Life Is Not a Stage by Florence Henderson (big screen ebook reader .TXT) 📕

a harsh toll on him. The body’s various systems work in such remarkable synchronicity in both healthy and diseased states. For example, in the beginning, he was going crazy having to urinate all the time. It was curious to learn how this was caused by the growing tumor drawing all the sodium out of his system. As his situation worsened, his ability to speak weakened, which was especially frustrating for a brilliant teacher. A lovely nurse named Margie Elifano bought him a little chalkboard, but his writing grew progressively smaller and smaller until we could hardly read it at all.

During one chemotherapy session, John got so distraught that he tried to get out of the bed, ripping the tubes out and shouting that he had to get out of there. Dr. Doroshow and the staff came in and were wonderful with him. After another chemo session, he told me that he wanted to go to Vito’s in Santa Monica, his favorite restaurant. Despite being in very fragile shape, he was feeling good from the effects of a strong dose of cortisone. But I was worried about taking him there, not the least because of his difficulty swallowing and the high risk for choking.

“It’s a little early,” I told him as we pulled up outside the restaurant. “You wait here and I’ll go in and see.” The restaurant wasn’t open yet, and all the waiters, kitchen staff, and busboys were sitting at the tables relaxing and playing cards. I explained the situation. Immediately they jumped to their feet and put on their jackets. I got John and we came in a few moments later, and the same ritual played itself out just as it had innumerable times before. Hank the waiter read the specials knowing full well that John was going to order his favorite veal and pasta dish as always. The way they treated him that afternoon is a reason why I love that place to this day. He was choking all through the meal, but it was so important to him.

His hairpiece also figured as a significant symbol of his fighting courage and his hope that something might bring him back. He was worried about his appearance while in the hospital. I love bald men, so it was never an issue for me, but I promised him that his hair would stay in good shape. A stylist came to the City of Hope from the manufacturer and washed his hair and put on a new piece. As sick as he was, it made him feel so good, and I managed to keep that hairpiece on until he died.

“I think you should learn how to hypnotize me,” John said to me one day. I was a nervous wreck just at the thought. He had never let anyone hypnotize him ever, and even though I had become a certified hypnotherapist, here I was the apprentice suddenly given this sacred responsibility by the master. He knew how beneficial it could be for someone in his situation. If you are a hypnotherapist, you have to have a totally different induction than what you use for your patients, otherwise the therapist would also fall into hypnosis while giving it. So he had me write it all out, along with the specific suggestions that he wanted. It was different than anything I had ever done as a trained therapist myself. Nervously, I tried it the first time on him. He told me that it wasn’t bad and there was some hope for me. The second time, it went a little better. And after the third time, he gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Annette Fields, the patient advocate, took me aside to have “the conversation.”

“You have to prepare. We always ask these questions if, God forbid, the treatments don’t work, we have to have some arrangements. You’re going to have to ask John how he wants to handle it.” It’s the conversation you never want to have.

“Oh, John, by the way, do you want to be cremated or…?”

“Cremated,” he answered back calmly. He was fine with that. That same day, I called Westwood Mortuary and spoke to a very nice man to finalize the plans.

There was a whole practical side of dying of which I had suddenly become hyperaware. There were a few patients I had visited on the floor who passed away during this period. But you never saw them remove the bodies from the room with a sheet over them. I asked Dr. Doroshow about this.

“Is there some kind of hidden compartment underneath, a special gurney?”

“You’re pretty smart,” he answered. “It’s a precaution because they don’t want the other patients to become disturbed by it.”

It is hard to describe how difficult it was going back into John’s room later that day after planning for his cremation and trying to forget about the whole thing. Throughout the whole ordeal, I never allowed myself to get emotional in front of him. Once I stepped outside, it was another matter, and I allowed my emotions to run freely. But I got his strength. I stepped up. Because of John, I met every challenge.

John never talked about the fact that he was dying. He still stayed hopeful that the doctors would find an answer. He thought that perhaps he might be able to get some radiation treatments. When Dr. Doroshow came in, John asked him about it. “John, you’re not a candidate for that, but we’ll keep working,” Dr. Doroshow said.

Later that same evening, John looked at me and said, “Well, shall we call it a day?”

“Yes, I think we should,” I told him.

Per his instructions, I hypnotized him one last time that evening. But in contrast to the other times, I did not count him out to bring him back to waking consciousness, but left him to remain in the hypnotic state for what would be the last two days of his life.

For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to leave the hospital, so they arranged a bed first