Bobby was the one who found him in the garage. He said that daddy had a contented look on his face just hanging there. When he told me of the experience, I remember him saying, "I know it's just a garage, but it felt like it was a mile long before reaching him."
Of all the things Bobby had to endure, that's the one that pops into my mind most often. Once again he was on my mind as I took the wet dish rag from the sink's ledge and proceeded to wipe off the signs of food and grease that had dried on the stove's surface. The phone ringing is what startled me back to reality.
"Hello," I said, answering on the second ring. I recognized mom's voice on the other end.
"Cheri, are you still coming up this weekend?" she asked.
"Yes, Mom," I answered. "I told you last weekend I'd be up again this weekend. How's Bobby doing anyway? I was just thinking of him."
"Well, that's why I'm calling," Mom replied. "He's supposed to go into the hospital again on Friday for more tests, and he's probably going to be there for a couple of days."
"So what's the problem?" I asked. "I'll just have to go in and see him with you then."
She continued on. "I'm just glad they finally found the cause of his pain and hope they can do something about it," she said with worry in her voice.
"Don't worry, Mom. I'm sure everything will be okay. Bobby's always been a survivor," I said, trying to reassure her. I could not think of it being any other way. I would not.
********
His family doctor had simply been giving him painkillers for a year, not even checking the source. Bobby said the doctor didn't like touching him.
"That guy makes me wait out in the waiting room forever," he said, "and when I finally get to see him, he's in and out in five minutes." With exasperation in his voice, he continued, "That's just enough time for him to hand me a new prescription and collect his office fee. That's all he cares about!"
I knew as well as he did why the doctor didn't like touching him. He was the one who diagnosed Bobby with the rare genetic disease Neurofibromotosis when he was only 13 years old, and who had admitted back then about not knowing much about the disease--only that it was untreatable. Bobby was entering puberty when he first started growing the fatty tumors which would eventually cover much of his body.
Bobby said, "Having one removed just causes two to grow in its place." So, over the next thirty years of his life he just learned to adjust to them growing everywhere. His silly grin gave everyone the impression that it didn't bother him. Bobby, however, did let it slip every now and then, like the time he said, "I may as well stay a painter cuz who's gonna hire me for an office or sales job? I'd get stuck at a desk in the backroom somewhere so no one would have to look at me."
Then there was the time Mom rubbed his aching back and he told her, "You don't know how good that feels to me since you know no one else will ever want to touch me."
For a long time he thought the ache in his back was related to painting. Finally, after a year, when the painkillers stopped working anymore, he decided to go to a pain specialist for a second opinion. The x-rays showed a tumor resting on top of his pancreas. The family doctor had never taken any x-rays to know that fact. So, Bobby thought he'd finally found a doctor who was actually going to be able to do something for him.
********
Mom and I walked into his hospital room, and his eyes lit up. He saw the bag of cinnamon candy with the ribbon tied on top that Mom was carrying, and he grinned.
"Thanks," he said, eagerly taking it into his hands.
I had a hard time getting use to his new high-pitched voice, caused by the tumor's effect on his pituitary glands. But, for his sake, I didn't mention it and acted like everything was normal. Cheerfully he unwrapped the red hard candy from its clear plastic wrapper and popped it into his mouth. When he was through with it, he looked mischievously over at me and said, "You know candy and a cigarette go hand in hand."
"Bob!" I exclaimed in disbelief, "You can't smoke in the hospital!"
He ignored me as he slid out of the bed and headed straight towards his bathroom, pinching his white hospital gown closed behind him. "Y'can when the bathroom has a fan," he said. He just snickered, and before shutting the door behind him, said, "Shhh...I won't tell, if you don't."
I knew that if Mom would have still been in the room, I don't think he would've attempted it. Immediately after he went into the bathroom, she came back. She had left to speak to a nurse in the hallway. Her face looked quite ashen upon her return.
"Cheri," she whispered, "it's worse than we thought."
"Why? What?" I asked.
"They've got him on a salt-free diet," she answered, "because his kidneys are showing signs of breaking down. The tests show that the cancer has metastasized throughout his whole body already. The doctor said that removing it at this point will do no good."
What was worse is that Bobby hadn't received the bad news yet. He came out of the bathroom looking sheepish about having the cigarette and quickly sat back down on the bed. I'm not sure, but I think that may have been the last cigarette he ever smoked.
"I'm hungry," he said, sniffing into the air and smelling the aroma from the food carts in the hallway. When the nurse uncovered the tray, he saw a cup of broth, a small plain piece of chicken and some over-cooked carrots staring up at him. He was looking around for salt on his tray, but there wasn't any.
