Chubbs

“Sometimes they’re mean toward those that they’re closest to,” Judy, the nurse from Hope Hospice, said on the other end of the phone, as I told her how mean Chubbs was being toward Gram (his mom) and Jude (his wife).  “He’s trying to push them away in some attempt to minimize their pain of losing him.”   Although that may have explained things, it was still hard to watch – sometimes he was downright nasty toward them.  It was, naturally, a really tough time for the whole family, especially Gram.  By early December, we were talking to Judy at least once a day.  Chubbs was a tough customer and there was drama:  Chubbs didn’t want to accept any of the equipment they wanted to send to the house – wheelchair, hospital bed, etc.  It was his own way of denying what was happening to him.  Who could blame him?  Even today, I can’t begin to understand the magnitude of receiving the news that you’re dying in just a few months.  Who can grasp that?  Gram didn't show it, but I know she was devastated.

Twelve years ago today, December 15, 2002, Gram lost her only son, Burnett Berberich, to Pancreatic Cancer.  (Gram called him Chubbs, Chubby, Snoop or Snoopy.)  He was diagnosed on August 6 of that year.  He lived only a little over 4 months.  Sadly, his was the type of cancer that had no real options or treatment.  I was at the cancer specialist with Chubbs and Jude when he was given his prognosis.  Chubbs sat on the edge of the exam table in the exam room and Jude and I stood on either side.  The doctor came in and put the film up on the light board and then immediately pulled it back down with one hand and turned around.  He was face to face and eye level with Chubbs.  “I’m sorry,” he said, almost emotionless.  “I suggest you get your affairs in order.  You have about 4 months.”  I remember my heart sinking in that moment as I held back tears and noticed the combined look of disbelief and devastation on Chubbs’ face.  We had previously been told it was Pancreatic Cancer, but this was the first time we knew what to expect.  The doctor went on to describe how painful the disease is and how some people had lived as much as a year or two, but their tumors were in the upper end of the Pancreas.  He then went on to say that even when some patients are treated by surgery – the Whipple Procedure- the tumors ALWAYS came back.  There was no cure and no real longevity.  When the doctor finished, Chubbs’ responded the way that those of us who knew him would have expected him to respond:  “You mean I won’t make it to next May so I can collect Social Security?”  “No,” the doctor said.  Chubbs would have been 65 the following May.  He had retired at 62 – early.  He had finally had enough of the buyouts, mergers and constant changes at the cement plant where he had worked for many years.  Chubbs, who was always known for being cheap and saving all of his money for retirement, sadly enough, only got to enjoy about a year and a half of his long-awaited retirement.    

Although Gram maintained her tough exterior throughout the process, I know that losing the son she loved so much was devastating for her.  In fact, in hindsight, I wonder if Gram was really able to truly grasp what was happening.  She was never one for showing emotions so it was hard to tell.  I rarely saw Gram shed a tear.  I remember only two occasions:  when Pap died and when Chubbs was dying.  In both cases, the episode was very brief and controlled and she never sobbed.  The fact that his disease progressed and took his life so quickly was traumatic and difficult for all of us to grasp.  After it was over, it felt like our heads were spinning to try to catch up with all of the events and emotions of the previous four months.  For Gram, I often wonder if the trauma of losing Chubbs could have even triggered her dementia.  It seems unlikely, but one never knows.  It was shortly after his death that she began to exhibit symptoms.

Gram tried hard to keep Chubbs eating while he was sick.  It was very hard for all of us to watch – a big, strong, muscular guy, who always enjoyed eating – whither into someone who struggled to eat a tablespoon of mashed potatoes.  She tried making all of his favorite meals in hopes that he’d eat.  Sometimes he would.  Most times he couldn’t, especially near the end.  She didn’t quit, she remained steadfastly devoted and persistent. 

It was Friday afternoon, December 13, when things took a turn for the worse.  Chubbs had been filling up with fluid a lot.  He went to the hospital weekly to get “drained.”  Thursday, the day before, he had been drained and that night, Jude made a spaghetti dinner.  I ate with them that night, as I often did, and Chubbs actually ate well - for him, anyway.  He commented that it was because he was drained and didn’t feel as bloated.  “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” he remarked with a big grin after he finished.  That made Jude (and me) happy.  Little did we know it would be his last meal. 

