"The x-rays show a suspicious mass in your bladder, so what we need to do now is schedule you for a biopsy." Tommy, my husband, was never one to show emotion, so he just sat and stared at his doctor. My mind was reeling. "Biopsy," the doctor had said. That usually meant cancer, and cancer usually meant death! I had spent over half of my life with this man, and now I had to consider the possibility that I might have to spend the rest of my life without him.

There used to be a television show called 'The Dark Side." Its introduction spoke of a "parallel universe that is just the same, but not so brightly lit." At that moment in May of 1992, it seemed as if we had somehow shifted over to that darker universe.

Dr. Wilson went on to describe the procedures that he would be using, but my mind was too numb to comprehend all the technicalities. After the briefing, the two men shook hands, and we left his office. Our sixteen-year-old son, Jeff, was in the waiting room. When he saw us, he knew something was wrong, but he waited until we got outside to ask what. I was grateful that Tommy could find the words: "It¹s not good news - it might be cancer."

Tommy was an interstate truck driver, and although he made "runs" all over the country, his home base was in Van Buren, Arkansas. His health insurance required him to see a company doctor, so the three of us had made the five-hour drive together. The drive back home seemed much, much longer. No one knew what to say, so Jeff drove and Tommy and I sat and squeezed each other's hands.

The biopsy was scheduled for the next day, and we had been told to prepare for what might be a lengthy stay in the hospital. I packed some bags and made the necessary calls to family members. We all tried to reassure each other that the diagnosis wasn't definite yet, and that cancer had become a treatable illness.

The drive was again long, but we were able to talk along the way. We discussed our finances and his sick leave pay and what motel Jeff and I should stay in, but the subjects of cancer and death were silently agreed upon taboos. Once we arrived, the pace quickened and I didn't have to think any more until I gave him a kiss and watched the gurney disappear through the doors to the surgical area. Jeff and I went to the waiting room ...and waited.

After Tommy returned to his room from recovery, Dr. 'Wilson came in with the verdict. There was one large malignant tumor, accompanied by several small "satellites", but they seemed to be contained inside the bladder. Complete recovery was possible, but radical surgery was necessary to completely remove the tumors.

Jeff and I checked into a nearby motel, and I starting making calls. My brother Ed went immediately into denial; my mother expected the worst. Sleep refused to give me escape from my trepidations, and the night seemed eternal.

The surgery took much longer than the biopsy. Jeff and I tried to distract each other from the grave situation, but eventually gave up and withdrew into our own thoughts. Until the day Tommy got sick, my life had been calm...routine...almost boring. Now there was suddenly too much to do and think about. I hadn't been able to work for quite some time. What would happen if Tommy couldn't work either? How would Jeff and I survive if he - NO! I refused to consider that option.

Dr. Wilson finally appeared, seeming very satisfied with the procedure. There would be a period of recovery and adjustment, but he saw no reason that Tommy could not eventually return to his job. The hospital stay lasted a month before we finally went back home. Six months later, true to his word, Dr. Wilson gave Tommy a release to go back to work.

For the next couple of months, things seemed to be getting back to the old schedule. Tommy was at work, Jeff was at school, and I started making plans for Christmas. We had drained most of our savings, but we would get by. Then, three days before Christmas, I got the call that I had somehow expected, but hoped to never get. Tommy was back in the hospital, with severe back pain. I threw some things in a suitcase and headed back to Arkansas. This time, I went alone. Jeff had a girlfriend now and didn't want to be gone during the holidays. The next day was filled with tests and x-rays. We wouldn't get the results until the day after Christmas. To save on expenses, I stayed at the hospital on a cot in Tommy's room.

I have developed a tradition of sitting up on Christmas Eve until midnight. After everyone else in the house goes to bed, I turn off all the lights except the ones on the tree. I used to say I was waiting for Santa; when Jeff was younger, I was Santa. By this time, it had just become a time for me to sit and reflect on the past, and plan for the future. That night, I couldn't sleep, so I went down to the lobby to avoid disturbing Tommy. There I found a Christmas tree, and there, alone, I sat until dawn. For the first time in a long time, I prayed.

