Dream New Dreams

by Jai Pausch

  When Randy was first diagnosed with cancer and was scheduled for surgery in September 2006, we sat down with Dylan, who was four years old at the time, to tell him his dad was sick. Randy had assured Dylan that he would not catch Daddy’s illness. After the Whipple surgery, Randy showed the boys the long, ugly, yellow scar that ran from his breastbone down past and around his belly button. Logan was fascinated by the scar and would point to Randy’s torso and say, “Boo-boo!” Like a warrior showing his battle wound, Randy would lift his shirt to reveal his incision and reassure Logan that his boo-boo was getting better or that his boo-boo was all better now.

  After Randy completed chemotherapy in April 2007, he, the children, and I celebrated with balloons and sweets. Then we never mentioned the cancer again to the children. Out of sight, out of mind. It was easy for our children to forget that there was a monster lurking in the shadows of our lives. Randy looked the picture of health: he regained some weight, exercised at the gym, went to work, slept in the master bedroom with Mommy, played with his children, and enjoyed a seemingly normal, worry-free life. In short, he acted just like any other person without cancer. Randy and I were careful not to express our secret fear that the cancer would return. So the children forgot about living with their aunt and uncle for two months while their father underwent chemotherapy and radiation in Houston. They no longer could recall the skinny daddy who was cold, tired, and grumpy all the time and slept in the basement. All they saw and knew was this daddy who was living life to the fullest.

  After the cancer returned in August 2007, we consulted our counselor about the appropriate time to tell the children about their father’s condition. She told us we should wait until Randy was physically symptomatic and not likely to rebound. Her point was that we didn’t want to have the conversation too early, because the children would only worry that their father would die today, tonight, or tomorrow. We had been told that Randy had three to six months of good health, but it could be shorter or longer. It was hard enough for us to live with this knowledge; a six-year-old would be much less able to live with it. We wanted to spare the children any pain and anxiety that we could. It was also difficult to know if or when Randy would recover from a setback. So, per the counselor’s recommendation, we waited until any of the children showed signs of stress or asked directly what was wrong with their father.

  By June 2008, Randy was visibly sick and uncomfortable. We could no longer say that the boo-boo was better. Whereas before, Randy could keep up a front of smiles and energy, now he would often grimace from pain, put his head down on the dining table from exhaustion, and place his hands on his hips and bend over in severe discomfort. He complained repeatedly about how tired he was. He no longer came downstairs on a daily basis. He did not participate in the bedtime ritual, nor could he bathe the children or read them stories. Sitting outside to watch the children play or enjoy the weather became rarer and rarer for him. All these things, of course, the children noticed. One time Dylan got a pillow for Randy to lay his head on. He colored pictures hoping to help his dad feel better. As the oldest child, six-and-a-half-year-old Dylan was very concerned that Randy wasn’t well. At three and a half years of age, Logan could sense the stress in the room and would act out, becoming loud and hyperactive. My behavior also contributed to their understanding that something was amiss. I was always asking them to be quiet while Daddy was asleep or to be gentle with Daddy. I was on edge anytime the children were around Randy, afraid that their noise level would overwhelm him or that they would wrestle and end up hurting him, since roughhousing had been one of their favorite games.

  Our house was a bit of a circus, with a steady stream of friends and family coming to stay or stopping by for a visit. Of course, the children noticed and asked why we had so many guests. As nonchalantly as I could, I explained that people wanted to see Daddy because he wasn’t feeling well. Children are very perceptive; even when you don’t talk to them about what is worrying you, they can sense something is wrong. They might not know how to ask, or they may not want to ask, but they express their emotions in other ways, such as Logan’s noisiness. Everyone kept an eye out for any signs of stress: our nanny, uncles and aunts, grandparents, teachers, visitors. Anything that seemed out of the ordinary, such as being over-emotional or expressing concern about their father, was relayed to me. Sometimes I would discuss it with Randy, but most of the time I would share it with our counselor, relying on her expertise to help guide me to the appropriate time to tell the children about their father’s condition.

