“Craigy, look at the moon.” I turned off the light to help his eyes focus. “Can you see it? It’s just over the horizon.” Craig looks over to the left, and locks in on a full September moon. The five of us stare out into the Denver sky for a few moments before Craig breaks the rhythm and turns back to watching CNN. We’ve enjoyed full moons the past couple of days. It reminds me of watching the moon off the coast of Raleigh in Thailand. It was November and warm; the water was a little rough for the season. Craig and I would sit for what seemed like hours, talking about Mom while watching the moon’s reflection dance across the ocean water. Now as we peer out at the same moon, the reality of where we are comes rushing back with equal force.
It’s hard to believe that eight months have passed since Craig’s diagnosis. Little did he know that his apartment would someday welcome an entire family of squatters. For eight months, at least one family member – if not the entire gaggle of sisters – has crashed at his place. With Emily, the number of squatters is closer to four. Like a bad version of Goldilocks, we’ve sat in his chairs, ate his porridge, and crashed his bed. Though it must be unnerving to be surrounded by so much estrogen, Craig doesn’t seem to mind. Growing up with three sisters was like going through an extended period of hazing, with rituals that, to this day, make little sense. Though I feel every man should first go through a sister “internship,” I’m sure Craig would disagree. Whatever the case, eighteen plus years living with us prepared him well to endure these past eight months of “sisterness”.
Though we’re essentially occupying his place, we never forget that we’re his guests – that this is his home. He’s been gracious enough to open his life to us, and we try to be respectful in that regard. The routine of doing his laundry, cleaning his apartment, and washing his dishes helps us feel normal. In a way, we’ve recreated a home for ourselves, a home that strikes an interesting semblance to our life back in Stillwater. Although we feel comfortable here, it’s hard to escape the reason why -- after several years of living separate lives -- we find ourselves living with each other once again.
Cancer has closed in on Craig early; it’s taken over the better part of his 32nd year. In fact, it’s taken nearly everything, except his spirit. From the beginning, Craig (and Mom) has required total care taking. With the level of care Craig required, he would have most likely been transferred to a skilled nursing facility months ago. But that was never an option. As with Mom, he deserved more. We “moved” to Denver out of a sense of duty. Rather, we’ve come to surround him with the love and support he deserves, and to honor his wishes to live his life by his own standards.
His apartment is not 1109 N. Skyline, but it’s our home nonetheless. Craig is one of several hundred in this downtown high-rise apartment. Despite its size, there’s a real sense of community here which has made us feel welcome. His neighbors have become acquaintances; the apartment management and staff follow Craig’s process as if they were family. We know people not by name, but by appearance, the dogs they walk, or their apartment floor. These are the people that leave magazines on Craig’s doorstep or notes of encouragement on his door or funds for care taking in envelopes downstairs. This has been his home for the past seven years; it’s clear Craig has touched many during his stay.
For seven years, Craig has been a part of the Denver Place community. Not too long ago, Craig was that young guy in the hall, that “man with the swim bag” heading off to the nearby gym, or that person mingling with neighbors at the monthly get togethers. It's easy to picture him chatting with his friend Bill on the way up to his floor, or talking law with an older judge who lives on a floor just above. I can see him coming and going just as his neighbors do, and with similar freedom.
It’s hard to imagine that, while people continue on with their daily activities, Craig struggles with the end stages of cancer behind closed doors. His life seems oddly separated from the fast-paced life he once led. I often wonder about his neighbors, about those who don’t yet know of Craig’s sudden turn. I wonder how they would react to the news that Craig -- that guy once so full of energy -- is now nearing the end of his young life.
That he’s nearing his end is still unbelievable. Craig’s experience with kidney cancer has been vastly different from Mom’s battle with brain cancer. With Mom, her process of decline occurred relatively gradually over eleven months. Mom was fairly functional during her first six months with cancer. Then her tumor began picking away at her cognitive and motor functions. It started first with the tumor, then wobbly walking, then incontinence. When she lost her ability to walk without support, we helped her with a walker. When her balance worsened and she was no longer able to stand, we helped her bathe and use the commode. And when her tumor inhibited her motor abilities, we helped her eat and drink.
