Follow-up on Foster the Cat

One question I get asked pretty often by people who've read my family's story is this: What ever happened to Foster the cat?  

As I've mentioned, my mom is not a big fan of felines.  We had various pet cats while I was growing up and my parents had a cat named Sport who had passed away a year or so before my dad got sick, but Dad was always more the cat person between the two of them.  

I think I can speak for my mom when I say that there were no regrets about having gotten a cat for my dad after he got out of rehab; his Bucket List had been revised in such a drastic way when he got sick, and there weren't a lot of things on his list during that time that he could do because of the impairments that came from the tumor and because of the treatment he was undergoing.  Getting him a kitten was one of the few requests we could fulfill for him, and we were happy that his wish was able to be granted.  

Dad loved having Foster; in fact, he said that getting Foster was the "second best thing" that had happened to him since he'd gotten sick. ("The first best is having my kids and my grandkids around more," he said.)  He and Foster napped together and hung out together, and, when they weren't doing that, Dad enjoyed watching Foster play.

Unfortunately, though, Dad didn't get better with the treatments; in fact, he got worse, and he was only around for about six weeks after Foster joined the family.  

Mom didn't want a cat.  She had two greyhounds, one of whom was elderly and in poor health, and Foster tormented both of them.  He constantly tried to escape whenever an exterior door to the house was opened, and Mom didn't want to have to worry about him getting lost or hurt outside.  With Dad not around to take pleasure in Foster anymore, we agreed we needed to find a new home for the cat.

But this wasn't just any cat - it was Dad's cat - and, other than Dad's car, it was the first time we had to make a decision of what to do something of his - something he had loved, even if just for a short time.  Something he should still be around to love.  Ouch.

So we didn't want to let just anybody have him; ideally, we wanted him to go to a home with children to play with and to a family that would report back to us periodically about how he was doing.  I felt like it would be like losing a part of Dad if we lost track of Foster, and all of us were already battling against such sadness that I didn't want one more loss to add to the mix.

A couple of my parents' friends offered to take Foster when they heard about our situation, but neither had children and we thought Foster would be happier if he had some kids to play with.  Both of my sisters and I considered taking him, but all three of us already had two cats each and we weren't sure the younger, more energetic Foster would fit in.  

Taking a cat nap in a gift basket

Six weeks after my dad went on ahead, my siblings and I and our spouses and children all gathered again at my parents' house; because my dad had expressed his desire to be cremated and the cremation couldn't be completed before some of the family needed to leave town the month before, we had planned the memorial celebration for a few days after his death and the burial several weeks later so we could all make it back for the service.

That weekend, we talked about what would be best for Foster, and, to our delight, my brother and his wife offered to take him back with them and their two children when they returned a few days later to Philadelphia.  It seemed like the perfect solution; they already had one cat but thought she and Foster would work out any differences in time as needed.  

We were apprehensive about how Foster would behave on the plane ride, but they reported that he did fine. (Don't tell the airline, but he even got to get out of the carrier and sit in my niece's lap for awhile on the flight!)  

Since then, he has adjusted to living with them, and he and their first cat Greta have called a truce.  I know my dad would be glad that his cat has such a great life, playing with my niece and my nephew and going inside and outside as often as he wants, and we are grateful that he ended up in such a good place and that we get to hear funny Foster stories so often.  

At home with my niece, who is showing
him a photo of my parents

Part 36 - ICU 2.0

Continued from Part 35

After a day of ups and downs, the oncologist made his final rounds before the three-day holiday weekend late in the afternoon.  He delivered a pep talk to Dad, who as usual “faked” how he was feeling in front of the doctor (“Doing great, Doc!”), and then the doctor asked us to step out into the hall with him.  I tagged along, and my sister stayed in the room with Dad. 

“I’ve heard from the nurses that he’s mentioned dying a few times,” the oncologist said, “and I just want to be sure before I leave for the weekend that you want the chart to reflect that you want ‘heroic measures’ to be taken should anything drastic happen.”  

Wow, I thought, as I looked at my mom in shock.  OF COURSE we want HEROIC MEASURES, I thought; we want a MIRACLE - we want him to be healthy again!  We want someone to be a hero the way Dad is to us, and if that takes ‘heroic measures,’ then so be it!

“What do YOU think?” Mom asked the doctor.

“At this point, I think he is still recovering from the infection, and I expect him to respond to the treatment for that, after which we can press on with the treatment for the cancer,” he said.  “So I would say we do not want a DNR [Do Not Resuscitate order] in place at this point, but I want to be sure you agree.”

“Yes, we agree,” Mom told him.  “We need more time.”  

Exactly, I thought, and we said goodbye to the oncologist and went back into Dad’s room.  

