Z102
Well-Known Member
Hi all,
I know that to you I am just this crazy Spaniard that one day appeared in the forum, with a stupid nickname, taken from a sports car that no one's ever heard about, built by a company that never produced another car, and instead turned its attention immediately to trucks and buses.
Bear with me, though, because I need to take this off my chest, and I thought sharing a bit of my current sorrow with this little community would be a good a idea.
Back when I first posted in Blind_Io's "Hell on Earth" thread, I tried to encourage him by writing something along the lines of: Medicine works miracles, he'll come through. In the end it didn't turn out as true as we all expected, but it doesn't mean my encouragement was less sincere. For the last 22 months I have been through that kind of hell, and I know medicine can work miracles. It's the human body that usually lets go. As has been the case with my dad, who passed away on Monday.
22 months ago, while at the doctor's for a regular checkup, he felt a sudden dizziness, and his doctor (a great man, who has helped him and us in everything he could) sent him to the hospital to have a full checkup: blood tests, x-rays,... the lot. The X-rays revealed a spot in his left lung, and the CT and biopsy confirmed our worst fears: it was a tumor, it was malignant and it was inoperable. This was a devastating blow for everyone: for me, for my sister, for my mum and specially for my father, who, a few years back, had seen one of his co-workers go from a similar ailment in just under six months.
The oncologist first, and then his doctor gave us some hope. It was going to be a tough fight, but every year there are new advances, and each tumor reacts differently. He started chemo, and at first things weren't so good. He got a session every 15 days, and he was completely exhausted for 1 week after being given the treatment. On top of that, chemo aggravated his anemia, so in the end it was clear that either the treatment stopped, or it would kill him long instead of the tumor. The oncologist agreed to change the treatment for a less aggressive one, which was better, even though the anemia remained, but at least he recovered from the chemo in only a couple of days.
Things progressed slowly, until one year ago we had to hospitalise him because he simply couldn't breathe: his left lung had collapsed because of the tumor, and the doctors decided to take out the big guns and give him radiotherapy. 10 sessions later and a couple of months at home recovering, he was fine, didn't need a machine to help him breathe and on top of that his monthly checkup showed the tumor was shrinking. He was so happy...
Furthermore, the doctors finally found the cause of the mysterious rectal hemorragies he was having (which on one occasion put him on the edge of collapse) and by October last year everything seemed to be progressing well. The tumor didn't change size for his next checkup, but it shrank again on the next. We thought we could see the light at the end of the tunnel...
Then, about 35 days ago, we had to take him back to the hospital, because he had a high fever and difficulties breathing. The doctors diagnosed pneumonia and hospitalised him again. He was very very weak for this last month. Everything tired him, to the point he could barely leave his bed. In the end the antibiotics did their job and he started a slow recovery. He was very, very thin (he had lost 14 Kg in just one month), and he could barely walk (his hips certainly didn't help). He was discharged last Thursday, not before the doctors announced that the tumor had shrunk again. I must confess that I couldn't get myself to see him. He looked so pale, so thin... and the tubes from the O2 machine just made his image worse. Besides, even though he could stand up, he needed someone's help to walk, and even so it was a slow, painful stride. But he was willing to keep fighting. "I have to eat to fill the suit", he said and also, to me, "Enjoy the car while you can, son, because when I get well I'm going to take your mother anywhere she wants in it". On Sunday he went to bed earlier than usual because he didn't feel well, and that night, at around 3 am, he passed away in my arms and my mother's... An artery burst, blood swaped his lungs and... And this is where hell really began.
I can't tell you the thoughts that went through my head for the next 20 or so hours. "It isn't fair", "He didn't deserve this", "I didn't tell him about the Lakers' game" and also, "The new Citro?n C5 is nothing like a German car. It's just a Peugeot 407 with a fancier front", and so on and on an on... 15.000 new thoughts every second. Anything to avoid focusing on the fact that my father was here no more. But above all, the distinct impression that if I managed to fall asleep for one brief instant, I would wake up in my own bed, and the whole affair would be just a nightmare. It wasn't, obviously.
"Be strong", everyone said. "You have to be strong for your sister and your mum". But I couldn't do it. If I can't cry the day my father died, when am I supposed to cry? I had to cry, and cry I did, I am not ashamed to confess. Not only for my own sorrow, which is immense, and will never pass, but also for stupid little things that we wouldn't be able to do any more.
Ever since he retired he had been wanting to write a novel. I had put together with old pieces of hardware a computer for him to do it, and it was ready for when he was well enough to come and use it. How I would have enjoyed teaching him. And now who will tease me when Fernando Alonso's car breaks down, leaving him out of a race? Who will I comment with the latest basketball game of his beloved Real Madrid? Who will tell me stories about my great-grandfather? Now he's gone, and the emptiness inside can't be filled, I know this very well.
I also cried for my mother. She's been through a lot, but he was her support, her eyes, her legs, her heart and her mind. She loved him more than anything in this world. What is she going to do now? What will she do during all the lonely nights that await her?