  On Father’s Day 2008, I knew the time had come. As yet another visitor prepared to leave our house, Dylan ran and hid behind the clothes hamper in Chloe’s room. Rachel came to tell me he was confused and upset; he wouldn’t come out from behind the hamper. I went upstairs to talk with him, and after a few minutes, I realized it wasn’t Uncle Jack’s departure that was bothering him, but rather Randy’s condition. I remembered what Dr. Reiss and I had discussed; the index card points were so vivid in my head that I felt confident. I knew I was prepared.

  I started by asking Dylan if he knew what was wrong with Daddy. “No,” he said. Then I asked him if he had any ideas, letting him take his time, not rushing him or trying to lead him in any direction. Finally, he said he thought Daddy was sick. At this point I asked him if he wanted to know more about his father’s illness. If he had said no, I wouldn’t have pushed the issue; I would have comforted him. However, Dylan said he wanted to know. It was time to have one of the hardest conversations I would ever undertake.

  I started by telling Dylan that Randy’s cancer had returned, using the same analogy we had in the fall of 2006: cancer was like a weed in a garden. Now that the weed was back, it was making Daddy very sick, and the doctors were giving him special medicine to help him get better. However, the medicine was so strong that it also made Daddy feel bad. Dylan listened attentively and quietly while I talked. I reassured him that none of his actions had caused the cancer to return, nor could he behave in a certain way that would make Daddy get better. Young children are egocentric and believe their actions can influence or actually cause certain events in their worlds; some children feel it is because of their behavior that their parents get sick or get divorced, for example. Conversely, they may think that if they behave in a certain way, their parents will get better or get back together if they are separated. I also explained that Daddy didn’t want the cancer to return and emphasized that he was doing everything he could to get better.

  That’s a lot for a kid to process. But our little guy is so perceptive, so bright, that he took a direction I wasn’t expecting and dragged me into uncharted territory. Dylan asked, if I had to bet, would I bet that his Daddy was going to die from the cancer? Wow! I was lost with this question, though, upon reflection, I shouldn’t have been, since Randy had taught Dylan the concept of a wager. I didn’t have an index card with a ready answer! I knew I couldn’t tell him what I truly believed, nor did I know exactly when Randy would die or that a miracle wouldn’t happen. So I truthfully told him I was afraid to answer his question. When he asked why, I explained that I was afraid he would be angry with me if I said Daddy was going to live and then he died or, on the other hand, if I said Daddy would die and then he lived. He seemed to understand my dilemma and promised he would not hold it against me if I guessed incorrectly. Then I told my six-and-a-half-year-old son his father would live. I hugged him close to me and told him that no matter what happened, I would take care of him and that there were lots of people who loved him. His grandparents, his aunts and uncles, his cousins, and friends loved him too and would also help take care of him. He was not alone.

  Immediately after our conversation, I went to find Randy; he needed to know that Dylan knew. No sooner had I told him about our conversation than Dylan appeared and asked Randy point-blank if the cancer had come back and if he was going to die. Without missing a beat, Randy assured him he was doing his best to fight the cancer and went through the same talking point
s I had. Dylan seemed relieved that he could talk to us about the cancer and about his fears. His mood was upbeat; Randy’s was not. I asked Rachel if she would take the kids to the playground for a little while so I could be alone with Randy.

  As soon as the car pulled out of the driveway, Randy collapsed on the ground in tears. He was crushed by the powerful emotions; I could only imagine what he was feeling. All I could do was hold him. What a way to end his last Father’s Day.

  For me, it was a relief to tell Dylan and then the other children that their father had cancer. It allowed us to acknowledge the elephant in the room—the elephant we had worked so hard to hide from their eyes. I’m a terrible liar, and I don’t like keeping secrets from people. Although I believe it was the right thing to do, I still felt a tinge of guilt in withholding this information from our children. Keeping up the appearance that everything was all right, that our lives were moving forward on a normal trajectory, was its own burden, one I was happy to shed.

