submitted
OTTUMWA —
My husband, J.B., had always been a healthy, happy outdoorsman — whether at his job in the Experimental Department at John Deere working on machinery or at home playing ball and coaching our sons’ ball teams, cutting wood or just watching the birds and animals from our nearby woods. He also liked to eat! However, in the fall of 2009, his appetite began to lag. He was 81 and had had heart surgery, so we did not think too much about it. By Thanksgiving and Christmas, I and other family members knew something was wrong. He was also losing more weight.
Being the type of man that he was, it was difficult to get him to mention these concerns to his doctor. The doctor told him if his symptoms continued, he would order tests. The symptoms did not go away, and a series of tests followed. First they found blood clots in one of the lungs, and a brief hospital stay ensued. Gall bladder surgery and a colonoscopy showed nothing. Then came the endoscopy that showed a cancerous growth in his upper stomach. He was referred to a specialist in Des Moines. We were told because of the cancer’s location high in the stomach, it would require removing his entire stomach (an extremely traumatic surgery). A tiny pouch would be formed from the upper intestine to hold a few bites of food. Even if he survived the surgery, a long or permanent stay in a nursing home would be necessary. The only other option was chemotherapy and radiation. He opted for the chemo.
Through all of the chemo, he was very patient and laughed and joked with the nurses. His throat and mouth were so raw and sore he could scarcely swallow. He seldom complained and continued to be upbeat. He was just thankful he was not sick to his stomach and that he had not lost his hair.
Another round of chemo soon followed. Still, he was brave and for the most part in good humor. Finally, his doctors announced he was in remission. We were ecstatic. That did not last for long.
He again lost his appetite and his weight plummeted even more. This once strong, 220-pound man began to resemble a Holocaust victim. Food became unthinkable and he became annoyed with me for asking him if there was anything at all that sounded good to eat.
A third attempt at chemotherapy was just too much. Depression was taking its toll along with the nonstop nausea.
He began to talk about “the end,” and welcomed it. While I talked with him, I had a hard time knowing that we were talking “finality,” but I knew he wanted to go Home and see our son and other family members who had previously passed on.
After a particularly rough weekend, we knew it was time to call Hospice, which we had both talked about and agreed upon. I stood in the yard, tears flowing, and watched the ambulance take him from our home of 56 years, knowing he would not be coming back.
Four days later I held his hand and asked him, “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” He could, and ever so faintly he squeezed my hand, then stepped through the veil.
On Sept. 1, 2011, J.B. met his Lord and was reunited with our son.
Erma Reeves
Ottumwa