And also, above all, I cried because he was the greatest father in the world. He made me what I am. He taught me the love for books and science, thanks to him I discovered science-fiction, he taught me to love the cinema, specially the western genre, and specially his beloved John Ford. He gave everything to make a man out of me. And now I realise that I didn't live up to his expectations. I let him down in so many aspects... But nevertheless he loved me, he loved me and I could see in the worst moments of his illness that it pained him to see how much it broke my heart to see him like that. Not half as much as it hurt me seeing him lying there, in his coffin, as if he was asleep, but still...
All the time during the mourning I had in my mind a poem from Gustavo A. Becquer's Rhymes: it's a long, sombre poem, in the tradition of the Romantic poets, and all throughout this verse is repeated:
How lonely the dead remain.
Indeed, how lonely he was, inside his coffin, separated from all those who mourned him by a window, unable to feel their touch, their breath... Fortunately, my sister found a much better poem, one of his favourites, from Juan Ram?n Jim?nez. It is the poem we made read before the cremation, and I shall write it here, both in the Spanish original and in a (terrible) English translation I have devised:
El Viaje Definitivo
Y yo me ir?. Y se quedar?n los p?jaros cantando;
y se quedar? mi huerto con su verde ?rbol,
y con su pozo blanco.
Todas las tardes el cielo ser? azul y pl?cido;
y tocar?n, como esta tarde est?n tocando,
las campanas del campanario.
Se morir?n aquellos que me amaron;
y el pueblo se har? nuevo cada a?o;
y en el rincon de aquel mi huerto florido y encalado,
mi espiritu errar?, nostalgico.
Y yo me ir?; y estar? solo, sin hogar, sin ?rbol
verde, sin pozo blanco,
sin cielo azul y pl?cido...
Y se quedar?n los p?jaros cantando.
The Final Voyage
And I shall leave. And the birds will keep singing;
and my orchard with its green tree
and its white well will remain.
Every afternoon the sky shall be blue and placid;
and, like this afternoon they toll,
the bells will toll.
Those who loved me shall die;
and the village will be new each year;
and in that corner of my flowered and bleached orchard,
my spirit will wander, nostalgic.
And I shall leave; and I shall be alone, homeless and without a green tree,
without a white well,
without a blue and placid sky.
And the birds will keep singing.
This is all I wanted to say. It's probably my longest post ever, but I really needed to take it off my chest. It's been really an awful experience for me and my family, because he was truly a great man, a loving husband and a caring father. Rest in Peace, Dad. Wherever you are now, I hope you are happy. You deserve it.
I know that to you I am just this crazy Spaniard that one day appeared in the forum, with a stupid nickname, taken from a sports car that no one's ever heard about, built by a company that never produced another car, and instead turned its attention immediately to trucks and buses.
Bear with me, though, because I need to take this off my chest, and I thought sharing a bit of my current sorrow with this little community would be a good a idea.
Back when I first posted in Blind_Io's "Hell on Earth" thread, I tried to encourage him by writing something along the lines of: Medicine works miracles, he'll come through. In the end it didn't turn out as true as we all expected, but it doesn't mean my encouragement was less sincere. For the last 22 months I have been through that kind of hell, and I know medicine can work miracles. It's the human body that usually lets go. As has been the case with my dad, who passed away on Monday.
22 months ago, while at the doctor's for a regular checkup, he felt a sudden dizziness, and his doctor (a great man, who has helped him and us in everything he could) sent him to the hospital to have a full checkup: blood tests, x-rays,... the lot. The X-rays revealed a spot in his left lung, and the CT and biopsy confirmed our worst fears: it was a tumor, it was malignant and it was inoperable. This was a devastating blow for everyone: for me, for my sister, for my mum and specially for my father, who, a few years back, had seen one of his co-workers go from a similar ailment in just under six months.
The oncologist first, and then his doctor gave us some hope. It was going to be a tough fight, but every year there are new advances, and each tumor reacts differently. He started chemo, and at first things weren't so good. He got a session every 15 days, and he was completely exhausted for 1 week after being given the treatment. On top of that, chemo aggravated his anemia, so in the end it was clear that either the treatment stopped, or it would kill him long instead of the tumor. The oncologist agreed to change the treatment for a less aggressive one, which was better, even though the anemia remained, but at least he recovered from the chemo in only a couple of days.
Things progressed slowly, until one year ago we had to hospitalise him because he simply couldn't breathe: his left lung had collapsed because of the tumor, and the doctors decided to take out the big guns and give him radiotherapy. 10 sessions later and a couple of months at home recovering, he was fine, didn't need a machine to help him breathe and on top of that his monthly checkup showed the tumor was shrinking. He was so happy...
Furthermore, the doctors finally found the cause of the mysterious rectal hemorragies he was having (which on one occasion put him on the edge of collapse) and by October last year everything seemed to be progressing well. The tumor didn't change size for his next checkup, but it shrank again on the next. We thought we could see the light at the end of the tunnel...
