DADS
KEEPING FATHERS' DAY "The son becomes the father, and the father the son." —Superman, 1978 BY YALE COHN “This is ridiculous,” he says, to no one in particular. “Which part?” I ask him. He thinks for a moment. “All of it.” Little does he know. Little do I. * They run tests in the ER, which come back clean. “Good news, Mr. Cohn. You didn’t have a heart attack tonight, but we found some dark spots on your lung that are pretty troubling. When
you’re already dying, constant pain
is overkill, the universe running up the score, but there are no rules here. just one:
T
hat’s me feeding my father, Fred, in the picture above. My sister, Kate, is on the right. I don’t remember the occasion, but it must have been an occasion. In those days taking photos was mostly reserved for occasions. I fed him a lot again recently—almost all of his meals during the last few weeks of his life; coaxing him to eat, because dying really takes a lot out of you, and you have to keep your strength up for it. My father’s last meal was chicken soup, cottage cheese, peaches and chocolate ice cream—things he enjoyed, things that were easy for him to eat. Nothing special about it, just hospital food—hospice food, actually— which you can order off of a menu, 24 hours a day. When you’re dying, they let you eat whatever and whenever you want. You only die once, so it’s all about comfort. Even the furniture is comfortable. When you’re at this point, the patients’ rooms have recliners or couches in them because visitors here are in for the long haul; this is it pal, so you might as well get comfortable, too. Or as comfortable as you can be, anyway, doing this.
12 | JUNE 4 - 17 , 2014 | LITTLEVILLAGEMAG.COM/LV156
He was a voracious eater his whole life, so coaxing him to eat was something I never imagined I’d have to do—especially ice cream, which he loved. But cancer creates a lot of moments like that. Cancer changes everything. “Do you want some more ice cream, dad?” “Not at this moment, no.” This was the last conversation I ever had with my father. * Last June, about a week before his 75th birthday, my father woke up at three in the morning with chest pains. I was in Chicago to help him retire and close his office after practicing law for 51 years. The chest pains pass, but my mother thinks he might be having another heart attack, so she wakes me up and insists I take him to the hospital, just to be safe. It’s a warm night, and I have the windows down as we drive up Ridge Avenue to Evanston Hospital. We’re almost the only car on the road. I’m tired, so we don’t really talk much.
There
Well,
are no rules here.
Here, call this number and make an appointment to go get a biopsy. Soon.” After the biopsy, the doctor calls with the results. “It’s not cancer,” he tells us. Much rejoicing is had. Three hours later he calls back, “I’m terribly sorry, but I was looking at the wrong chart earlier … ” So, cancer it is then. More tests are done. Treatment plans are devised. I stay in Chicago for six weeks of radiation, followed by six weeks of recovery. His pain ebbs and flows, mostly flows, but three months go by and it’s remission city. So far so good. Sometimes these things turn out okay, right? And yet, and so—a month later, much more pain, much worse than before. The cancer is back, more places than it had been: bigger, stronger, meaner. The pain only stops when he does. It remains a constant—capricious, unfair and unnecessary. When you’re already dying, constant pain is overkill, the universe running up the score, but there are no rules here. Well, just one: There are no rules here. He's at home, in hospice for three months