12 Years of Glory: The Last Roadtrip

You are about to read an account of my last road trip with my late wife, Glory Ashu. Before we continue, I owe you an explanation of why I pursue this somber and emotional route of rendering accounts of a story that does not end well.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DkwMPBShkGw

First of all, writing is promoted by the fierce urgency of now. I am morphing into an old man with each passing day. My mortality surrounds me like a warm coat on a winter night. I take comfort in the fact that I will die one of these days, having done the best with the cards I was dealt by life. I want my children to have a lot of literature crafted by me. I want them to understand me, and I can achieve that goal through this digital footprint. Secondly, I can share my experience with Glory and show you what an extraordinary person she was. 

So, here we go...

When was the last time you had some blood work done? Have you evaluated your conversations with your PCP, and have you been leading those conversations? My doctor, a guy from Cameroon, and I talk about everything. I tell him my fears: cancer, heart disease, strokes, etc. He makes recommendations based on his practice and our conversations. Still, I feel there is a lot more we don't cover. Sometimes, I write down all the questions I want to ask and all the labs I want to run, yet it is not enough. As a black man, I am never sure if what I am getting is adequate. But let's not digress.

The children were all sleeping when we got home on December 17, 2019. I don't remember much about the trajectory. To travel from Jackson, MS, to Natchez, MS, there are several combinations of routes to choose from. I always take the shortest, I-55 to Route 28, when I am by myself, but with Glory and the family, we prefer Route 61 to Vicksburg and then I-55 or Route 84 to Brookhaven, where we connect to I-55. It is the latter route I used on our way back from the hospital. I always take Route 61 South.

I managed to get the children to bed, and at about 1:30 am on this Wednesday morning, I went to bed and relived the day's events. I turned to Google for answers. What is hepatocellular carcinoma? 

So I turned to Google, and my research did not take me to concrete explanations or help me understand what was happening with Glory. I understood that we were facing a very tough opponent; the treatment options were hepatectomy, and there were some encouraging suggestions that the liver could regrow itself. There was radiation or chemotherapy. I had little faith in chemo because of maybe what I had heard about it and my lack of knowledge. I needed to communicate with people who had had and survived hepatocellular carcinoma. I thought that by concentrating my efforts on these people, I could get vital Information on things that could help Glory.

I found a support group. I wanted to know the full stories, so I would follow individuals to find out how many posts they or their caregivers made, the frequency, etc. I discovered that many people lived up to five years after being diagnosed. Some of them lived for just 3 months. I carried on with my research until I crumbled from exhaustion. The next morning business had to continue as usual. I had to take our one-year-old daughter, Eyong, to the daycare, drop my children off at school and go to work. 

When classes started, I realized that I just couldn't face people; I couldn't look people in the eyes because I felt like they could see I was hurting. I didn't want to disclose anything, I didn't want to tell anyone anything, I didn't want to share anything, I didn't want to talk to anyone. 

When my students trickled into class, I knew it wouldn't just be an ordinary day. Students are special, wonderful, and kind people. My first-period class is usually chatty. One observed me and asked: "Mr. Etah, are you okay." I said I was alright, but my tears betrayed me as they cascaded down my cheeks. I went into a small storage room, and I burst into tears. I cried, and the funny thing about crying is that you just can't control it. So, I cried for a very long time. My students got worried and came to the door to ask if I was okay. I took out my phone and pretended I was on a call. I just sat down, thought about Glory, and thought about living without her. I thought about her dying, you know, it's just one of those things you can control. I felt like my life was over at that point, and I wanted to call her. I did, but she did not answer.

I thought about what was going through Glory's mind during my break. How does it feel to a countdown to your death? Did she think about her children?  I thought about this news's chaos for everybody: the children, her sisters, and Molet, especially. Her big sister, whom she looked up to, who had just completed one semester of medical school, had liver cancer! Wow!

Those were the first days. Not much changed after that. We went thru December: hospitals, medications, pain, sorrow, crying, despair, hope, resignation, etc. Idem for January.

We survived February and March; when we got to April, things began to go downhill fast. I am going to spare you the details. Glory's health deteriorated, and we went to a hospital occasionally. Whenever we had an emergency, we would start with Merrit Health in Natchez, and from there, we would be transferred to a bigger hospital by ambulance. So on one of those emergencies, Glory went to St. Dominic in Jackson, MS. It was during the pandemic, so she initially had to go by herself. This was the first time that we were separated, and it hurt. Fortunately, I was allowed to visit and stay with her. The doctors understood that because these were her final days, it was important for Glory to be around her children and family. 