Then, about 35 days ago, we had to take him back to the hospital, because he had a high fever and difficulties breathing. The doctors diagnosed pneumonia and hospitalised him again. He was very very weak for this last month. Everything tired him, to the point he could barely leave his bed. In the end the antibiotics did their job and he started a slow recovery. He was very, very thin (he had lost 14 Kg in just one month), and he could barely walk (his hips certainly didn't help). He was discharged last Thursday, not before the doctors announced that the tumor had shrunk again. I must confess that I couldn't get myself to see him. He looked so pale, so thin... and the tubes from the O2 machine just made his image worse. Besides, even though he could stand up, he needed someone's help to walk, and even so it was a slow, painful stride. But he was willing to keep fighting. "I have to eat to fill the suit", he said and also, to me, "Enjoy the car while you can, son, because when I get well I'm going to take your mother anywhere she wants in it". On Sunday he went to bed earlier than usual because he didn't feel well, and that night, at around 3 am, he passed away in my arms and my mother's... An artery burst, blood swaped his lungs and... And this is where hell really began.
I can't tell you the thoughts that went through my head for the next 20 or so hours. "It isn't fair", "He didn't deserve this", "I didn't tell him about the Lakers' game" and also, "The new Citro?n C5 is nothing like a German car. It's just a Peugeot 407 with a fancier front", and so on and on an on... 15.000 new thoughts every second. Anything to avoid focusing on the fact that my father was here no more. But above all, the distinct impression that if I managed to fall asleep for one brief instant, I would wake up in my own bed, and the whole affair would be just a nightmare. It wasn't, obviously.
"Be strong", everyone said. "You have to be strong for your sister and your mum". But I couldn't do it. If I can't cry the day my father died, when am I supposed to cry? I had to cry, and cry I did, I am not ashamed to confess. Not only for my own sorrow, which is immense, and will never pass, but also for stupid little things that we wouldn't be able to do any more.
Ever since he retired he had been wanting to write a novel. I had put together with old pieces of hardware a computer for him to do it, and it was ready for when he was well enough to come and use it. How I would have enjoyed teaching him. And now who will tease me when Fernando Alonso's car breaks down, leaving him out of a race? Who will I comment with the latest basketball game of his beloved Real Madrid? Who will tell me stories about my great-grandfather? Now he's gone, and the emptiness inside can't be filled, I know this very well.
I also cried for my mother. She's been through a lot, but he was her support, her eyes, her legs, her heart and her mind. She loved him more than anything in this world. What is she going to do now? What will she do during all the lonely nights that await her?
And also, above all, I cried because he was the greatest father in the world. He made me what I am. He taught me the love for books and science, thanks to him I discovered science-fiction, he taught me to love the cinema, specially the western genre, and specially his beloved John Ford. He gave everything to make a man out of me. And now I realise that I didn't live up to his expectations. I let him down in so many aspects... But nevertheless he loved me, he loved me and I could see in the worst moments of his illness that it pained him to see how much it broke my heart to see him like that. Not half as much as it hurt me seeing him lying there, in his coffin, as if he was asleep, but still...
All the time during the mourning I had in my mind a poem from Gustavo A. Becquer's Rhymes: it's a long, sombre poem, in the tradition of the Romantic poets, and all throughout this verse is repeated:
How lonely the dead remain.
Indeed, how lonely he was, inside his coffin, separated from all those who mourned him by a window, unable to feel their touch, their breath... Fortunately, my sister found a much better poem, one of his favourites, from Juan Ram?n Jim?nez. It is the poem we made read before the cremation, and I shall write it here, both in the Spanish original and in a (terrible) English translation I have devised:
El Viaje Definitivo
Y yo me ir?. Y se quedar?n los p?jaros cantando;
y se quedar? mi huerto con su verde ?rbol,
y con su pozo blanco.
Todas las tardes el cielo ser? azul y pl?cido;
y tocar?n, como esta tarde est?n tocando,
las campanas del campanario.
Se morir?n aquellos que me amaron;
y el pueblo se har? nuevo cada a?o;
y en el rincon de aquel mi huerto florido y encalado,
mi espiritu errar?, nostalgico.
Y yo me ir?; y estar? solo, sin hogar, sin ?rbol
verde, sin pozo blanco,
sin cielo azul y pl?cido...
Y se quedar?n los p?jaros cantando.
The Final Voyage
And I shall leave. And the birds will keep singing;
and my orchard with its green tree
and its white well will remain.
Every afternoon the sky shall be blue and placid;
and, like this afternoon they toll,
the bells will toll.
Those who loved me shall die;
and the village will be new each year;
and in that corner of my flowered and bleached orchard,
my spirit will wander, nostalgic.
And I shall leave; and I shall be alone, homeless and without a green tree,
without a white well,
without a blue and placid sky.
And the birds will keep singing.
This is all I wanted to say. It's probably my longest post ever, but I really needed to take it off my chest. It's been really an awful experience for me and my family, because he was truly a great man, a loving husband and a caring father. Rest in Peace, Dad. Wherever you are now, I hope you are happy. You deserve it.