"Hey, what is this shit?!" he blurted out. "They keep giving me this bland diet crap and no salt on anything!" He was starting to sound like a cranky old man, but yet he was only 43.
He pushed the cart back and jumped out of bet, holding the back of his gown again as he raced barefoot into the hallway. His hair was messed up like Seinfeld's Kramer, and for the first time, seeing him standing there, I saw the shocking revelation of how pale and thin he had actually gotten.
"Nurse, nurse!" he called out in that unfamiliar voice once again. "Can I get some salt in here please? I can't eat this crap without salt in it!" He was a man with a cause, but he looked so pathetic.
She just looked at him blankly and said, "You aren't suppose to. Your salt level is too high already and is affecting your blood pressure. It shows your diet restrictions right there on your chart. Doctor's orders." She then just turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
"What's up with that shit?" he asked, as he looked at me, bewildered. He really didn't know. I fought off the tears welling up in my eyes and knew it wasn't my place to tell him either.
**********
Bobby was given the option of chemotherapy but was told that in all honesty he was already in the advanced stages of cancer. It would probably only make him sick but wouldn't cure him, so Bobby said he just wanted to go home instead. He never cried about the diagnosis--at least not in front of anyone. However, many times Bobby said, "I had so many plans." He had just bought a new hunter-green Toyota pickup truck, and he was so proud of it. Yet, next thing you know, he was telling Mom to sell it for him because he wouldn't be working to make the payments anymore anyway. I drove up every weekend to visit him, and with each time, I could see he had given up hope. Then one weekend, about two months after his diagnosis, I went to visit him and his bed had been moved out of his room and into the middle of the living room. Two mattresses were lying smack-dab in the middle of the floor. I guess it was just easier for Mom to keep an eye on him and tend to his needs. I asked him to look out of the living room window and see the new yellow VW Beetle I had just bought, but he said he didn't have the strength to get out of bed anymore. Mom had informed me that a couple of days before, he had come out of his bedroom to use the bathroom and just collapsed. That's why she moved his bed. He couldn't walk anymore.
That weekend I was getting ready for my long drive back home. It was Sunday afternoon, and as I sat on the couch, I watched as Bobby breathed such tedious breaths in and out. I was waiting for him to wake up so I could tell him goodbye. I looked down on the coffee table in front of me and there sat the Sunday paper. I gasped at the headlines staring up at me. The words stood out boldly, shouting up at me, "Cancer Cure Found at Cleveland University Hospital." I grabbed the newspaper and read of cases of people with various kinds of cancer who had volunteered to be guinea pigs for an experimental drug, and who, within six months, had their cancer either reversed or gone completely. I felt like it was a sign. It was hope. It was a chance. It was Bobby's last chance, so I made sure I took the newspaper with me. The first thing Monday morning I was on the phone at work, calling the Cleveland Hospital, telling them of the article I'd read, and volunteering my brother for their experimental drug. I never told Bobby I was doing it either because I didn't want to hear any protests. I was faxed a form that needed to be filled out and sent back to them as soon as possible. One of the criteria included was that the person could be in advanced stages of cancer, but would still have to be able to walk in on their own free will. I thought that I could somehow get Bobby pumped up enough to do it. The hospital also needed to have medical information from his doctor as to the type of cancer and stage he was in. When I called his doctor to tell him, he informed me that Bobby's cancer had spread to his brain and that there was a possibility they wouldn't accept him. I thought to myself, what does he know? He didn't work at Cleveland University Hospital. Why did he have to shoot down my plan anyway? He faxed the information to the hospital anyway at my request, and sure enough, he was right. I received a fax that told me it was "regrettable to inform" me, but they did not accept patients if the cancer had entered the brain. I couldn't hold back any longer. I cried. I felt the blood drain from my face and the tears could not be stopped. The realization had finally hit. Bobby was going to die. My brother, who was only fifteen months older than me, who was always so close to me, who was always there, was going to leave me...and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
***********
It was a Friday evening, October 9th, my daughter's special 18th birthday. She was having a birthday party with her friends at a local pizza place, and I was invited to go there, too. Just as I was ready to go out the door, the phone rang. It was Mom.
"Cheri," she said in a serious tone, "I hate to tell you this, but if you want to see your brother again, you'd probably better not wait til tomorrow to come up."
I never thought the time would arrive so fast when I would have to hear those words. I tried to prepare myself, but all the preparation in the world couldn't have helped me at that moment. I thought the news of my father's suicide was hard, but this was far worse.
