My father had been stationed in Agra, India during WWII. While he was there he experienced severe diarrhea, abdominal pain, and bleeding. It got worse as he grew older. My Dad went to numerous doctors and hospitals trying to get a diagnosis. Finally, he was referred to the Cleveland Clinic in Cleveland, Ohio. He was there for a week undergoing tests and seeing doctors. At last he had a name for it, Crohn's Disease. [Crohn's Disease is an inflammatory bowel disease.] When he returned home he had pills of every color and shape. At first he was getting injections of steroids every other day. In time he was weaned down to high doses of prednizone tablets daily.
From the time I was in the 6th grade my father's condition got worse and worse. He spent long periods of time in the hospital having numerous surgeries. I remember many a Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthday spent celebrating with my father in the hospital. He'd even undergone a colostomy at one point, then having it returned many years later. I lost count of the number of surgeries he endured. His body was filled with scars of every size and shape, and he was in constant pain and agony.
Back when this was taking place - in the early 1970's - the drug of choice was Prednizone, a steroid. Long term use of steroids, especially in the amounts he was given, causes serious problems. What steroids do over time is to age and breakdown the systems of the body. The first organ effected is the heart and then the immune system. Over time the liver, kidneys, and other organs fail. Fighting infections, especially pneumonia, is impossible to do. Then there are the heart attacks from the medicine. My father experienced three heart attacks in a 2 year period. I remember my dad's doctor telling us that steroids age a person 10 years for every year they take them. That was definitely true in my father's case. When he died at age 62 he looked every bit of 90 years old.
Being the youngest of 4 children, I was the only one at home during the last years of his life. My mother and I would try our best to keep him comfortable and happy. Many a night I remember being woken up to make a run for the emergency room. I'd begun to lay out my clothes before bed, just in case we had a hospital run in the night. (a habit I still do by the way) He was in constant pain from the Crohn's Disease, and we all lived in fear of another operation. He'd had so many over the years, and his heart was so bad, his doctor warned having more surgery could kill him.
In 1986 his doctor told us he had less than a year to live. As it turned out he only lasted until March. Everyday another system would shut down. He'd been put on respirator, a kidney machine, and many other machines I never knew the names of. His extremities were so swollen with fluids that his skin was tearing and oozing. My oldest brother Mark, my Mom and myself, would sit in the ICU, watching my father trying to breath. The doctor told us on a Tuesday that my dad would not last the week. Since living wills were unheard of back then - he asked what we wanted done. We all agreed to unplug the machines that weren't vital to keeping him alive. Less than an hour later the heart monitor flat lined. Bells began to ring, and my father was gone. I don't remember the drive home that afternoon. But I'll never get the memory of his death out of my mind.
It's been 20 years since he's been gone. Life has changed drastically without him. I wish I could say for the better, but it hasn't. Everyday we think of him, miss him, and love him. And everyday we live in hope of being reunited with him once again.
