By Kori Novak

My bridesmaids were going down the aisle; it was just me and Dad waiting for the doors to fly open and the wedding march to ring through our ears. As he let the white veil down over my face, he gave me a peck on the cheek and whispered, “Good luck Kor, I love you.” He took my arm, I took a deep breath….then I heard my Mom, “Kori, Kori, are you listening?  The doctor needs to know…”

I woke from my daydream. Lying in the hospital bed beside me was my once boisterous, robust 6-foot, 3-inch father. Now he was quiet and looked like a sick little old man. A tear rolled down my cheek. “Hospice” I heard him say, in a small scared voice “I want to die at home.”

My dad was rarely sick. I don’t recall many times in my life even seeing him so much as sniffle. My sister called me at work that Friday afternoon. The minute I answered the phone, I knew something was not right. “Kori, you need to fly home.”  She mentioned Dad was admitted to the hospital, for further “testing” and I needed to be with the family. I grew up in Colorado, and the whole family still lived there. I went west, moving to California right after graduation from college. I made arrangements that evening to fly home on Monday. I figured I needed the weekend to gather my things, call the office and generally prepare to be away from home and the office for a week or so…assuming my dad was having surgery or something for whatever was ailing him. I knew he hadn’t felt up to par the last few weeks, I vaguely remembered hearing something about kidney or gall stones. Normally I wouldn’t worry, but Dad was 67, and maybe there were complications or something. My family is close, but it was still a bit disconcerting to be called home for something so seemingly small.

Monday morning I jumped on a plane bound for my beloved Rockies. Just prior to boarding the plane, my sister called again with a diagnosis. “Kor, it’s cancer, it’s rare, it’s terminal.” My first thoughts were, “God, don’t let him suffer, and don’t let him be alone.”

It was a long two and a half hour flight. I shuddered at the thought of my dad alone in a sterile hospital room after receiving a death sentence.

It was Dad’s decision, no chemo, no extraordinary measures; he just wanted to go home. So we were introduced to hospice. They made sure we had everything we needed from hospital equipment to spiritual support. I didn’t leave the house once dad got home. My Mom was absolutely devastated by the news. A doctor whom she barely knew had just told her that her husband of 46 years was leaving her. She needed to mourn and be his wife.  My brothers and sisters had families of their own and needed to be able to go home at night. And everyone was starting to mourn. So, I took it upon myself to be his caregiver.

I learned how to put meds into a drip bag, how to get air bubbles out of a saline line, how to load a syringe and use it.  I learned what Roxanol and Ativan do. Most importantly I learned that you can do anything for someone you love. Dad and I went through all his office papers, he told me what he thought should be done about various family matters. He shared with me his hopes and fears for the future of the family. We even planned his funeral and wrote the obituary for the local newspaper.

As he got sicker, we were unable to get him up from the bed. But he had outlived his diagnosis of just a week or two; so we just took one day at a time. In the last week, he slept, almost constantly. His body was just shutting down. But he would smile when we talked to him, even when his eyes were closed. The last few days were quiet. It wasn’t an “ominous” quiet, but a peaceful one. Dad had come to terms with what was happening to him, and what he wanted most, was for us to do the same.

In the 52 days between his diagnosis and his death, there were many things that brought my dad comfort. He reminded those of us around him how beautiful the sun was when it set over the Rockies, how important friends were, when you know that any moment may be your last with them even how soft the dogs fur is when he lays next to your and nuzzles your hand.  

Caring for him was one of the most difficult and rewarding things I have ever done.

My dad died on September 26, 1999.  It was the first night; we were alone with him, just Mom, me and Dad’s dog. Every night prior to that, there were friends, family, or pastors spending the night. I had just gotten up at 4:30 a.m. to give him his pain meds, like I had done every 60 minutes since we had brought him home three weeks prior. Mom, the dog, and I decided to sleep in the living room, close to him. We hadn’t done that before, but Mom thought it would be nice. At 6:15 a.m. Mom woke me up. “Kor, I think this is it.” 

I don’t know how she knew, she just said his breathing had changed; it was fast and shallow, like a dog panting.  I wiped the sleep from my eyes and stood up next to his bed. Mom took one hand and I took the other. I told him I would take care of Mom and the family.  We told him we loved him and it was ok to go, we would all be ok.

Science tells us that some things, like tears and hand movements are involuntary. They are “ticks” the body has. But as we said goodbye, a tear rolled down his cheek, and he squeezed both our hands. I watched the color drain from his lips, and he left us. There was no big drama, no gasping for a last breath, no “death rattle.”  It was just a tear and a squeeze, maybe it was a “tick,” but I like to think it was goodbye and I love you.

Three days later, I found myself at the front of the church I had grown up in. My sister had just read a poem. I began the eulogy. I talked about my dad as a business man, philanthropist, husband and father. Everyone laughed and remembered. His casket was closed. He had lost so much weight with his illness, and we wanted people to remember him like the healthy man he was, not the one who was so riddled with cancer.

There were well over a hundred people there.  I recognized so many people. My dad was so loved. 

That was six years ago, I was 27 years old.  I still haven’t walked down the aisle. When I do, I will go alone. Cancer takes so much physically. It affects so much emotionally, but it will never corrupt what my dad built in me. It’s not a daydream, but what I strive for; to have my dad, looking down at me from heaven, elbowing his best buddies, Ken and Harry, and saying with a sparkle in his blue eyes, “Look there, that’s MY girl.”