That evening, the night nurse (unfortunately not Meredith, who had the night off) administered two units of whole blood to Dad; as per the protocol, she gave him IV Benedryl beforehand, and as a result Dad slept soundly for the first part of the transfusion.  After that, though, he was very restless and talkative, although most of what he said was “mumbly,“ as we noted in the Notebook.  He had just gotten back to sleep at 3:45 a.m. when a phlebotomist (whom I referred to in the Notebook at “The Blood Bitch”) burst into the room, abruptly flipped on the ceiling light, and announced loudly that she needed to take blood.  As Dad stirred in the bed, I jumped up, turned the lights back off, and told B.B. that, unless the order had been specifically written for blood to be drawn at that exact time, she needed to come back later.  She retreated and returned again at 7 a.m.

The rest of that day, which was Christmas Eve Day, was a whirlwind of activity, disappointment, and stress for us.  We had quite a string of visitors that morning, and Dad seemed to get more disoriented and more distressed with each person who entered the room.  Shortly after the nurses’ change of shift, the stand-in-oncologist Dr. M came in to introduce himself.  He said that Dad would be getting a transfusion of platelets that day and that he was increasing the insulin dosage due to the increasing blood sugar numbers that had been noted over the past 24 hours.  

Next was a visit from the Physical Therapist, who tried to help Dad turn onto his side in the bed.  It seemed like every movement was not only exhausting but also excruciatingly painful for him, and, after a couple of minutes of listening to and watching Dad groan and grimace in pain, she said, “I want to get him sitting up at the edge of the bed again, but I’m concerned that doing so will agitate him for several hours.”  Looking at the anguish on Dad’s face, Mom asked the P.T. to come back later, and the P.T. agreed to check back that afternoon.

Next through our revolving door was a volunteer with a therapy dog.  Like the rest of my family, Dad loved animals, but he seemed totally disinterested in interacting with this dog, even turning his head away when the volunteer asked if he wanted to pet the dog.  “Thank you anyway, but I really just want to see my own dogs and my cat,” he told her.  

Things continued to spiral downward, with Dad becoming more miserable and with his condition becoming more perilous as the day progressed.  When the nurse started to give Dad a sponge bath, he yelled, “I know you don’t mean to, but you’re really hurting me!  Can’t I please just skip this?”  A little while later, in preparation for the platelet transfusion, she brought in the Benedryl, and two minutes later Dad was snoozing, even sleeping through a shot of 15 units of insulin, which, due to the alarmingly high blood sugar reading, was much larger than the 6 units he had been getting.

Not long after the platelets had been administered, Dad’s blood pressure and blood sugar levels started climbing so rapidly that the decision was made by the stand-in oncologist to transfer him to the ICU.  “There’s just way too much going on with him,” the nurse commented, and, terrified, we agreed.  As the arrangements were being made for the transfer, Dad started hallucinating; he seemed less in pain and more confused and in his own world, which frightened us even more.

Because of the skeletal holiday staffing, the Neuro-ICU was closed, and Dad was assigned to the Cardiac-ICU, or the “CCU.”  When we got the word that we were moving, we hurriedly gathered up our belongings, and Mom pushed a cart with our stuff on it as I speed-walked alongside Dad in the bed, which was rolled down several long hallways by the nurse and a transport aide.  I was worried that the movement of the bed would hurt Dad, but instead he called out “Whee!” each time the bed was rolled across a bump on the floor along the way.  

As soon as we got to the little glassed-in room on the unit, Dad was taken back out for another CT scan ordered by the oncologist due of his worsening condition.  As per the results of the scan a few days before, again no signs of bleeding or inflammation in the brain were seen, which seemed like good news but - with the improvement of his blood count - instead left everyone wondering as to what was going on and what should be done next.  

Up next … Part 37 – The Fight 

Part 13 - The Quest for Foster

Continued from Part 12

In between the flurry of things going on that second week in November, Dad stayed focused on adding things to his Revised Bucket List.  He had always been such a positive thinker, and overall that remained the same, despite the obstacles and the hardships. 

Another thing about Dad that was unchanged was his enjoyment of sipping a cold beer at the end of a hard day.  Even in the ICU after his surgery, he started asking each morning if he could have a beer that evening.  ("Just trying to plan ahead!" he said.)

What do you say in answer to such a simple request from someone who is dealing with such tragedy, someone who is putting forth such effort while suffering and struggling so much, someone whom you love so very much?  The term simple pleasure took on a whole new meaning as we campaigned first the doctors at the hospital and next the one at the rehab facility to get permission for Dad for drink one beer at the end of each day. 

