Left for Dead (32 page)

One of the first things Terry White and I discussed was a transplant. The Kaiser oncologist didn’t even review Howie’s films. Nothing. He walked into the room, looked at Howie’s records, and said, “Oh, you have a hepatoma. It’s bigger than five centimeters. We don’t do transplants when tumors are greater than five centimeters.” In effect he said, “You’re gonna die. I could
treat you, but it wouldn’t make any difference, because you’re still gonna die.”

Kaiser diddled Howie around for a couple of months, and I believe that did affect the quality of care he received. I don’t know, however, if it made a difference in his outcome.

I took what Beck was doing as proof of his love for me and for my family …

I wanted to prove I could still make a positive impact on our lives.

… but I still had to kick him in the butt a fair number of times. He and Terry would say, “There’s nothing more to be done.” I said, “Don’t tell me there’s nothing to be done. I live with a dead man, remember?”

I won’t quarrel with that recollection. The fact is that Terry and I worked real hard trying to figure out some alternatives. Just because there was no happy outcome anticipated—remember, I also thought I was a dead man on Everest—the fact is that you ain’t tryin’ if you ain’t tryin’.

Peach and I would have paid for the transplant; there just wasn’t enough time to get one.

Our second idea was a major liver resection. We researched that one fully, too. It would have been a huge operation, and we finally saw that it just wasn’t going to happen.

The third alternative, not a cure but a delaying action, was to embolize the tumor; that is, try to knock it down by cutting off its blood supply. Some success with this strategy had been noted in the literature. We tried it twice before turning to the last resort, chemotherapy.

Howie lived four months after his diagnosis, from August of ’96 to January of 1997. It was a very fast-growing tumor, but for the most part he suffered very little physical pain. He spent about half that time with us in Dallas, where Beck accompanied him on all his doctors’ appointments. It felt like we had desperately sick people stacked up in every corner.

When Bub heard Uncle Howie was coming to stay with us, he voluntarily gave up his room and sort of camped around the house. Bub wouldn’t give up his room for anybody. But he said, “If Howie needs to come here, then he should get my room. I’m moving out.”

I also remember that autumn Meg had a special date. It was her freshman year, and she was wearing her first-ever short black dress. Howie wouldn’t come down to meet the boy. He asked that Meg come up to Bub’s room instead. When he saw her, he started bawling. He knew it would be the first and last time he’d ever see her that way, and he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her in front of her date.

Howie faced his cancer with dignity. I can’t remember the exact date of this, but I know we were all sitting in the den. Peach, myself, Howie in the rocking chair, Pat and their daughter, Laura. And it came to him right then that he was going to die. There’d been denial until that moment. Then all of us knew it, too, at that moment. We could fight a rear-guard action, but hope was gone.

It was an immensely sad moment. I could see Howie coming to grips with it. Then he rallied. He knew he had to be strong again for his wife and child. That was a hard moment.

Howie’s last hope was an experimental program Terry White found in Illinois. Only about half a dozen patients had been part of it. We knew it was a long shot.

When the call came that he had very little time left, Beck surprised me again. He easily could have said, “You go. I’ll stay with the kids.” But he didn’t. He said, “I’ll go with you.”

I was at my microscope when Peach called the hospital to tell me that they didn’t believe Howard could last the night. I said, “When do we leave?”

She said, “We need to be out of here in about an hour.” I stood up from my desk, walked to the outer office and told my partners I was leaving, that I had to go to Chicago.

It was a silent flight. Chicago was bitterly cold. The wind blew a chill right through your body. The city was various tones of gray, with little if any color anywhere.

At the hospital, we passed through multiple security checkpoints on our way to Howard’s room. We made it in time. Howard was lucid. He’d hung on, knowing his baby sister was coming to him for one last time. Pat and Laura were at his bedside. Each of us had the time to say good-bye to Howard, to tell him how much he meant to us, and I was able to thank him for all the times he stood in for me, had been the father figure I wanted to be but just wasn’t any good at.

