Dearest friends and readers,

For those who normally tune in to read some bit of advice about livestock production or related topics, my apologies. Today’s edition of Darin’s Pig Pen is deeply personal. I’ve just been through something very traumatic and for whatever reason, it helps me to write about it. We’ll get back to talking about livestock soon enough. I hope that if you choose to read further, you can still find something worthwhile in the paragraphs below.

Hero. Among the definitions listed in the Merriam-Webster dictionary one finds “a person admired for achievements and noble qualities”, and “one who shows great courage”.  As a young boy growing up on the farm, it was pretty easy to find my first hero. My dad was that guy for me. I always wanted to be just like him. It seemed like he knew everything! Strong, reliable, tough, decisive; he had a solution to every problem and could fix anything that was broken. He deeply instilled the value of hard work, the importance of prioritizing, and that satisfying sense of accomplishment after finishing a job. A loyal friend, deeply committed to his family, always happy to meet new people, he was never without flaws (like any human being) but one doesn’t notice any of those as a child. Dad was an easy choice to be my first hero.

 

My wife, Marcela is another hero. An extremely intelligent, thoughtful and well-educated woman; her love, devotion and commitment to family is unrivaled. I have learned so much about love, patience, kindness and the real meaning of the word “family” by her example. She left behind everything she knew, everything and everyone she grew up with, moved to a foreign country where she barely spoke the language, didn’t know how to drive, didn’t understand the rural culture, all just to start a family and a new life with me. I’ll probably never fully appreciate how difficult it was (and sometimes still is) to change, adapt and grow into the woman she’s become. She’s a role-model wife, mother, step-mom, daughter, daughter-in-law, sister, friend, business partner and co-worker. Even though she’s far from home and family, she video-chats with her mom, brothers and sisters every single day! She calls every cousin, aunt, uncle, etc. on their birthday. I am so blessed to have Marcela in my life. She is my hero.

 

Sometimes heroes emerge when you least expect them. People you’ve known your entire life can demonstrate their courage and bravery in the face of great trauma, showing you something that you didn’t know existed inside of them. Our family recently went through such a trauma and from it, three unlikely heroes emerged, forever changing our lives and the way they are viewed in the eyes of our family.

 

I got a call from my dad. “I need help with your mom”. I could hear a bit of despair in his voice as he described his struggles with getting Mom to eat properly, to drink water (instead of Mountain Dew), to take her meds as required and to do her normal daily activities around the house. Mom had been suffering from a bit of dementia for the last few years. She was struggling with short-term memory loss and her quality of life had declined some because of it. She no longer could drive, after an episode the previous summer in which she was lost for nine hours trying to find her way home from a strawberry farm. She spent most of her time in the house, playing cards on her computer, solving Sudoku puzzles, and watching her shows on television. I know Dad was struggling as he watched his wife of nearly 57 years begin to decline little by little, but this time something was different. She wouldn’t eat. She would barely drink water. She was sleeping all but a few hours per day. No puzzles, no games, no tv shows; something had clearly changed.

 

My two sisters and I met at Mom and Dad’s house for an “intervention” of sorts. We all talked to Mom, explaining to her how important it was to eat, drink, remain active, and take her medicines or else she was going to need to go to the hospital. She had been to all her scheduled doctor appointments. There was no reason to think this was anything more than her being forgetful and a bit stubborn.

 

Another day passed, and now Mom was getting a little weak and wobbly. Dad took her to the hospital where they got her rehydrated and got her eating a little better. Of course because of Covid-19, Dad was not allowed to accompany her within the hospital. Some tests were run and she was sent home after a day. Once home, Dad received a call from the hospital. They had found a mass in Mom’s chest and didn’t know yet what it was. A biopsy would be needed. Meanwhile the behavior at home continued as before with little eating or drinking, sleeping all day, and continued signs of weakness. Dad was growing increasingly worried. “What if she has cancer? What am I going to do? How am I going to take care of her?” I tried to calm Dad down while dealing with my own sense of panic. “Let’s take it one step at a time Dad. Get her back in the hospital, get the biopsy done, wait for the results and see what our options are. We’ll get through this together.”

