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DFW

(54,050 posts)
14. Posts like this are windows into humanity. I always read them, as my dad left in a special way, too.
Sun Dec 2, 2018, 12:42 PM
Dec 2018

He was one Washinton's last print journalists who was the sole Washington correspondent for a small town no one outside the area has heard of. He had offers from "bigger" papers, but stayed true to the paper of the one-horse town that first gave him a chance. After FIFTY years with them, and recognition for his unwillingness to compromise his principles, he learned he had pancreatic cancer. His first reaction was, "well, so much for clean living."

He fought it for 11 months, but was told that none of the treatments were successful, and that the end was near. Nine days before he died, he left his readers one last column. I will edit out a name or two, but this is how a writer goes out in style:

Published: November 19, 2000

Copyright (c) [my dads newspaper]
BAD NEWS...........FROM WASHINGTON
By [DFW's dad]

This is a column I was hoping not to have to write, especially this soon. Readers of this space know that I have been under treatment for pancreatic cancer for about nine months.

The treatment, mostly medication, plus chemotherapy infusions at an oncologist's office, was part of a study program approved by the Food and Drug Administration and involved chemo applications whenever the blood counts were adequate to sustain it.

It was designed for three treatments, one in each of successive weeks, followed by a week of "rest," during which the cells would have a chance to recover.

For me the treatment went in fits and starts. Only once did I complete a three-week cycle. Every six weeks a laboratory radiological office took X-rays to measure what was happening to the cancer, although pancreatic cancer is extremely difficult to read on X-rays.

About 10 days ago I got the bad news from the oncologist. The chemo treatment, which had been interrupted three times for infections and, most recently was accompanied by a substantial swelling of body fluid, had done about all it could to stem the tumor growth and stabilize it.

One other alternative he had held out was to switch to a different chemo protocol, but he determined that, not only was that treatment less effective than the one just halted, but might well have made me sicker.

He said I had put up an amazing fight and he would never have expected me to last as long as I had.

I was fully aware that the odds on stabilizing the cancer - it could never be cured - were tiny, but I had hoped I might have been in the small minority of those who survived. Ironically, my predecessor in writing politics for the [his paper], William E. P., died of pancreatic cancer.

In the course of recent treatment my feet had become so swollen they could hardly fit into shoes or slippers, particularly when I was wearing socks; my legs began to look like a linebacker's, as opposed to my normally skinny appearance, and my belly had grown to a point that made me look as if I were pregnant. It was not unlike the famed Demi Moore magazine cover.

Medication I had taken to get rid of some of the fluid was not working.

And that left: Nothing.

In other words, treatment, except for medication to ease various problems - luckily I have been virtually pain-free during the whole procedure - provided no solution, and all that we could do was prepare for the end.

The obvious question was the length of time I had remaining, and the oncologist volunteered, "It could be weeks, it could be months."

If I had my druthers, naturally, I would choose months, but that is not up to me.

We have already had three visits from specialists from The Hospice of Northern Virginia: an overall supervisor, a nurse and a community affairs expert. This organization is a marvel.

It pays the full cost of prescription drugs - when our company insurance policy was subordinated to Medicare B, the drug coverage my wife [i.e. DFW's mom] and I had enjoyed at 70 percent of cost was eliminated - as well as the rental of a wheelchair. The drugs are delivered to the house.

Signing up for drug coverage for my wife under the AARP schedule would have been too expensive - the highest premium and only a small percentage of drug costs covered.

The Hospice people are on call 24 hours a day, have a small place where patients can stay if their spouses or significant others are exhausted from caring for their loved ones and offer expert medical advice. The swelling in my lower legs and feet, surprisingly, has already gone down with the experimental use of a diuretic drug, generic name aldactone, three times a day, rather than one or two.

The symptom to watch out for is dizziness, and, so far, happily, I have had none.

The inevitability of the situation, however, means [his wife/my mom] has had to consult with accounting and legal firms to make sure all the necessary papers are up to date. I have to think about getting rid of mountains of clothes - dressing well was a weakness I never overcame - and piles of books and newspaper clippings and letters from VIPs. If that all sounds suspiciously like the angst Frank Augustine described in his throwing out a lifetime of correspondence, it should.

