daily – I think I’m going to lose him and wish whatever higher power exists, will make up his/her mind already. Take him or heal him.

Hourly – I wish he would find peace and strength so that I won’t lose him, that he will be able to do the things he loves, and that he will be more like himself. His pre-cancer self.

It tears my heart apart to see him so weak, his skin literally sags from his arms, his legs have no muscle. In fact, his muscles in general have atrophied. So quickly, I can’t even begin to understand it.

I have to tell myself to breathe during the writing of this post because this is the most brutally honest I’ve been thus far – mostly with myself. I can’t stop crying and I can’t see what I’ve typed without stopping and wiping my eyes and blowing my nose.

Since Frank (and though he doesn’t like his name, I’ve always found it to be strong) was transferred to the rehab facility, he has changed dramatically. More than I can believe is justified. I don’t know how else to explain that. But I’ll try.

Frank was admitted to the hospital on Jan 26, he was still totally “Frank”. Honestly. I’m not saying that to make myself feel better or to explain the events that have occurred since then. He was clear on what was happening to and around him, he did not repeat or become confused about what was happening in his surroundings.

Since then, his cognitive processes have gone haywire (the only way I can describe it now).  I will talk more about this tomorrow or Tuesday, but I am so confused on why this is happening. Is it the level of morphine that’s affecting him (he had half the dosage yesterday that he had when he went there as well as today, and because Frank requested it, there will be another decrease by half again tomorrow to see if it’s the morphine that’s affecting his cognitive issues), or is it the hypercalcemia caused by the f*ng cancer that is causing the issues? Either way?? I hate this part of our life now.

My gut – unfortunately – tells me it’s the hypercalcemia. This means that the cancer is winning and it’s moved very fast in the past couple of weeks. Will Frank see spring??? Will he even see St. Patrick’s Day?? He could surprise us all, he’s just that stubborn, but then again, is he hanging in there for himself? Or me?

We have an appointment with the oncologist on Wednesday. He said he will come to the rehab facility if Frank isn’t up to going to the clinic. From what I’ve seen of Frank lately – though he is giving it his all – I’m sure Dr. R will be coming to us.

I love you, Teddy Bear.

 

December 11, 2009

I was thinking today of how Mike and I met – on a blind date, no less. And thinking about how life has challenged us, not to mention maybe changed us since then. You know what? Our love has never changed.

Chance was our meeting

His love unconditional

Tingling heart of mine