All of them gave the same answer:  as long as it had been at least a couple of hours since he’d had pain medication, as long as he’d eaten something beforehand, and as long as we kept it quiet.  I never quite figured out why Condition #3 was an issue, but we figured whatever it takes and smuggled in the beer for Dad. 

Dad’s favorite way to drink beer was in a can, and he thought it was funny when we wrapped a brown paper bag around the can for concealment.  His second-favorite way to drink it was in a cup over ice, which was handy since we sometimes had to stash a can or two somewhere in his room for a while before Conditions #1 and #2 were met, which meant the beer was hot when it was time to serve it.  As a bonus, a cup was great camouflage, plus Dad loved crunching the crushed ice, too.  We often had to remind him that the nurses and nursing assistants weren’t supposed to know about the beer; several times one of them came into the room while Dad was drinking his nightly beer.  “How’s it going?” one of the male nurses asked him one night.  “Great!” Dad said.  “I’m just drinking a beer!”  The nurse got a shocked look on his face and said, “You’re kidding, right? We don’t allow beer in here!”  Before Dad could give the answer that was sure to be completely honest, I said, “Oh, he’s such a kidder!”  The nurse laughed and went on his way. 

By far, Dad’s favorite kind of beer was Foster’s; he loved the big blue oil can that it came in and thought it was cool that the alcohol content was higher than a “regular” beer.  He was happy to have his wish of getting a beer each night granted, but he was thrilled when that beer was a Foster’s. 

Plotting to get his daily Foster’s became a major mission of Dad’s during this time.  In fact, as we drove up to the rehab hospital on the day Dad was admitted there, he spotted a Super Wal-Mart across the street from where we parked and commented that it would be so handy for us to run across the street after supper at night to get him a Foster’s.  ("Just trying to plan ahead!")

On the night of the third day after we got to rehab, my aunt stayed with Dad while Mom went to get the contraband.  Bad news:  Super Wal-Mart wasn’t that Super – they didn’t have a single oil can in the whole store.  Mom drove up and down the street in search of a Foster’s, but to no avail.  She bought a Bud Light tall-boy instead.  Dad was grateful to get that, but he wasn’t happy when Mom told him about the shortage of Foster’s.  “I just can’t believe that they were all out of it!” he incredulously told my mom and my aunt, as if they were trying to pull a fast one on him for some reason.  My aunt later went to several other stores in search of the desired bounty and was told at several locations that the distributor in the area was running low.  “Huh?” Dad said when she told him the news.  “Why can’t they just make more??”

My youngest sister came to stay with Dad the next night and brought him two things that he really wanted, some chili from Wendy’s and a can of Foster’s that she had scored at a convenience store on the outskirts of town.  “This turned out to be a good day after all,” Dad told her.

Early the next day, I got a phone call from the scheduler at the Brain Tumor Clinic at Duke University:  Dad had been accepted into their program and was scheduled to be seen on the Tuesday and Wednesday before Thanksgiving.  Again, I cried tears of joy and speed-dialed everyone in the family to let them know the great news. 

Over the weekend, my younger sister and her husband spent time with Dad; some family members who saw the news on Dad's Care Page about the quest for Foster's had procured a few stray cans of Foster’s, and Dad was happy as he savored one while he watched the Auburn football game that Saturday.   

Running concurrently with his campaign for Foster’s beer was Dad’s quest for getting a cat.  This quickly moved to the top of his Revised Bucket List, and, around the time the area supply of Foster’s beer was running low, Mom agreed that Dad could get a cat.  Several of Dad’s sleepless nights were spent discussing what he should name the cat, and he finally settled on none other than the name of his favorite beer:  Foster. 

While my brother-in-law and Dad were spending some Male Bonding Time (“binding time,” Dad always called it) that weekend, Mom and my sister went to look at cats.  One had been hand-picked by a friend of my mom’s; he fit the description of what we were searching for in a cat – not to old but not too young, calm enough to sit in Dad’s lap, and good around dogs and children.  They liked him right away, and he was ear-marked for Dad as soon as Dad got home from rehab.

That Sunday night, I called Mom and told her that my mother-in-law had bought a case of Foster’s that she had found in our city and that I would be delivering the beer to Dad when I got there a couple of days later.  “Great, great news,” I heard Dad say in response when Mom told him.  “That, plus the cat – I’m coming out pretty well this weekend.” 

Coming soon … Part 14 – Missing The Boat

Part 7 – A Revised Bucket List

Continued from Part 6

When people talk about having a Bucket List, they picture themselves in the same physical and mental condition as - and usually in better financial condition than - they are at the time, being able to do things that they want to complete in their lifetimes.  We thought of a Bucket List in that same way, until Dad couldn’t. 