I told him I loved him. I embraced him and I kissed his forehead.

I’ve been told that people facing death can hold on by sheer dint of will, if there’s something very important left for them to do. I believe this is true. Howard had held on, and now he was ready to let go. You could see him surrender to his exhaustion. He closed his eyes, slipped into unconsciousness. His breath became ever more labored and ragged. Then he was gone.

Peach and I left the hospital about four in the morning and went to our hotel. In all my time on mountains all over the world, I’d never felt so chilled.

Later that morning we flew back to Dallas. I had the window seat. Peach was beside me, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my arm. As the plane headed south in the light of the early morning sun, the rivers and lakes below us flashed up blindingly, brilliant gold turning to silver as the plane flew on.

The sparkle seemed to dance across the water, leaping to stay with us. I felt Peach’s face against my cheek as we both stared out the window.

“You know what that is?” I asked. “Yes, it’s Howard,” she answered.

That was exactly my thought. I could see Howard in that light, performing this last fatherly act, as he guided his baby sister safely home.

Back in Dallas, Peach asked me to deliver the eulogy at Howard’s funeral, which would be held in Atlanta. Though I’m generally not at a loss for words, I did not want to do this thing. I loved Howard so much that I just didn’t think I had the strength to deliver a eulogy without coming apart. But I also knew it was something I had to do.

Most of the people who came to our house that May weekend in 1996 also sent flowers to Howie’s funeral, eight months later. I don’t know that I ever understood the purpose of flowers at such a time, other than a gesture of love and respect for the deceased.

But on this occasion, as we read their names on the cards and looked at all the lovely floral tributes, this same set of friends seemed to embrace us once again, their strength sustaining us yet again.

The pain I felt at Howie’s funeral was all the sharper for the realization that my brother had been there for practically every important moment in my life. Then he had taken it upon himself to do the same for my children. Howie even came to my college graduation, which was no more personal (certainly not to me, anyway) than “Will the College of Arts and Sciences now rise?” At the time, Laura was a toddler, no more than two, yet
Howie and Pat drove a couple of hours with her so he could watch me graduate.

The occasions didn’t need to be great or grand for Howie to take then seriously, either. For example, he once promised Bub he’d attend Bub’s second-grade show-and-tell. The weather in Dallas started to go downhill in a hurry, and Howie needed to be in California the following day on business. He refused to leave, however, until he’d kept his word to Bub, and attended that show-and-tell.

Howie just understood better than most of us the importance of daily deeds, rituals and traditions, as opposed to grand entrances and exits; that it’s the journey, not the destination, that matters in our lives. It does seem that we go to more funerals than weddings.

Peach also asked Meg to sing at Howard’s funeral. Difficult as I felt the eulogy would be, I thought that paled in comparison to the prospect of Meg standing and singing in front of hundreds of people at her beloved uncle’s funeral. Peach’s friends suggested that this maybe wasn’t a good idea. But Peach said, “No, Meg will do it, and she will do it for her Howie.”

The funeral only served to remind each of us how central to our universe Howard had been. The easy part for me was to list the many academic honors and awards Howard had achieved throughout his life. The personal part was much tougher. I could see Howard reflected in the eyes of my family. They remembered Howard flying across the country to come see Meg in
the lead in
Peter Pan
. They remembered Howard taking Bub under his wing, and giving my son a father’s role model plainly superior to the one I offered.

Howard was a unique mix of intellect and intelligence with the outward look of the common man. He’d been a role model for my kids, and finally for me. I managed to get all the way through the eulogy with only the occasional pause to compose myself. During all this time, Meg sat silently in the front row, tears coursing down her cheeks. But as I finished, and it came her time to say good-bye, she stood up, dried her eyes and walked to the center of the altar, where, in a strong, clear, unwavering voice, she sang “Amazing Grace.”