The children were not with us because, at the request of some family members and after talking with Glory, we thought it was it was okay to yield to the suggestion that the children should go and spend some time in Pennsylvania with their aunt. But, when the children left, we knew it was a mistake because they provided another distraction that could have helped us. On the other hand, dealing with the children and taking care of Glory was overwhelming, so I appreciated the help. In hindsight, I don't know if I would do the same thing again. I think it would have been better to stay in Natchez with the children and have Glory die in the house in the presence of the children. I know many would disagree with me, but deep inside me, I think the children could have handled that better than we thought. 

When we returned from the hospital, I panicked and told everyone who knew Glory that the end was near. Her sister came with her family, and I told the children their mother had cancer and would not survive it. Friends and family members came. I am forever grateful to all those who heeded my distress call and came to see Glory. 

Before our discharge from the hospital sometime on May 1st, we had begun talking about going to Pennsylvania to see and be with the children. We thought we would visit, see how it was, and then return with the children. I had never been away from them for that long and knew the children were struggling. But Glory's health was not stable. I thought I could take care of everything, but it got overwhelming, so I had to give in to hospice services from home.  We had a nurse aide that came in every day under the supervision of a nurse who also came in every day to supervise and to make sure that Glory was comfortable.  

By mid-May, Glory was no stronger, and her ascites had worsened. We needed an intervention. So off to Merrit Health, we went again. Dr. Jex is a formidable gastroenterologist who had worked with Glory and knew her. He promised to perform paracentesis when Glory was ready for the procedure (she needed lots of plasma to raise her blood level). By this time, Merrit health staff were just like family. Naomi Hayes is also a Merrit Health registered nurse and Glory's friend (I call her sister). Naomi was there from the moment we were admitted. She made sure that  Glory received the best possible care. Unfortunately, the best possible care was only to treat symptoms. She came early so she could come to our room first. While at the hospital, I purchased tickets for us to fly to PA. Once the paracentesis was done, we would travel before anything else happened. Dr. Jex performed the paracentesis on Monday, May 25, 2020, and we were discharged on Tuesday, May 26. That night I packed for the trip to PA. The Drs. had advised us against travel, but we had to see the children. Glory had to see them! 

We scrapped our plan to fly. We were going to drive! The thought alone was overwhelming, and I shuddered at all that could happen on our way. I packed our things in the car, topped the tank with gas, and hoped for a better next day. Wednesday was not the day neither was Thursday. When we got up on Friday, I was reluctant to ask Glory how she felt. As if sensing my discomfort, she said, "Baby, we fir go today."  I asked if she was ok, and she said I think we should do it today because I don't know if I will feel any better. Tough woman! So, just like that, on Friday, May 29, Glory and I started our last road trip together. I was not sure that we would make it to PA without Glory dying or needing to go into a hospital. I just wanted to get her as close to her children as possible. We had about 1,300 miles to cover!

It's funny, but we had a fight that morning. It was a misunderstanding about something an immigration file number that she wanted. We spent some time searching for it, only to realize that I had done what she was trying to do. Normal husband-wife bicker. After making double sure that I had everything: insurance cards, emergency plans, numbers to call, pillows, blankets, and just about everything that I could think of, I started driving. As we drove out of our carport, I knew Glory would be seeing this place for the last time. It did not matter to her. 

We drove the first mile and soon arrived at Brookhaven with no incidents. Most of the time, Glory slept. We would stop, adjust, and keep driving when she became uncomfortable. 

Somewhere in Tennessee, Glory needed to use the restroom. As we exited the car and struggled up the stairs to a department store, I saw someone in physician's scrubs. He looked at us without interest. My imagination took over at the sight of this guy. He stopped us and asked, "Are you suffering from HCC?" I replied in the affirmative. Then he said, "I don't mean to bother you, but we have this study that we are doing on patients with advanced carcinoma. We've had remarkable success. If it is ok with you, we can schedule an appointment to meet my team of oncologists." I replied that it was ok. We took his card and exchanged numbers, and checked into a hotel. "Baby, we go," I heard Glory say, yanking me off my reverie as I waited for her near the lady's restroom.