With Craig, saying goodbye to his past life has seemed to occur all at once. In fairly quick progression, cancer overwhelmed his ability to eat and drink. When the vomiting became too much, we helped Craig cope by administering meds and TPN. As his cancer progressed, the tumors became more painful. When the pain worsened, we helped Craig by applying fentanyl patches. But when the cancer invaded his diaphragm, and he became short of breath, there was little we could do to help. Over time, the pain became too much for Craig to sustain long expulsions of breath; cancer took away his ability to do what he enjoys most: playing harmonica.
Now, as he’s unable to walk, his world has become his apartment, and even more, his bedroom. He lives in a one bedroom apartment, with a living space and a kitchen. In the front room, walls are spotted with random paintings from Craig’s bedroom in Stillwater. Two paintings that once hung in his room share equal prominence in his Denver living room. Artifacts from his travels line his bookshelf and windowsill. A samurai sword – a present from me on his 30th birthday – rests just behind a love seat within easy reach should a guest become too boring.
Though the living room is a welcoming place, Craig spends all of his time in his bedroom. Compared to the front room, Craig’s bedroom is a tad austere. His form of decorating includes two pencil sketches which hang above his bed. Blown up pictures of our life in Stillwater hang off the door, adding color to otherwise bare walls; a bamboo plant keeps Craig company from its spot in the corner. Where his room may lack in personality, it makes up in clutter. Craig has surrounded himself with the things he loves most: books, books, and books. Shakespeare fights with Yeats, Nietzsche and Beckett for space while nameless stacks of journals and boxes line his closet shelves. Valentine lights string the ground from a past life.
His room is many things: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen (if you count TPN) and pharmacy. Though his life is now confined to this single room, and he’s offloaded every single task of living -- except living itself -- to us, he rarely complains. Like Mom, he’s lived these last eight months as he has his entire life, with courage and grace that, in our world, is hard to come by. Like Watermelon Slim described, Craig’s very much an old soul. He listens with his heart, and plays music with his soul. He tells stories as if he’s lived twice as long as his 32 years, yet listens with a patient ear. He’s a romantic and a poet. He listens to Coltrane and Charlie Parker, but can sing the lyrics to all things Cream. He reads Seneca and Nietzsche, and enjoys the art of a well crafted phrase. He loves Jane Austen and stories that leave open the possibility of redemption and alternative understandings.
His home -- and specifically, his bedroom -- is a gathering place for lively debates, philosophical discussions, and tearful conversations. It’s a respected space, a place for deep reflection. More than this, his bedroom is his sanctuary. After traveling the world and the better parts of Denver, it is now unlikely Craig will ever be able to leave his room. Though Craig has fought hard these past eight months, he's nearing the end of his process. Cancer has done all that it could possibly do to Craig. But though this space may be bereft of healing, it’s not absent of love and peace. By staying here, he’s surrounded by all that he loves most, and all that is familiar. By staying here, he’s able to set the parameters for how he would like to live the rest of his days. Craig is with us because he’s able to live these days in his home and not in a facility. As Sandy said last week, Craig would have most likely passed long ago had he been subsequently transferred to a nursing facility back when he started TPN. The same is true for Mom. We’ve always said that cancer is a family, and oftentimes a community, effort. Though our decision to help Mom and Craig through their process was simple, it could not have been done without the community of friends that he continues to have around him.
Our sole purpose now is to make his last days comfortable. To be able to spend his last days in the comforts of his own home is, and has been, important to him. Though, for Craig, there are no alternative endings, Craig still has the ability to dictate the terms and to craft his denouement to a long struggle with cancer. Craig would have surely chosen a different ending to his life; never did he imagine that he’d lose it so soon to cancer. But, though cancer may have drafted the outline, Craig still has the ability to fill in the details, to leave on his own terms. Even with cancer, there’s still room for a happy ever after. – J
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