Late in the morning on that Friday Jude called me at work and said that Chubbs couldn’t get off of the toilet.  I told her I’d come and I hung up the phone and went to tell my boss I had to go.  When I arrived at Jude’s house, Chubbs was in the recliner.  Jude explained that a guy came to deliver hospice supplies and she asked him to help and he did.  However, things went downhill from that point.  Chubbs became more restless as the evening went on.  He also began to have pain. (Uncharacteristic of those with Pancreatic Cancer, he had not previously had much pain.)  Judy, our hospice nurse, told us to begin administering the Morphine that she had placed in the refrigerator on her first visit, knowing that we'd need it later.  They were oral syringes, so Jude and I began the ritual of taking turns administering it in Chubbs’ mouth every 1 ½- 2 hours.

All evening, Chubbs was on some mission it seemed.  He would not sit still.  No matter where he was, he wanted to be somewhere else.  When he was in the kitchen, he wanted to be in bedroom; from there he wanted in the living room, then the kitchen again.  Around and around we went -me helping him out of the wheelchair and walking him to his destination each time.  I struggled, too, because at this point he had quickly filled up with fluid again so he was heavy and awkward.  But I persisted as did he.  This went on for hours.  Late Friday night, he finally sat down in the big brown leather recliner that he had bought a week or so before just for dying and he calmed down.  The Morphine began to take effect.  We had been in touch all evening with Judy.  “He’s running,” she said.  “What?” I replied.  “He’s running from death.  He’s scared and he hasn’t accepted it.”  “Oh,” I said, surprised, but also thinking she was right.  When he finally sat down, I guess he had found some acceptance.   

Chubbs wanted to die at home.  While he was sick, one of us was always sure to bring Gram over to visit and spend time with him.  While she was at home, Gram spent much of her time making meals that Chubbs liked.  She would bring those meals to Chubbs when she visited.  She wanted to be close to her Chubby.

Gram was there Saturday, the next day.  Early in the day, Chubbs was in and out of consciousness.  During the day, the “death rattle” started and we knew time was running out.  We all sat in the living room wondering when he would take his last breath.  Gram would occasionally leave out her characteristic deep sigh – the one during which she typically whispered an “oh shit,” thinking no one heard.  We sat and we talked and we waited and we wondered.   Gram, Jude, Mom, my sisters -Michelle, Tara, and Heather- all of us.  We were tired.  We were scared.  We waited.  And if anyone left the room, they’d come rushing back in as soon as there was any type of noise from Chubbs.  We continued the Morphine ritual.

At one point, I saw some tears in Gram’s eyes.  Without calling attention to them, I said to her, “Mum, come over here and sit with him and tell him you love him.”  I know that her doing that would be one of the most difficult things in her life.  Gram just didn't say the words “I love you” – not to anyone.  She would say, “Me too” if you said it to her.  That was the most you’d get.  But she did walk over and she sat down in a chair next to the recliner.  She held Chubbs’ hand and she bent her head down near his chest.  I heard her talking to him, but I couldn't hear words and intentionally didn't listen.  I didn't for one second want Gram to feel embarrassed for saying anything that she might have been saying.  It was too important.  I suspected she would need to reach back to this moment once Chubbs was gone and take solace in the fact that she said what she needed to.  After a few minutes, Gram stood up and said, in her strong way, “Well, there’s nothing else I can do here.”  She put her coat on and was ready to go home.  Mom took her home. 

By the end of Saturday, Chubbs was completely unconscious.  Sunday came and everyone was back in our respective seats.  Chubbs was still hanging on and we did the same ritual – we all sat there afraid to leave the room and waiting for the moment to come.  Hospice Judy called and was surprised that Chubbs was hanging on.  She suggested that we let him know that it was OK for him to go.  “Tell him,” she said, “Tell him that it is ok for him to go.”  We did.  She also suggested that we leave the room.  “The hearing is the last thing to go,” she said.  “Although he can’t respond, he can hear.  He doesn't want to die with everyone around – especially Michelle, Jude and his mom.”  Judy knew the bond that Chubbs and Michelle had.  It was that of a father and daughter.  She was his princess.  So we all left the room.  But as soon as Chubbs would groan, we’d all run back in.  This went on for hours.  As it got late and everyone got ready to leave, Michelle called out, “Good night, Chubbs.  We’ll see you tomorrow.”  Michelle, Mom, Heather and Gram left and got into their cars to go home.  Only Jude and I remained and as we stood in the dining room making our way outside to smoke a cigarette, I noticed something.  I turned to look at Chubbs and at that moment, I said softly, “Jude, look.  He’s taking his last breath.”  I don’t know how, but I just knew.  The family had barely pulled out of the driveway.  Hospice Judy was right.  He waited.

I saw something beautiful that night -a lightness; a relief came over Chubbs' body as he exhaled that last breath.  The pain and burden were gone.  It was as if I was watching him leave his wretched body.  I walked over and placed my hands over his eyes, said goodbye and closed them.  "Goodbye Chubbs.  Rest in peace."