In the early summer of 1958, Gramp King began to complain to my mother that he had a sore throat that wouldn't go away. She took him to the nearest Veterans Hospital where he was told he had an infection in his ear. It was infected and he was treated and sent home. He seemed to better for a short while but his energetic spirit, even at the age of eighty-one, prior to his illness was gone. In late August he returned to the hospital with a sore throat and an earache.
This time, the prognosis was accurate..."I'm sorry Mrs. Fleury, but your dad has esophageal cancer and it has metastasized." My mother, with tears running down her cheeks, asked if there was anything we could do to treat it. We were told we could keep him comfortable with painkillers but we could not heal it. It had spread too far.
"How long has he got to live?" Mom sobbed.
"I can't be exact, but my best estimate is that he will be lucky to make it to the end of this year."
Mother wanted to take him home, but the doctor told her he'd need around-the-clock care (In 1958 there was no available "hospice" like we have in 2008). So, Mom did the next best thing, Gramp went to a nursing home less than two miles from where her home was so all of us could visit him often since we were all living in Easthampton.
The loving Father, Grandfather, and United States Government cited Heroic Soldier began his agony. He lost his voice and had to write notes. The medications given in 1958 had to be given in such large doses to make his pain remotely bearable that he began to live in a half-conscious state. One or another of us visited him every day. Mom was there every day no matter who else came. I went there several nights a week.
Gramp had a roommate, Charlie Smith, who was very kind to him especially during the long nights when as time went on, nothing seemed to stop the pain. He told us that Gramp was a valiant man. Only once did he say that he wished he could kill himself. The rest of the time he suffered in silence or with low moans.
We all wanted to bring him home for Thanksgiving, but by that time he could only swallow liquids and was very weak. As Christmas drew near he was unable to eat or drink.
On Christmas day we all knew the end was very near. He was hemorrhaging but still awake enough to recognize us all with his sky-blue eyes and hand squeeze. We stayed with him into the evening when the doctor told us it looked like he'd go on for a day or two.
We were all at home for an hour or so when the phone rang. It was a little after ten o'clock. We knew what that call was before we answered it.
This was goodnight. It was goodbye. The shrunken hand had moved slowly across the sheet and grasped the crucifix hanging at the side of his bed. Frank closed his tired eyes forever. The victory had been won and he had gone to claim his everlasting reward, the reward of those who are honest and faithful.
(c) 2008 Bernard J. Fleury, B.A. History and Classical Languages, Ed.D. Philosophy, Government, and Administration, is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy and Educational Administration. His administrative/teaching career spans more than five decades and three United States and Caribbean Colleges.
Dr. Fleury's lifelong interest in history from the perspective of the people who lived it, is evident in Chaps. 8 & 9 of A Bee in His Bonnet (website: http://www.greatgeneration.net) that is his grandfather Frank King's Great Generation story as he recorded it, and told it to his daughter and grandchildren.
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