On Christmas Day, my mom, my brother and his family made the drive to be with Tommy and me. Later she would tell me that she had feared that it would be Tommy's last Christmas. The day after Christmas, we received what I thought was the answer to my prayers. Dr. Wilson told us that the tests showed no sign of cancer. His diagnosis was that Tommy simply had a severe kidney infection. He gave us a prescription for antibiotics, and sent us home.

Each day, Tommy's pain grew worse. After the antibiotics ran out, I called Dr. Wilson's He called in a prescription for pain medication to our local pharmacy and told me to an appointment. By New Year's Eve, Tommy couldn't even walk. I called for an ambulance to take him to a local hospital emergency room. He was admitted, and scheduled for an MRI. The test showed a tumor located in Tommy's spine. Dr. Coles, the urologist who had taken Tommy's case, had sent for the records from Arkansas. They showed that Dr. Wilson had known about the new tumor on Christmas Eve. When I heard that the cancer had recurred, I knew that my husband was going to die.

Tommy was transported to the Cancer Treatment Center at Baptist Hospital for radiation therapy. Everything that could possibly save him was being done, but I knew that there was little hope.

Tommy's best friend Rex had moved to Enid several years before, and he and Tommy had all but lost touch. I felt guilty for not contacting him earlier, but now I felt that he needed to

know. I tried to sound reassuring, but my fears must have been obvious. He made a visit weekend, and it was gratifying to see them talking and joking like they did in better times.

The radiation therapy did improve Tommy's condition temporarily. With a brace for support, he even managed to walk with help. He still had a lot of pain, though, and the medication kept having to be increased. One day, I decided that it was time to face the truth. I made an appointment to talk to the oncologist alone. I asked her if chemotherapy was an option; 'she said it wouldn't help. I asked her if he was going to die; she nodded. Through my tears, I somehow managed to ask her how much time he had left, but she only said that each case is different.

It seemed like every time that Ed called to check on Tommy's condition, I was telling him that the oncologist had either increased the dosage of the pain medication or changed to a stronger type of painkiller. My brother was still in denial and worried that Tommy would become addicted. I avoided the painful truth and just kept telling him that it wasn't really a concern. Though we really hadn't talked about it, Mom somehow knew about the same time I did that Tommy was dying, but my brother just couldn't, or wouldn't, acknowledge it. On Tommy's birthday, in April, everyone gathered to visit. By that time, Tommy was completely bedfast, and heavily sedated. Mom had been coming by more frequently and was aware of his condition, but Ed was shocked. I finally realized that we needed to talk, so I took him outside and plainly said, "Tommy is dying." It was a statement that I would have to repeat many times, but I never got used to saying it.

About a week later, Tommy's illness had progressed to the point that, even with help, I couldn't provide the care that he needed. As the paramedics carried him out to the ambulance, he looked around at the house that had become our home. He seemed to be taking memories of each small detail, to carry with him to the next level of existence. I had never told him about my talk with the doctor, but I could tell that he knew that this would be his last "run".

Dr. Coles met us in the emergency room, and quickly confirmed that my husband was in the terminal stage of his disease. Jeff had driven me to the hospital, but stayed behind in the waiting room. I couldn't summon up the courage to tell my son that his father was dying, so I asked the doctor to tell him. As we walked through the short hall, I noticed that Tisha, Jeff's girlfriend had come to sit with him. Dr. Coles shook Jeff's hand in greeting, then said, "I'm afraid that your father's condition has become terminal." I was already crying, and soon Tisha was, too. Jeff put an arm around both of us, and for a suspended moment in time, we just stood there, holding each other. Eventually, I said that I needed to call the family. Jeff volunteered for the unpleasant task. He called my mother, my brother, and Tommy's father, relaying the information that Tommy was in the hospital, and his condition was terminal. They in turn called other family members. The next day, I realized that Rex had not been notified, but I just couldn't make the call. Ed conveyed the sad news.

