Letting Go

I have a friend I’ll call Dutch (not his real name). I’ll call his wife Anna (also not her real name). Anna is dying of cancer. Lately she has suffered bouts of dementia. She will try to put the bathroom trash bag over her foot, thinking it’s a sock. She will get out of bed and walk around the house naked. She is on oxygen but continually pulls off the oxygen tube. Dutch says he can’t leave her for a minute. Most recently, she has adamantly refused to eat or drink. She refuses to take most of her meds.

I’ve lost loved ones. I held my father’s hand as he died. I held my mother’s hand as she died. I think I know some of what Dutch must be feeling, but still I don’t know how to respond when he tells me the latest sad news about Anna’s condition or the latest evidence of her mental decline. I ask a few questions. Is Anna feeling better today? Is she eating? Is she drinking water? What did the doctor say? Each question triggers a flow of words and sad stories. I don’t know what words would be of comfort, so I just listen. Sometimes I feel like shaking my head in sadness or even in disbelief. But mainly I listen.

It’s difficult to believe that just 14 months ago Anna prepared a Thanksgiving dinner for her family and a few friends. Her decline happened so fast I could see her change from week to week. I saw what the chemotherapy did to her. She became so nauseas that she refused to continue the intravenous treatments. So her cancer doctor prescribed a chemo pill. Even with health insurance the price of the chemo was $14,000 per month. Dutch and Anna are not wealthy people. Luckily, they were able to get financial aid.

Then Dutch had to begin taking a platelet drug. It’s used in cancer treatment so he had to get the prescription from a cancer doctor. Dutch has good insurance but his co-pay was $3000 per month. After taking it for a month or two, Dutch told me he was going to stop taking the medicine because he couldn’t afford it. But the cancer treatment center found financial aid for him. So in addition to the demands of being a full-time caregiver, he has financial worries hanging over his head. How long will the financial aid be available? What will happen to them if and when it ends?

I’m on the outside looking in. I can’t advise anyone. I know the difficulty of letting go. But I feel that there is a time for everything. As the writer of Ecclesiastes said, “To everything there is a season … A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;” If I could say anything of comfort, I think it would be that. Know when to let go. But that is hard to say to someone in Dutch’s situation. And if I said it, it would probably be of little comfort.

When I left Dutch’s house today, I told him, “Call me if you need me.” His reply was, “You call me if you need me.” I knew Dutch was sincere; that’s just the kind of person he is. But given his circumstances, I would not have the audacity to ask for one minute of his time.