  But the pain it caused Randy was enormous. Like most men, my husband was not quick to tears. In fact, I’d only seen him cry on a couple of occasions when he was distraught, one being the death of his father. To see him hurt so deeply broke my heart and made me curse his cancer for yet another dimension of pain it caused him. Even though we both had known this moment would come and had prepared ourselves for it, that knowledge could not shield us from the distress of telling our children that their father had cancer. I think part of us felt that we had let them down, that we had failed them as parents, because we knew they wouldn’t have a normal childhood with two loving parents to raise them, to protect them, to be there for them at every turn in the road. These are not rational thoughts, just the natural ones felt by parents knowing the responsibility that comes with bringing a child into this world. We would have to make peace with ourselves and accept that our situation wasn’t of our choosing. We had to play the hand we were dealt in the best way we could.

  In the early hours of the morning of July 25, 2008, Randy began vomiting. Then he lay down to rest and died. I did not tell the children immediately. I needed to prepare myself, gather my thoughts and emotions, as well as make sure they were in a comfortable and loving environment. I wanted to soften the shock and devastation for them as best I could. I had arranged for the children to go over to my brother and sister-in-law’s house when the time came. While I took care of the logistics—calling the hospice nurse, setting the telephone tree in motion, and welcoming family to the house—my children followed their normal routine: going to summer camp, playing at the park with our nanny. They got to have lunch and take their nap at their uncle’s house. I didn’t want to risk letting them see their father’s body being taken out of the house and loaded into a hearse, or the hospice van taking away the hospital bed and other items from Randy’s bedroom. Later in the afternoon, I joined my children at my brother’s house. While they played, I gathered my brother, his wife, our babysitter extraordinaire, Laura O’Malley, and our nanny, Rachel Paige, around the kitchen table to set the scene. I wanted to have a show of support and the physical presence of the people who loved them and would help take care of them. I wanted many arms to comfort them at the moment I had to shatter their world.

  With everyone in place, I called Dylan, Logan, and Chloe to come downstairs so we could have a talk. Instantly Dylan picked up on the tension in the air and the unusual events and began asking if his father was dead. I didn’t answer his question directly, but rather kept to my game plan. After we were seated with each child in someone’s lap, I began to tell them that the cancer had made Daddy’s body very weak. The doctors had tried all the medicines they could to remove the cancer and to make Daddy better, but it hadn’t worked. I explained in very simple language that their father’s heart had stopped beating and he stopped breathing and then he died this morning. Daddy wouldn’t eat anymore or breathe anymore. He was dead.

  There is no worse feeling a mother can have than to see her children so emotionally crushed. To have lost their father at such young ages (six and a half, three and a half, and two) made my heart break even more deeply along the fault lines that had already formed from my own grief. But to see their tears and to hear their cries for their father was simply too much. I can’t even begin to describe the sadness we all felt at that moment.

  At two, Chloe didn’t understand initially that her father was dead or what that meant. She sat for a few minutes at the table while I was talking and then she slid out of her seat and scooted out of the room. I didn’t force her to sit at the table and listen. She was simply too young to process much beyond the first couple of sentences. And that was OK. There would be plenty of opportunities to talk about what had happened to her father.

