The Child is Father of the Man
By S M Chen, March 4, 2015 “My heart leaps up when I behold” – William Wordsworth, 1802
It was several decades ago when my father, not long retired from a lifetime of denominational service as a chemistry professor, noticed pain in his abdomen. Initially attributing this to ingestion of some excessively hot tea, he ignored it for a time, hoping that, like many ailments, it would dissipate on its own. When it did not, he sought medical attention.
He ended up at the hospital where I worked, and his workup proceeded apace. A CT abdominal scan revealed a tangerine-size mass in the tail of his pancreas which, upon needle biopsy, showed malignancy. Angiography demonstrated encasement of the splenic artery and occlusion of the splenic vein.
A well-intentioned surgeon with normally impeccable judgment convinced him to undergo surgery, which offered the only curative option. The angiographic findings indicated nonresectability, and I was dubious, but my father, whose options were limited, elected to have the operation, hoping, as many of us undoubtedly do in such situations, against hope. Perhaps the surgeon’s optimism was justified and his judgment not clouded by hubris.
Later, much later, I would relive those moments and, feeling as if I’d let my father down, wish that I’d discouraged him from undergoing the knife or, failing that, to push for his not being awakened in the event the tumor indeed proved to be unresectable. In California (and, indeed anywhere in the USA at the time), the latter scenario was likely impossible in that, unlike certain limited places such as the Netherlands, no physician would be persuaded to participate in such action. I chided myself that I had not sought a second opinion preoperatively, which was certainly an option that I considered but briefly.
At surgery, the tumor was indeed proven to be unresectable, and the surgeon, after confirming such, merely closed him. But postoperatively my father was worse off than before. He developed ARDS (adult respiratory distress syndrome) and nearly succumbed. A skillful internist brought him through that, and he was sent home, where his cancer would work its inexorable, inimical, opportunistic destruction.
My father was a stoic man who complained little, but, during the time he spent in my home, I witnessed his anorexia, inability to eat, the pain that nothing could ameliorate, the suffering. He was, perhaps in a different context than was originally intended by the 16th century Spanish writer, St. John of the Cross, passing through his ‘dark night of the soul.’
More than anyone, the one who was there for him was my mother, his companion of nearly five decades. When he shed tears (mostly silent and internal), she tasted salt. She was the flickering light in his darkness.
Not insignificantly, despite lacking any obvious serious illness, she went to join him within a year of his passing. My eldest sister, with whom she lived after my father died, said that my mother seemed to lack the will to live. I think this happens at times with certain individuals: their vital life force (what the Chinese call ‘qi’) dissipates when they no longer feel needed.
Pretty much all her adult life my mother had been a caretaker and nurturer, first as a wife, then mother, then grandmother. The bulk of her adulthood had been spent as a homemaker (and a fine one she was). When my father died, she lost her best friend, and her reason for living, her raison d’etre. So she chose to go be with him and, although that choice may have been passive rather than active, the end result was the same.
Perhaps she succumbed to Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or ‘broken heart syndrome,’ a condition unknown until the 1990s. We will never know.
My father was anointed after he had been discharged from the hospital. Many prayers were tendered on his behalf. Parenteral megavitamin C (this after allopathic medicine had thrown up their hands) did no discernible good.
Unlike Hezekiah, who was granted fifteen extra years, and like Paul, whose ‘thorn in the flesh’ was not removed despite repeated supplication, my father departed in expected fashion, although I cannot say his, like that of protagonist Tristan Ludlow of Jim Harrison’s novella, “Legends of the Fall,” was a ‘good death.’
