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My godfather looked at me today and said 'The world is a smaller place, now that he's passed. I doubt the world will ever know his like again.'
I'm inclined to agree.
When my dad was born, way back in '47, he was diagnosed as a hemophiliac. But, back then, treatment options were... limited, to say the least. Essentially, only whole plasma was used to stop bleeds, and that had the rick of overloading the body and putting the recipient into systemic shock.
Doctors told his mother that he'd be lucky to live to the age of four.
When he turned five, they nodded, and said he'd be lucky to reach thirteen.
when he turned fourteen, they said he'd be lucky to hit twenty.
When he turned twenty-one, the doctors shrugged and said 'Okay, we'll play it his way. He'll die when his time's up, so long as he takes care of himself.'
A car accident, two marriages, Four children, and a farm later, he caught a bad batch of blood during a routine transfusion of Concentrated Clotting factor to prevent bleeding (before it was 'grown' from lab animals), and was infected with HIV and Hepatitis A, B, and C. That was in 1985, two years after I was born.
His doctors said that he'd be lucky to live six months. He proceeded to thumb his nose at the Grim reaper, and proceeded to Kick Death in the balls every morning for the better part of twenty-five years, through three joint prostheses replacements (of which both elbows required several revision surgeries later), Through marrying his daughter to the person she loved (twice), and through being able to hold his grandson on his knee while his old black cat looked annoyed at having her personal lap space be intruded on.
My father was a wonderful, kind and caring man, that explained what he did clearly, and calmly, and disciplined with an even hand, explaining why he did what he did so there were no hard feelings. Late in 2007, his Hepatologist found a small oddity on dad's liver during an ultrasound, so they did a biopsy and destroyed the proto-tumour that was forming.
This year, on March Eighteenth, my father was diagnosed with stage-four Liver cancer, a relatively uncommon and aggressive cancer that had already spread to his lungs and lymphatic system. And, ultimately, it is what killed him. Yesterday, my mother noticed that he was looking pale and uncomfortable, and called the ambulance.
En route to the hospital, his liver ruptured, and he bled out into his abdominal cavity within minutes, but, without pain. My mother was sitting beside him at the time, so the last thing he saw was the woman he had loved and cherished for thirty-five years.
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