Two days after Dad’s surgery, the oncologist came to see him in the ICU and, with my mother and my youngest sister there, told him about the cancer.  Dad asked what would happen if he didn’t have chemo or some kind of treatment, and the doctor said, "Your lifespan would be shortened considerably.”  

In what Dad seemed to consider to be the worst part of the news, the doctor told him that he would not be able to drive a car or to go to work during the treatment period, which he said he anticipated to be about for six weeks.  The oncologist said that, if they could get the cancer into remission, it was highly likely that the cancer would recur despite treatment but that there were different options including clinical trials  that could be considered at that point.  Dad asked how soon treatment could be started ("The sooner the better!" Dad said.), and the oncologist told him he would need more time to recover from the surgery but that chemo would probably start before Thanksgiving.  

Dad, working on his Original Bucket List, in better days

Later that day, Dad was transferred from the Neuro-ICU to a room on the Neuro floor of the hospital.  (I was so relieved that the doctors wanted him to be on that floor instead of the Oncology floor.  It seemed to me to be a symbol of Hope at the time, but we later found out the quality of care at that hospital was actually better in Oncology.)  Some of Dad’s tubes and wires were removed, and, with a walker and lots of assistance and supervision, including constant reminders to keep his hands on the grips of the walker, he started to be able to move from the bed to a reclining chair or the bathroom and back. 

The no-sleep persisted, and so we had lots of time to talk to Dad.  With the tentative plan for chemo in place, he began to think about other plans for the future.  We all desperately wanted to have something for him – and for us – to look forward to, and thus Dad’s Revised Bucket Plan began to take shape.  There wasn’t going to be any skydiving or mountain climbing for him, but there were still things he wanted to do, and we wanted so badly for him to be able to do them.

Another thing ticked off the Original Bucket List

Dad’s Revised Bucket Plan took many forms over the upcoming days and weeks; we spent countless hours talking to him and to each other about what he would be able to do for the rest of his life, with a particular focus on quality and fun and fulfillment.  Dad already had more than the average person under his belt as far as major life accomplishments (for example, he’d run the Boston Marathon twice, and he once ran a half-marathon down Pikes Peak - a.k.a. "El Capitan" - in the Rocky Mountains), but he had many more goals left to accomplish.

One of his biggest original goals was happening one week later – the Ironman Triathlon – and it was evident that he wasn’t going to make it.  Right after his surgery, he asked if I would call and see if his registration could be deferred; he thought he could do the Ironman the next year instead.  Cruelly, though, he gradually realized that wasn’t going to happen, and, over the course of the next few weeks, he kept having to change his ideas about what would be possible for him.  Finally, he ended up focusing on wanting to be on a relay running team for a long-distance event; he and I spent hours one night looking up such events and finally settled on one  called the Illinois River to River Relay in which an 8-person running team tag-teamed to cover a distance of 80 miles, with teamwork and covering the distance being more of a goal than speed.  He said, “I could tell the team ahead of time that I might have to walk a little bit, just in case.”

Dad and one of his best friends Bob at the 100th Boston Marathon

Dad with one of his best friends Wayne after they finished the 100th Boston Marathon

The focus of the second part of his Revised Bucket List was family.  He wanted to go on a big family vacation – at first to a beach (“Preferably to the Pacific,” he said.) and then that got revised to just going to a lake or a river nearby with the whole family.  He said he really wanted to go to an NBA game with his children, my two younger sisters, my brother (from my dad’s first marriage), and me.  “Long-term,” he said, “I’d like to be around to dance at my grandchildren’s weddings.”  I thought that was a kick-ass goal, especially since his youngest grandchild wasn't quite two at the time.

And last - but certainly not least - on his Revised Bucket List was to get a cat.  He saw this as possibly the biggest challenge of the things on his list; my mom isn’t a big fan of cats, and so he knew he would have to convince her that it was a good idea before he could execute his plan.  We spent lots of time debating about how he should approach her and then, after he said he thought she was “starting to cave,” we talked and talked about what the cat should be named.  It took him several days to decide on a name, but he was clear all along about what he wanted in a cat: “one that's not too young but not too old, that will be friends with the dogs [their two greyhounds] and that will be a lap cat.” 

What I learned from watching my dad revise his Bucket List so quickly and so drastically is that there is little difference between something that makes you happy and something that doesn’t; the trick is to convince yourself that they are the same.  On one hand, it ripped my heart out to see a man who was so enthusiastic and energetic having to resort to modifying his Bucket List, but on the other hand I was so incredibly inspired and touched that this same up-for-anything guy was so humble and willing to make those sacrifices so as to become satisfied with a Plan B, something different and ultimately less but fulfilling and sweet all the same.

Up next … Part 8 – Safety First