By Amy Hoover Tuso

One of the roles I’ve played in caring for someone else is to simply be “a safe place to land.” I will never forget the day that my father considered me his safe place and allowed himself to cry.

My dad had prostate cancer in 1990, which required a radical prostatectomy. With careful supervision and monitoring of his cancer, he did well until 2004. It became apparent during that year that his health was declining, but his doctors were still unable to pinpoint the source. We were aware that his PSA was rising, but no organs or tissue showed signs of cancer. In the early fall, one of his doctors finally discovered a mass in his rectum during a colonoscopy.  From that point on my dad’s condition went from poor, to bad, to terminal.

I live close to the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, AZ, and although my parents were living in Santa Fe, NM at the time, they wanted to go to Mayo for a definitive diagnosis. And so a difficult journey began…

It is not particularly easy to obtain an appointment within a timely basis at Mayo, especially during our winter season when so many people from all over the country travel to Mayo for care and treatment. However, after placing a few phone calls I managed to get my dad an appointment with one of their specialists. We gathered all of dad’s test results and reports from his medical visits in Santa Fe. I filled out preliminary registration forms and coordinated the necessary appointment times and dates. My parents flew into Phoenix and moved in with my husband and me. 

The day after their arrival was my dad’s first appointment, and he walked into Mayo as the proud gentleman that he was, with a prayer in his heart that he would find the key to health and recovery. It didn’t take long for reality to set in. Within the first few minutes of his appointment the doctor discovered a multitude of cancerous enemies.  My mother quickly retreated into a state of denial, where she remained until he took his dying breath four months later.

That first day at Mayo was an extremely long one, as the doctor ordered several tests to be done, one after the next. By the time we returned to my home, each one of us was emotionally and physically spent…especially my dad. Mom and dad went up to their room to freshen up for dinner as I went into the kitchen.  Somewhere during that time, my husband returned home from work, and I vaguely remember quietly telling him that “things were not good.”

From there, slow motion seemed to take over. My parents came down to eat, and we all sat around the table trying to act as if life had not changed during the course of the day. Dinner was finished, although dad couldn’t tolerate food very well. However, being the gentleman he always was, he tried. I remember my mom crying, although she tried so hard not to. She went upstairs to shower, my husband went out to his garage…and my father approached me as I was clearing the table.

I could see that he was struggling not to cry.  My gut reaction was to wrap my arms around him and hold on tight…I could feel him trembling, still fighting back the tears. I whispered in his ear, “Dad, you know, it’s okay to cry. It’s normal to be scared. We will fight this with you. You are not alone.”  The trembling increased, and a flood of tears followed. We just held onto one another, and then my father whispered into my ear, “How did you get to be so strong? Thank you.”

In that moment, I felt that the most important thing I could do for him was to let him know that he was loved and he had a safe place to land, even if the landing was going to be rough. 

As a caregiver, I had to step up to the plate while digging deeply into my very being to offer strength, comfort, and compassion. I wanted to be a calming force, at least while in dad’s presence. 

Appearing to be his rock allowed him to release his inner terror. If only for a moment, he was able to let go. My grief and terror could wait until I was out of his vision…and then I could let my tears flow while asking for the grace of God to help me help him through this terrifying journey. Sometimes, our most important role when caring for someone else is to be that safe place.