I went out the door without hesitation and jumped into the car. I didn't even take my suitcase. I didn't want to take the time. Time was too precious. I did, however, stop in to tell my daughter that I had to go out of town that night instead of to her party. Her eyes lit up when I entered the restaurant, but quickly faded when I gave her the news. She offered to go with me, but I told her that she should just stay there with her friends since there was nothing she could do anyway.
The drive seemed longer than ever to get there, and as I pulled into the driveway, I suddenly didn't know what to do, or how to react. When I walked into the living room I saw Bobby lying there so helpless. I was immediately approached and pushed back into the hallway by the hospice nurse my mother had called in.
"I just wanted to talk to you a little bit before you go in," she explained. "There is a morphine drip that your brother is hooked up to so that he doesn't have to feel as much pain. I just want you to know that when he opens his eyes, we don't know whether he knows you're there or not," she continued. "He is unable to move or speak and his system is starting to shut down. I just wondered if you have any questions for me before you go in?"
Just then Mom appeared and said, "Oh Cheri, I'm so glad you made it. I told Bobby you were on your way and asked him if he could wait. He just made a sound, and I didn't know if it meant yes or no." Mom was acting weird. I wondered how someone could ask a dying person to wait.
I walked into the room and could hear the harsh rattling sound of Bobby's breathing as his chest rose and fell in a struggling motion, like someone trying to bench press beyond their maximum weight limit. The room smelled like a mausoleum.
My younger brother, Sonny, and his wife were there, even though at first I didn't know it. I just saw Bobby and practically flung myself on top of him, to hug him.
"Bobby I'm here!" I had to let him know. "I love you Bobby. Please don't die. I need you." The words just came out without thinking about what I was doing and the scene I was making. Once I calmed down, I sat at on the floor at the edge of his mattress and caressed his hair and his hand. I suddenly wondered if he knew I was there because there was no reaction except for his eyebrows rising once in a while, I just began to talk to him normally as if nothing was wrong. Then I remembered what Bobby had said before his voice had gone. Grinning, he said, "My last request is that when the time comes, I want someone to play my Led Zeppelin video for me before I go."
I thought that time would never come, but there it was, bigger than life. I could only hope his hearing hadn't gone, too. In case he couldn't see the video, I put in my own CD and sang his and my favorite Led Zeppelin song, "Stairway to Heaven" to him. I hope he heard it.
At about one o'clock the next morning, I got up from his side and went to the refrigerator for a much-needed beer. I asked the nurse if I could spoon-feed some to him since he, too, always liked his beer. She agreed that I should have one last drink with him. I hope he could taste it.
At two o'clock in the morning, the hospice nurse told us she was going home and would be back later in the morning. She left me in charge of the morphine drip. It was on a timer, but if he acted like he was in too much pain, I was to push the button to give him more.Several times I noticed his eyes wince with pain, or his eyebrows move up and down as he slept, so I pushed the button. I hope it helped.
At close to seven in the morning, Bobby's eyes opened. They opened wider and more brightly than before. He appeared to try to look over to where my mother had been most of the night until she needed to go and lie down. I asked if he wanted Mom. He made a noise, "Mmmm, mmmm," which I took to mean "Mom" It was only later that I realized he could have been trying to say, "Misty...Melaine." Sonny went and got Mom. She explained that his daughters, who had been there earlier the evening before, had to go home and get the kids to bed. She bent down next to him and gently said, "It's all right, Bob. I'm here."
His eyes opened wider, searching and scared.
"It's okay if you have to go now, " Mom soothingly spoke to him. "You won't have to suffer anymore. We will all be together someday and will see each other again." She stroked his hair and said, "We all love you and don't want to see you suffer anymore. So, it's okay if you have to go now."
The words seemed well rehearsed. The hospice nurse had told her that we had to let him go or he would just keep fighting and prolong his pain. I hated her for for that.
Sonny followed suit. He bent over him and told him he loved him and he'd see him again someday, too. All I could say was, "I love you Bobby." I couldn't say goodbye.
A tear trickled from the corner of his eye and a sudden calm came over his face. His breathing suddenly ceased; his chest no longer rose. I looked into his eyes, and his pupils dilated. We knew he was gone. Sonny closed his eyes. I sat with him for a while and talked to him because I knew the brain doesn't die right away just because the rest of the body fails. When the ambulance came and the hospice nurse showed up again, I had to give him one last hug. I knew he couldn't feel it. It was for me.
I went into Bobby's old room and laid down on a daybed that was still in there. I cried until I could cry no more. I felt physically and mentally exhausted. I felt someone's hand on mine and someone stroking my hair. I thought it was Mom, but when I turned to talk to her, no one was there.
That's when I knew... Bobby said goodbye.