For the next three weeks, my life became a routine of spending a 16-18 hour day at the hospital, and going home only to sleep what little I could. Jeff made a few sparse visits, but said he hated to see his dad in that condition. I felt like I needed to spend more time with my son, but I felt that my greater duty was to be at my husband's side. Jeff was spending a lot of time with friends that I didn't approve of, had dropped out of school, and I suspected that he was drinking. On a rare day that we both happened to be at home, I tried to get him to come back to the hospital with me. When he refused, I lashed out at him, "Can't you at least try to cooperate with me until he's gone? Then we can both go crazy if we want to!"

He yelled at me, "Dad's NOT going to die!" and hopped on his motorcycle and started driving around in circles in the yard. I suddenly realized that, although he had repeated the doctor's words to several people, Jeff didn't understand the meaning of "terminal". I wanted to retreat, but I knew that it was my duty to prepare my son for what would be happening any day now. I stood directly in his path, forcing him to stop. He turned off the motor and gruffly said, 'What?" I asked him if he understood the meaning of terminal, and he replied, "Yeah, it's like your arthritis. It can't be cured." Then I carefully explained that my condition was chronic, but terminal meant fatal - that his dad was dying, and it would be soon. His look changed from disbelief, to awareness, to pure contempt. My son has gotten angry at me several times through the years, but that was the only time that I looked into his eyes and saw pure hatred. I didn't see Jeff for five days, making me wonder if I was losing my son as well as my husband. Later, in family counseling, I would learn that his hatred was not for me, but for the Arkansas doctor who had lied to us.

On the third day after that confrontation, Dr. Coles said that I had to make a decision. Tommy was no longer able to eat or drink on his own. Although he had signed a "Do Not Resuscitate" order, he had not made out a living will. I had to decide whether he should be fed through artificial means. Having to watch him die was hard enough, but now I had to decide when he would die. The decision was agonizing. He was unconscious most of the time. The only thing he recognized was pain. Still, he was alive! I finally came to the conclusion that his existence was not really life anymore, and chose not to prolong his suffering. The next morning, he slipped into a coma. His blood pressure began to drop steadily. It was Sunday, May 9th, 1993, Mother's Day, my brother's birthday. The family, excluding Jeff, came to visit. They stayed longer than usual and left reluctantly. I usually left the hospital around 10:00 each evening, but that evening, the head nurse told me I should stay, explaining, "I don't think he'll last through the night"

I called my mother, who was expecting the call. She called Ed, whose response was "Dear God, please don't let him die on my birthday." My mother and stepfather, Jack, returned to the hospital. Jack called the family minister, who immediately rushed over to be with us. I sent Jack on a mission to find Jeff, suggesting some places to try. I couldn't leave, and I was afraid that Jeff might not come back with me, but I knew that Jack would not come back without him.

Jack got lucky; he found Jeff at the second place he looked. Jeff followed him back with a friend. The nurse came in to check Tommy again and said it might still be a few hours. We thanked our minister for coming but sent him home to get some rest. He led us in a final prayer and went home. Mom and Jack took Jeff's friend to the waiting room, so that my family could be alone together one last time. Jeff held my hand for quite a while, but then said he needed some space. He went back to the waiting room and fell asleep, and Mom returned. We silently sat...watching...waiting.

The dawn brought rain, as if Heaven itself was crying in our sorrow. Jack woke up and roused the boys, and they came in. It must have been our voices that briefly brought Tommy back to consciousness. I reached out and took his hand in mine. He looked at me and then at Jeff. It seemed that just a hint of a smile passed over his lips as he closed his eyes, took one more deep breath, and died.