 

Back in the hospital, this time having been moved from Janesville to Madison, Mom was not a pleasant patient. She didn’t want to be there, stuck alone in a hospital bed, away from her family with no visitors allowed. She called my dad several times per day asking when he was going to come and take her home. Then the biopsy results arrived. Not only was there a mass in her chest, but also another in her abdomen and it was growing rapidly. Anaplastic large cell lymphoma (ALCL) is a rare and particularly aggressive form of lymphoma. The doctor would be calling soon to explain treatment options. My three adult daughters were calling, asking what’s going on with Grandma. I’ll admit, I was trying not to worry them until we had answers, but they were a bit upset with me for not keeping them informed. With all three living, working and going to school in Milwaukee (more than an hour away from the rest of us) it was difficult for them to be here and I didn’t want to burden them until we knew more. Dad was visibly shaken as were my sisters and I, but I was reassuring Dad. “Let’s wait and see what the doctor has for options and we’ll figure it out from there.”

 

The call came with much anticipation. Mom could stay in the hospital and be given a week of chemotherapy. My thoughts immediately went from “Thank God, we can cure this” to outright despair when the doctor said that the chemo treatment would only buy her “a couple of months”. Furthermore, the treatment would make her extremely sick and carried other risks as well. In short, she might not survive the treatment and could end up dying alone in a hospital bed. “Ok”, I thought. “This doesn’t sound good at all. What’s option number two?” My despair grew immensely as the doctor described the other option; to send her home and make her comfortable. Hospice care would be provided to help care for her at home until the end came. Now shaken to the core with the realization that I was going to lose my mom, I swallowed hard and asked the question, “How long does she have?” I could no longer contain the raw emotion and the flow of tears as I heard the dreaded reply, “days to weeks”.

 

Dad, my sisters and I all listened in on the conference call as the doctor went into Mom’s hospital room to explain her options. I was insistent that Mom needed to make the decision, and I needed to hear her choice for myself. Would she understand? Does she know that she’s going to die? I knew what I would choose in that situation. I would fight. I would take every possible treatment to try to survive. Dad was convinced that she would simply choose to come home. Listening carefully as the doctor explained both options to Mom, there was absolutely no doubt that she understood everything clearly. I thought that hearing her choice, in her own words, would help me to be at peace with what was coming. I was wrong. Hearing Mom refuse the chemotherapy and choose to come home to die was the most difficult thing I’ve ever listened to.

 

I was an emotional wreck. We all were. For the first time in his life, Dad had finally encountered something that he couldn’t fix. Overwhelmed with sadness and despair, it was difficult to function, yet we needed to prepare. Mom was coming home and we needed to be ready. As Dad, my sisters and I all struggled with what to do, figure out how to work with hospice care, try to understand what would be needed and how we would care for Mom, I must admit we were more than a little lost. We were all trying our best, but none of us truly understood just what needed to be done. Fortunately someone else did. As I was reaching out to extended family to explain what was happening with Mom, I received a message from my daughters. “We’re coming home to take care of Grandma”.

 

Chelsea, Courtney and Kallista arrived with a focus and determination which I had never witnessed before. In a moment’s notice, they had left everything behind in Milwaukee; jobs, school, husband, boyfriends, and dogs and committed themselves to caring for their grandmother. They knew exactly what to do. They immediately went to Dad’s house to begin cleaning and organizing. With the help of my nephew Mitchell (who was thankfully always at Dad’s side) and his wife Nicole, the house was put in order, thoroughly cleaned and ready for hospice to set up the bed and oxygen machine. Courtney had unfortunately gone through a similar experience not long ago with her mother-in-law, so she knew about working with hospice and caring for someone in their final days. I don’t think the rest of us really understood what it was going to take to care for Mom, but Courtney and her sisters did. They helped set up the bed and equipment, they met with the nurses and CNA, they charted the medications, and they had everything prepared for Mom’s arrival.