The family has already put in a bid for photographs, from college, from Army service in World War II, from journalistic trips around the world and superb color photographs of us with Presidents Reagan, Bush and Clinton and Sen.-elect Hillary Rodham Clinton.

There are all the drafts of lyrics I wrote for 25 years of Gridiron Club shows, notes from the president, members of Congress and diplomats, virtually every one of which is destined for the round file.

With my continuing columns I remain the "dean" of the New York news media in Washington, as well as the correspondent with the longest stretch of news reporting of any newspaperman in the capital.

That must now come to an end, though not immediately, and, of course, I shall fight to push the envelope as far as I can, with the wonderful support I have received from relatives, friends, colleagues and neighbors. They have held us in their prayers, and we are tremendously grateful.

Hearst columnist Marianne Means and her husband, columnist James Jackson Kilpatrick, gave us an orchid plant about three weeks ago, and, in a small miracle, it is still putting out creamy white buds and flowers long after it should have succumbed.

It could be a sign, but we are realistic enough not to bet the farm on it.

There is a line in the song "A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square" that insists, "The age of miracles hasn't passed."

Only time sets the parameters. Until the body gives out (for the spirit never will), then I will have to call it a life.

The hour for feeling sorry for myself has passed. I envy those, like the 90-year-old woman profiled by John Golden in the Times recently; like my erstwhile partners on the tennis court and fellow performers at Gridiron rehearsals.

The incoming Gridiron president, Andrew Glass of the Cox Newspapers, wants me to serve as the club treasurer until my physical capabilities tell me, "Enough." Then a successor can be named.

I could complain that fate had dealt me a less-than-optimum hand, but that would serve no purpose and would ignore the many problems of those less fortunate than I.

I'm still here, and I want to write until the keyboard fails to respond to my fingers and my voice can no longer draw information from those to whom I speak on the telephone.

I don't know how near the end is, nor will I spend time worrying about it. It has been a wonderful life, personally and professionally, and the recognition of that from so many whom I love and respect leaves no room for regrets.

So, agree with what I write or not, don't stop reading. Each day has to bring a new miracle with it.
-------------------------------------

And to think some people still ask me why I didn't follow him into journalism, with his experience and connections. That one is easy to answer: how do you fill shoes like those?

A father's last words... [View all] Raven Dec 2018 OP
wonderful... I'm glad you were able to receive that final gift... hlthe2b Dec 2018 #1
What a wonderful gift he gave you both. MLAA Dec 2018 #2
A gift. irisblue Dec 2018 #3
My Dad lost his power of speech about a week before he died. But he still communicated Siwsan Dec 2018 #4
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing with us. n/t ok_cpu Dec 2018 #5
Siwsan, I've kept this post of yours open in a tab for months. JudyM Apr 2019 #21
You've brought tears to my eyes Siwsan Apr 2019 #22
Yes, yours is a beautiful story that brought tears to my eyes as well. JudyM Apr 2019 #23
I am happy you had that. That won't happen for me. cpamomfromtexas Dec 2018 #6
my dad bigtree Dec 2018 #7
Beautiful DesertRat Dec 2018 #16
My dad had Alzheimer's too. MontanaMama Dec 2018 #18
I remember so well my last conversation with dad. lark Dec 2018 #8
A priceless gift. We strive our whole lives to provide for our children, yet here is a gift that FailureToCommunicate Dec 2018 #9
I am dealing with "this stuff" right now. Botany Dec 2018 #10
There are so many beautiful stories here and quite a few heartaches. I hope we all can help erronis Dec 2018 #11
Thank you for sharing. StarryNite Dec 2018 #12
This story gave me a lump in my throat. You were very lucky, and so was he. Honeycombe8 Dec 2018 #13
Posts like this are windows into humanity. I always read them, as my dad left in a special way, too. DFW Dec 2018 #14
"give me one last kiss and let me go" were my dad's last words to my mom Hamlette Dec 2018 #15
My dad's last words were, defacto7 Dec 2018 #17
What a fantastic and beautiful gift he gave to you! PatrickforO Dec 2018 #19
To all of you, a DU hug Hekate Dec 2018 #20
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