But he had been blessed with a good life. A loving wife and children, all of whom were reasonably educated, largely because of my father’s belief in the value of education, a satisfying, distinguished career, and many outside interests, the breadth of which is impressive considering how busy a man he was (he published thirteen books, as well as numerous articles, mainly scientific; was a member of various scientific societies; built a freestanding garage at one domicile and tilled the soil of a half-acre garden which largely provided the provender for a family of eight; had a photographic darkroom, carved animals from soap; popularized origami before the word became part of ordinary parlance; made root beer and pickled cucumbers; canned and froze produce; and had time to take the family on outings to various parts of the country. He once modestly characterized himself as a Jack of all trades but master of none; I do not believe this to be an accurate description, in that he was accomplished at many things, including magic tricks, with which he loved to regale audiences, particularly the young).
And, although I believe he was taken too soon, he lived the sort of life Alan Watts, British speaker, writer and philosopher, would have advised. I think he loved his life and had few, if any regrets. As my eldest brother opined at his eulogy, he was a great man. Not necessarily as the world counts greatness, but that, too.
Most importantly, I believe that we will see him once again, restored to the prime of health, in a different place, where the promise has been given of no more sickness or sorrow, where ‘the former things have passed away’ and there will be no need for the sun, for the Son Himself will provide all the light that is needed.
A beautiful, thought-provoking, and moving account.
What a great tribute to a great man, from a great son I have appreciated Dr. Chen Sr. since the late ’40’s when I was in grade.school with his children. Reliving his untimely death brought tears to my eyes Thanks, Sammy, for sharing. Jesus, come soon!
A wonderful man, father and teacher. He taught me to like chemistry. Thanks for posting this account of his life and death. God bless your family.
Hi Sam! What a beautiful and meaningful tribute to your loving father and mother. It is not God’s original plan that any of us should suffer and someday in that glorious hereafter all of the problems of this life will be over. We will rejoice then over the wonderful salvation that our redeemer has provided for us! What a day that will be!!! I want you introduce me to your beloved parents there
too!
Your Dad was pretty special and so was your Mom…so thankful to have known your whole family…many memories…can’t wait for the day when we will see our loved ones again. Thank you for sharing, Sam.
Of course, I knew both your father and mother, Sam. To me, your father was my chemistry professor. I had a tough time in chemistry. He gave me A’s in all his courses, although I had the feeling I let him down—by not being (it would have to have been acting) more enthusiastic over the subjects, particularly qualitative analysis. I remember him most clearly seated in his office chair just adjacent to the chemistry laboratory at AUC, reading one or another chemistry journal. Of course, I would have loved to have seen him perform his magic tricks, but I never had that pleasure. Your mother, I knew mostly in the library, where I spent a couple hours most days in the late morning or early afternoon transferring my Zoology or Chemistry notes into a readable, understandable outline that I could review later. She was always so welcoming to me. That wasn’t all I did in the library. It was also where I introduced myself to social thought that I attempted to merge with Christian thought, at least with the version of Christian thought that I was working through. So, the library was where I spent another parcel of time on the latest issue of The Nation, or The New Republic (not today’s version—this was circa 1960), or The Christian Century. Your mother, I thought—or I imagined—knew what I was about and maybe it pleased her. I’ve read many, probably most, of your brief essays. This is, I judge, the best of them. Ottilie Stafford would also have awarded it an A; I’m sure of it.
Your experience with the end of life medical decisions that you as well as you father were faced with is reminiscent of my readings by Atul Gawande, Being Mortal.
I am saddened that for both you and your dear father that his passage was so difficult.
Thank you for sharing such a warm and loving tribute of your Dad. He was an outstanding human being. As are you.
What a heartfelt as well as informational picture of a great man. I feel like I know your most inner thoughts today greater than at any of the 50 years of friendship. Don’t waste any time on shame but leave that to the Monday morning quaterbacks. I hope that my son will be able to appreciate my efforts when I am gone.
Hi Sam,
Thank you for your writing. I am moved by your writing.
God bless you and your family!
When I attended AUC Dr Chen was shown as a Prof and I seem to recall he was on some sort of service and not present during the time I was there.
Your depiction of your mother reminds me of my own wife who has been outstanding in her consideration of my needs as I went thru and survived a serious illness.
Such women as your mother and my wife are sorely needed in modern day Israel.