 

Mom’s homecoming was an emotional day for all of us. We’re were all so happy to have her home from the hospital, yet at the same time sad and nervous about what was to come in the days ahead. I know my daughters were riding the same emotional roller coaster as the rest of us, but it never showed. They were as cheerful and upbeat as ever as they cared for their grandmother’s every need. They fed her, gave her water (and Mountain Dew), and prepared and administered her medications. They played her old records, found her favorite tv shows, moved her in the bed to make her as comfortable as possible. We watched in awe as they carefully lifted her from the bed, helped her to the bathroom, bathed her and clothed her each day. They stayed with her all day and took turns staying with her all night. I know they were exhausted. I know they were sad and scared. Mom never saw any of that. They were so brave and so strong when I wasn’t. I offered to stay some nights to give them a break, even though helping my mom go to the bathroom was a line I wasn’t eager to cross with regard to allowing her to maintain her dignity. They wouldn’t allow it. My sisters did take turns spending the night to give the girls a break a couple of times. Those nights they came home to unwind. They reflected on their day with Grandma, the funny things she said, and the difficult things that happened. They shared their victories and frustrations. They cried together, they shared a glass of wine, then they sang a few songs together and gathered their strength for the next day. It was wonderful having everyone together in the house again, despite the awful circumstances, and I really grew accustom to having them home with us.

 

The days went by quickly, and Saturday came with an overwhelming sense of dread. We had been caring for Mom for only ten days, and we watched her grew steadily weaker each day. As I sat at her bedside that day, I had the feeling that it was going to be our last one together. We hugged her on our way home for the night, getting one final whispered “I love you”, and we cried during the 7-mile drive back to the house. My sister had chosen to spend the night, and we arrived back at the house around 10:30 to try to get some sleep. The call came from Dad at 1:30 in the morning. Choking back the tears, he managed to stutter out, “You better come back. Your mom is gone.” I woke the girls to share the sad news, and all three made the trip with me back to Dad’s house while Marcela stayed home with our youngest two kids. Dad and my sisters were there, awaiting the arrival of the hospice nurse. We hugged and cried, all sharing in our immense sorrow, and I noticed that the girls, while filled with sadness, were also remarkably composed. When the nurse arrived, they wanted to help prepare their grandmother for her final journey. They went through her closet. They chose her outfit. I watched them carefully wash and dress her lifeless body, while all I could do was try desperately to keep the sadness from overwhelming me.

 

When it was over and Mom was taken away, we all stayed with Dad for a while in the house, which now seemed so cold and empty. The girls all commented about what an honor it was to have cared for Grandma in her final days and how grateful they were for the opportunity. We consoled one another the best we could, then we went home to try to get a little rest. I couldn’t sleep. I’m not sure any of us really could, but we did spend the remainder of the morning trying. As morning turned to afternoon, I could see the girls preparing to return to their normal life, while I continued to struggle with everything that had happened in the past ten days. My sadness deepened as I watched them pack up to return to Milwaukee. I wasn’t ready for them to leave. I wasn’t ready for Mom to leave.  

 

As I reflected upon the events of the past two weeks, it struck me that a fundamental shift had occurred in my relationship with my three adult daughters. I’ve always been a proud father, and my children have always given me good reason for that pride, but this was not pride. This was admiration, awe, and admittedly a bit of envy. I have no idea from where these three twenty-something young women drew their enormous inner strength, bravery, and courage. I can’t comprehend how they were able to put aside their normal lives and step up to take control of an awful circumstance and make it better for everyone. I don’t know exactly how or when our roles reversed and I began relying on THEM for strength and comfort, but I can tell you one thing. Those girls are my heroes.

 

I’m a man with relatively simple life goals. There are a few things I hope to accomplish. I enjoy helping people, solving problems, raising livestock and raising a family. I enjoy providing products and services that can help people improve their farming operations. I hope to leave this world just a little bit better for my effort. There is one thing of which I am absolutely certain. No matter what I accomplish in this life, no matter how many products I create, how many problems I solve, or how many animals I produce, my best contribution to this world will always be the children which I left it.

 

If you happen to see one of these heroes at a livestock show or a music festival this summer, please stop them and say hello! They won’t be wearing capes, and you’ll likely find them just keeping to themselves and minding their own business, but I can guarantee that they’ll be happy to meet you, and the day will be a little bit brighter because of it!