aventilatorandafeedingtube.Hedidn’tsoundlikehe
wanted that, I said.
“Never,” he said. “Let me die instead.”
ThosequestionswereamongthehardestI’daskedinmy
life.Iposedthemwithgreattrepidation,fearing,well,I
don’t knowwhat—anger frommy fatherormother,or
depression, or the sense that just by raising such
questions I was letting them down. But what we felt
afterward was relief. We felt clarity.
Maybe his answers meant that itwas time to talk to
Benzel about surgery, again, I said. My father softly
agreed.
HetoldBenzelthathewasreadyforthespinalsurgery.
Hewasmoreafraidnowofwhatthetumorwasdoingto
him than what an operation might do to him. He
scheduledthesurgeryfortwomonthslater,afterhisterm
ofofficeasdistrictgovernorended.Bythen,hiswalking
had becomeunsteady.Hewashavingfallsandtrouble
getting up from sitting.
Finally,onJune30, 2010,wearrivedattheCleveland
Clinic.Mymother,mysister,andIgavehimakissina
preoperativeholdingroom,adjustedhissurgicalcap,told
himhowmuchwelovedhim,andlefthiminthehandsof
Benzelandhisteam.Theoperationwassupposedtolast
all day.
Justtwohoursintoit,however,Benzelcameouttothe
waiting area. He said my father had gone into an
abnormalcardiacrhythm.Hisheartratespedupto 150
beatsaminute.Hisbloodpressuredroppedseverely.The