I am ready to die. I don't mean to alarm or upset people, or to be melodramatic. I just want people to know that, if I die, I am at peace with that. I wouldn't want people to mourn for me. I mean, feel free to mourn for yourselves if you miss me, but there's no need to feel sorry for me. I've had a good life, thanks to my family and friends, and I'm ready to move on. I feel that my job now is to get from here to the end in as dignified and graceful a way as possible.
I think it makes more sense to feel sorry for the people who are left behind than for the person who dies. After I die, I won't have to worry about anything anymore. I've tried to get my affairs in order as much as I can, but my loved ones will have to clean up my mess and carry on. That seems harder than my part.
Obviously my first choice would be to recover and be healthy. Unfortunately that doesn't seem to be an option for me. So my options are to (a) live in a constant state of sickness and suffering, sometimes feeling better, sometimes worse, but never great; or (b) die. I've done the former for almost a year now and I'm ready to try the latter (although I understand there are no refunds).
It's been almost one year since this ordeal started (I first felt the abdominal pain), and the anniversary feels significant. It feels like the finish line of a long race. I can't imagine doing another lap around this track, especially knowing that the next year would likely be harder than this past one.
But dying is easier said than done. I have a "DNR" (Do Not Resuscitate) order on my desk, but that's a passive measure. I've considered suicide, but Grace has asked me not to do something without consulting her, and I will respect her request.
I wonder if getting the chemo last week was a mistake. It worked in that it greatly reduced the bone pain, but since the fatigue hit last Friday I have been in the pit of despair. As I've said before, as awful as the pain is, the fatigue is worse, because I can't think clearly or do anything and then I feel useless - like I'm wasting time, using up resources and people's time, energy, and goodwill, and not contributing anything useful to anybody. I know Grace and my mom are willing to continue to support me, but this is obviously very hard on them. I would like to let them move on too.
When the bone pain was getting out of control before the last chemo, I actually felt happy in a weird way because I felt that maybe we were breaking out of the cycle we've been in and reaching a resolution to this situation. When the bone pain receded after the chemo, I sort of felt like I'd missed an opportunity to get off this roller-coaster. If you saw The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, there is that overly long farewell scene at the end where Bilbo and Frodo are going to board the Elven ships and sail away from Middle Earth. I felt like Frodo, if he had turned around and realized that the ships had sailed without him.
I've been suffering from anhedonia - inability to take pleasure in things I usually enjoy. Sad things make me sad. Happy things also make me sad, because they make me think about things I would like to do but can't. Even the things that give me pleasure when all else fails - my kids - sometimes make me sad lately, because I feel too sick and tired to play with them, and that really hurts.
I can think of only two moments of real happiness lately. One was last Saturday, sitting on the red love seat in the TV room with Seth and my dad (before my dad left to go back to Maine), watching the Pac-10 championship game, when Washington forced overtime with Arizona and then their star guard Isaiah Thomas (no relation to the former Detroit Pistons star) hit the buzzer-beating jump shot to win the game. The other was tonight, when I heard Miles get up from bed and I went into his bedroom and lay down with him until he fell back asleep.
I've thought about the possibility of an afterlife recently. As I've written before, I'm too much of a scientific materialist to really believe in disembodied souls, but who knows? It's a comforting thought, and I can see why people embrace it. If there is an afterlife, you know who I'm most looking forward to seeing again? My Grandpa Don Ryan and my dog Pilot.
I hope tomorrow will be a better day. You never know.
Ethan
Ethan -
ReplyDeleteYour writing is tremendous. I hope today is a good one. I wish that for you every day.
BTW, Pilot is an excellent name for a dog!!!
Sending love from Minn.
:-)
What unbounded joy your grandfather and Pilot would feel if they were to be with you again. You are so very much like your grandfather including the graceful ways in which you accept death and dying. Pilot was your constant companion from birth to your leaving for college. To be at your side was his greatest joy which reminds me of the delightful drawing you made of riding on your grandfather's motorcycle with big smiles on both of your faces. The drawing was framed and hung over the fireplace in his living room.
ReplyDeleteLove, Mom
E:
ReplyDeleteReally great post (all that expensive edumacation pays off)! Thanks for putting your facts and feelings out there. It's a real privilege for us to get to read them.
Best wishes from Denver,
mm
E-
ReplyDeleteEvery time I have opened an email from you or visited your website I have been afraid that it would be this entry. Now that I am here it does not feel one bit less sad or painful than I had imagined. I'm actually sitting here crying in my office, which feels ridiculous. I guess the part that I didn't see coming clearly is how much I love you for so generously sharing these thoughts and feelings and bringing all of us along with you. hugs, jk
Ethan,
ReplyDeleteJim here, posting from Crispin's blogger account. I want to echo what Mike said about it being a privilege for us to read these posts. Over the past year you have inspired and impressed all of us (your friends, neighbours, family, readers, fans) not only with the insight and humour you bring to writing about a difficult subject, but with the fullness with which you have been spending your time. You have shown all of us what is important in life. I'm also not so sure about an afterlife, but I hope you do get to see Pilot and your grandfather again. Just not for a while yet.
Ethan, you blow me away. Clearly none of your treatments have diminished your intelligence, insightfulness, or articulateness. You are a shining star dude, and I can't wrap my head around the fact that you are most likely a meteorite. You have articulated my feelings about death and mourning better than I ever could have hoped (or maybe wanted) to. Thanks for putting it out there for all of us to process (and thanks for the plums). -Joel
ReplyDeleteEthan, when the time comes and you do leave us, you leave knowing that you have truly lived. You have made an impact on more people than you will ever know. I still have the picture you drew for me of a bird wearing a helmet, crashing its beak into a brick wall. I dug it out of a box the other day and posted it on my Facebook page. It still makes me laugh. Your blogs inspired me to write about my own medical issues that pale in comparison to yours, and writing about them has been cathartic. But when I think of you, now or in 20 years, I think of that little drawing you made for me when I was 13 or 14, and I always smile. You're a good man, Charlie Brown.
ReplyDelete