  At first, it seemed as though every day one of the children would ask about their father and ask me to tell them what happened. I would need to repeat the explanation of Randy’s death over and over again using the same simple language. I added that their father hadn’t wanted to die. He had tried his best to defeat the disease. I also emphasized that there was nothing the children had done to cause Randy to die. Likewise, there was nothing they could do to bring him back to life. No matter what we were doing, no matter how sad it made me feel, I always took the time to talk them through Randy’s death, explain what dying meant, and reiterate that they did not cause his death, nor could any of their actions bring him back to life. Their emotional needs were paramount. If answering their questions one more time meant being late to preschool, then so be it. If one child was upset, but the other children didn’t want to talk about Randy’s death, then I would take the child who did want to talk to another room to chat in private so I wouldn’t upset the others. If I got sad or weepy, I would acknowledge that I was sad but would explain that I wouldn’t always feel sad and that they wouldn’t either. Most important, I wanted my children to know that they could talk about the feelings they were experiencing over the loss of their father, that I was there to take care of them emotionally as well as physically. Helping them to grieve, as well as allowing myself to grieve, became its own journey.

  Grieving

  ON THAT GLORIOUSLY SUNNY, hot summer day of July 28, 2008, I stepped into the black car reserved for the immediate family of the dead. I think it was only the second time I’d been in a limousine. I rode with my mother-in-law and Randy’s sister while the sitter drove my children separately so they could return for lunch and naps. As our close family and friends began to arrive at the funeral chapel to celebrate Randy’s life, I stripped off my managerial persona and gave myself permission to experience Randy’s funeral service. Everything was in place. All the details were taken care of, and my children were fine. There was nothing demanding my attention. I didn’t have to keep it together for anybody, to show my strong side so as not to scare my children or sadden my husband. I wasn’t going to stop those sad feelings from bubbling up. I wasn’t going to distract myself from the pain of the moment. Randy had been right: the funeral was my time, my opportunity to set aside all the responsibilities of home life and turn my attention to myself.

  I entered the chapel after almost everybody was seated. I walked up the aisle accompanied by my sister-in-law and best friend and took the very first pew. Directly behind me was Randy’s immediate family: his mother, his sister, and her family. To my left were Randy’s pallbearers, including my two brothers, Bob and Rick. The rest of the chapel was occupied by our friends, Randy’s graduate school buddies, and my family members. Randy’s oncologist and the coauthor of the book, Jeffrey Zaslow, also attended, but as Randy requested, I kept the funeral private. And that was a good thing because it made the service much more personal and intimate. Here in the safety of friends, the sadness didn’t feel as heavy as when I was alone. Perhaps that was because each of us held a little piece of grief’s mantle.

  After the minister had conducted the service and Randy’s sister had given the eulogy, people were invited to come up and share a special remembrance of Randy.
Most of these stories I had heard or been witness to, but I felt comforted in hearing them again and reminiscing alongside my friends and family. And then off my thoughts would sail, floating on a story shared by one of Randy’s friends about his unique and imaginative spirit. One of his longtime friends recounted some of their silly graduate school pranks. During the eighties, when Randy was a grad student at Carnegie Mellon and sharing a house in Pittsburgh with several other computer science students, he had made a birthday cake for one of the friends using granulated sugar for the frosting. Needless to say, it was rather crunchy. His friend returned the favor by making a birthday cake out of Jell-O and frosting it like a real cake. The story led me to think about Randy’s amazing baking skills. He could make checkerboard cakes and had even made wedding cakes. He whipped up a cake shaped like a blue crab for his father’s eightieth birthday party. The only time he shopped at Williams-Sonoma was to buy a sand-castle-shaped Bundt cake pan.

  Together we listened to some of the music Randy loved, like “Linus and Lucy” by Vince Guaraldi. I can’t hear that song without remembering the many times Randy asked his niece to play it for him on the piano. She always obliged, playing from memory. There was also a slide show made up of pictures I put together showing Randy at different stages of his life. It had been an incredibly painful project for me prior to Randy’s death. But now my efforts paid off. People laughed, smiled, and sniffled as the pictures scrolled by.

  During the hour in the funeral chapel, I felt a sense of déjà vu. There were odd parallels between Randy’s funeral and our wedding eight years earlier. The same minister who married us now conducted his funeral service. We listened to “The Rose,” the song Randy and I had chosen for our wedding, which took me back to the sweet spring day when Randy and I held hands as we listened to his sister sing it.