It was on this Friday before Memorial Day, a year ago, that the doctor took me into the hallway and told me that it would be irresponsible of him if he didn’t tell me that he thought Ron had 24-48 hours to live. A year ago that I asked Susan to bring the girls to the hospital to say good bye to their daddy in case he didn’t make it home. A year ago that I chose the wrong hospice to help us. A year ago that Anne called Steve and Ed and told them to hurry back home from Indiana and Colorado. A year ago that Andrew hurried down from NJ because I knew something was wrong, so terribly wrong but hadn’t been told yet and I just needed my brother to come be with me. A year ago. Which one of the awful days was the worst day of my life? Diagnosis, re-diagnosis, deathwatch day, or the death itself?
Today I went as part of a group to the local ABC news station to film a very short publicity announcement for Purple Stride DC—the fundraiser race for pancreatic cancer. It was positive. All the people there with the exception of the one survivor present, have lost a loved one to cancer. They know.
He died, at home, about 36 hours later. May 28, 2012.