UCLA Journal of Radiation Oncology APRIL 2023 - Flipbook - Page 35
UCLA RADIATION ONCOLOGY JOURNAL
By way of introduction, Grandpa Joe, my father's
father, was raised in the Bronx by a stern mother
and career-soldier father. He was a businessman
by profession and by religion. He rose in the ranks
of multiple companies, eventually becoming the
president of Hires Root Beer, a company that
expanded during his tenure but was eventually
bought by Orange Crush, which in turn crushed
Hires Root Beer and made a lifelong enemy of my
grandfather. (In my family, we do not drink Orange
Crush.) Grandpa Joe never surrendered without a
fight.
his body. The family wanted to take him back to New
York for a traditional burial. But there had been talk
that John's Los Angeles friends were planning to
have him cremated.
Accompanied by my father and me, Grandpa Joe
marched up to John's bed and bent down beside him.
In medical school, we learn that not all family
members are created equal; when patients can't
make decisions for themselves and there is no living
will, you turn to the spouse first, adult children next,
then parents, and so on. There is even a mnemonic
(one of the clunkiest in existence) to help you
remember the ranking: the Spouse ChiPS in For the
patient—indicating Spouse, Child, Parent, Sibling,
and Friend, in that order. Following this rule, Kevin
would have come last. He and John weren't married,
and gay marriage wasn't even legal then. My father,
a child of the sixties, wasn't a fan of hierarchies. As
a psychologist in the emergency department, he
had always strived to foster a unanimous meeting of
the minds and hearts. To make things a little easier
on people like him, he says it is never too early to
tell anyone and everyone what you want in life and
in death. Then, importantly, write it down, in an
advance directive, on a POLST form, and maybe even
on a few napkins scattered throughout the house.
“You can fight this!” he said, shaking his fist. “I've
had illnesses all my life and I came out on the other
side. Did I let prostate cancer beat me? Hell no!”
“Wait, Dad,” my father said. “Wrong plan.”
“What?” Grandpa Joe said.
“We had a whole conversation about this.”
“When?”
“Just now, with the hospice nurse. We need to let go,
allow John to pass on.”
“That's not what I heard.”
“That's becoming clear to me.”
My father reviewed the plan, slowly, but no matter
how well you explain yourself, sometimes people
hear only what they're capable of hearing. Grandpa
Joe couldn't surrender. He argued and fumed,
eventually stormed out. So my father said goodbye
for him.
As if about to face off, two groups formed in
opposing semicircles of folding chairs—the family
seated on one side, and Kevin and his friends on the
other. John's father, Hank, seemed ready to fight, his
whole family there to back him up. Grandpa Joe kept
saying we needed to put John on a plane and get him
out of there.
Hank fired the opening salvo: he told Kevin that they
were going to take John back to New York. Their
community expected a traditional burial, needed it.
I doubt the timing of his death was related to our
collective send-off, but it sure felt like it was, and
that will do.
Kevin listened quietly until Hank finished. With
a soft-spoken grace, he looked Hank in the eyes
and told him he would never do anything against
the family's wishes. If they wanted a burial in New
York, he would help carry the casket. But, he said,
John had told him many times that he wanted to be
cremated and have his ashes scattered on Maui, at a
certain overlook they had visited together.
The next day, everyone assembled in John's
apartment for the last time to decide what to do with
There was a long silence. Hank looked around, at his
wife and family, at Grandpa Joe, all of whom seemed
That night, John died.
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