One Foot in This World and One Foot in the Next

Kenner was diagnosed with prostate cancer several years ago.  He underwent treatment, sending the cancer went into remission, and all was well for a while, but at a subsequent appointment he learned that the cancer was back and that it had spread aggressively.  Kenner pursued some treatment options to try to arrest the growth; alas, to no avail.  Through the black and white lens through which he saw the world he decided Basoof! which I thought was a German word meaning "enough" but at a subsequent appointment I found out it's only made-up gibberish.  Ken believed that he had lived a good, blessed life and that was enough for him; he was satisfied with his journey and at peace in his mind.  He wasn't one to question his god when he was convinced the message was coming in loud and clear.

"It's time to come home."  This is what god told Ken and that's an explanation that's good enough for me.

While Ken was still well enough he was able to close up his household, giving his stuff to his kids or to charity, putting his financial affairs in order, taking his leave with his many friends.  SuperK and I were in India when this was going down so I was only able to talk to him sporadically.  Then . . . radio silence.  No Kenner.  Many messages and no return calls.  I finally reached out to Little Westside Jonny who lived nearby - he could find out only that Ken was still alive but the facility wouldn't release any more information than that to non-family.

Eventually, through some diligent detective work on the part of Jonny, we found out that Ken had moved into the skilled nursing facility on the grounds of his retirement community where hospice had begun to deliver end-of-life care: pain management and that sort of thing.  While he was bedridden - or nearly so - most of the last three or four months of his life I was able to talk to him almost every day.  I was at peace with my relationship with him so I made the decision not to travel back to see him in person, aware that my chances were rapidly vanishing and that I might not make it back in time on one of my trips to see him alive.  We talked about this and he agreed, worrying that seeing my face one more time would only hasten his death, and make it painful to boot.

So when we spoke he would invariably ask me how I was doing.  I'd like to remind you that he was bedridden and dying of cancer, in a lot of pain, but this did not hamstring my boundless capacity to talk about myself, mostly complaining about unimportant things, usually mild pain or discomfort in my remarkably healthy body.  I understood that the distraction was probably good for him.  Still, it was a fine demonstration of my self-absorption.  

As he got sicker and sicker it seemed that he was beginning to move back and forth between this world and the next; either that or the morphine was making him a little weird and he was sharing his hallucinations with me.  Never a man to talk about his personal life he nevertheless began to share some deeply private thoughts and memories about his marriages and children.  Then, he started to hypothesize on the nature of love - and that's Love with a capital L - on what was coming next, on the reality of god.  It got a little eerie from time to time - I began to feel like I was talking to someone who could see things that my human eyes were unable to see, that he had one foot in this world and the other foot somewhere else.

The calls would end on his terms.  He was usually laughing.  His voice would get less and less distinct, quieter, fuzzier, and he would tell me that it was time to address his pain and that he was releasing me for the day.  I could tell he was getting frustrated - he was ready to die and a little perplexed as to why his god wasn't calling him home.  One day he didn't pick up the phone.  That afternoon I got an email from a mutual friend in The Program who told me that Ken informed the staff that he was no longer going to eat or drink anything.  He lapsed into a coma and died shortly afterwards, his family in the room, held in the arms of his god.

So we talk about how our pains and troubles and travails fit us to be of service to our fellows.  Mom died quickly, so quickly that I never got to speak to her; dad dissolved in an alcoholic mist; and Kenner showed me some really wild, really important things.  His pain was one of the greatest gifts that I ever received.

Three years later and I still miss talking to him.