Brennan Daigle - Army Strong til the End

Tonight my heart is sad. It seems lately my eyes have cried too many tears. My soul weeps yet again. Cancer has won one more battle. Heaven has opened it’s gates to another young angel. For a little more then 17 months a small boy courageously battled the enemy within him, a rare form of cancer, embryonal rhabdomyosarcoma. Early on the morning of May 5, 2011, as the stars shone brightly, before the sun rose, his war ceased, his life on this earth ended, a boy of undeniable courage earned his eternal wings.

I never met Brennan Daigle but I followed his battle against cancer on facebook and through the news. I learned his favorite bible verse is Philippians 4:13 “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Few men exhibit the strength and courage Brennan demonstrated as a young child.

Brennan’s fight began on October 5, 2009 when he was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer at the Texas Children’s Hospital. Brennan wrote on his facebook page when he heard the news “I was scared, upset, sad and angery”. He put his fears aside and went about battling this heinous disease. He endured endless bouts of chemotherapy and radiation, yet cancer did not stop Brennan from doing all the things he loved. He played with his friends, he went fishing, hunting, played x-box and loved all things Army. October 12, 2010, a little over a year from his first diagnosis Brennan and his family learned his tumor was still growing and had mutated. Cancer was invading his body, but it would not penetrate his soul. He continued to combat the enemy within him. His faith never wavered. He vowed to spread the word of God, so others could see his grace, witness his faith and be inspired by his courage. As part of his mission Brennan started a facebook page. With over 44,000 fans, facebook allowed a young boy from Westlake, Louisiana to inspire countless others here and abroad. His fans would never meet Brennan but they will also never forget him.

On February 10. 2011, in a small doctor’s office, Brennan and his mom were told his battle was coming to a close, there was nothing more modern medicine could do for him. He was sent home to spend the last few weeks of his life with his family. I cried an unbelievable amount of tears when I read as they were leaving the doctors office Brennan questioned his mom, “I won’t see you everyday?” I know death can be unkind and unjust but no mother should ever have to tell their child they are going to die. No parent should ever have to bury their son or daughter. That was the inevitable future that laid before his mother, Kristy Daigle. Ever true to their faith his mom assured Brennan he would be okay, he would be with his grandmother in Heaven, he would be with Jesus. His family would join him one day. The doctors gave Brennan two weeks to live. Cancer and his doctors did not fully comprehend how strong Brennan truly was.

The strength and faith of a child can not be matched by any pharmaceutical. Brennan would battle on, he would not stay home, wait to die, he would continue to live. He continued to go to school. He wanted to be with his friends, he wanted a normal life for as long as possible. One of Brennan’s wishes was to spend his final days not with a celebrity, not with a sports star but with the men and women of our armed services. The soldiers who fight for our freedom, they were his heros. On February 26, 2011, more than 40 soldiers from the 1st MEB of Fort Polk stood at attention as Brennan arrived at the Chateau du Bon Reve (Castle of Good Dreams) to celebrate his tenth birthday. Every soldier shook his hand as he passed through the formation, each realizing although they had just returned from war, this 10 year old little boy had more courage than any combat veteran. Brennan was inducted as an honorary member of the U.S. Army National Guard. He was awarded a jacket, a coin that represents excellence and merit, and a set of dog tags. One with his name, the other dog tag with the seven values of the U.S. Army; Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity and Personal Service. Brennan was also given a key to the city of Sulphur, Louisiana and made an Honorary Mayor for the day. One of the many highlights of his birthday, when Brennan and his best friend Kaleb were given a ride in a real army Humvee. Many said it was a perfect birthday for a ten year old little boy.

For me it wasn’t perfect, perfect would be Brennan’s eleventh birthday, twentieth, fortieth, seventieth birthday. Brennan unfortunately represents a sad fact, cancer is the number one killer of children. Cancer knows no age barrier, it is a disease of the old and sadly the young. In 2007 approximately 10,400 children were diagnosed with cancer, of those more than 1500 died from the disease. The number may seem low to some, but what if your child was one of the 1500? One is too large a number!

We fall in love, we give birth, we raise our families. We grow old watching our children marry and give birth to our grandchildren. Our children repeat the cycle of life, so shall their children. That is the way we are taught life should be, but Brennan Daigle is a reminder that wonderful cycle of life is not a reality for all families. Brennan like the more than 1500 children who will die from cancer this year, lost his battle, lost his future when he succumbed to cancer in the early morning hours of May 5, 2011.

Brennan will never go to high school, he will never have a girl friend, experience the wonderful excitement of his first kiss. There will never be a prom for Brennan. He will never go to college, he will never marry. His parents, Albert and Kristy will never hold his children in their arms. His sister Lauren, will no longer have a baby brother to hug. She can not text message or call Brennan when she needs to talk like brothers and sisters often do. She will have to look to the Heavens to see him, hear him, feel him. Brennan had an unbelievable strength as he battled cancer, now his family must echo his strength and learn to live with out him.

The lesson from Brennan: from time to time we all have bouts of self pity, for one reason or another. When that moment arises, when you think life is way too hard visit Brennan’s facebook page and remember his story. Rummage through his photos. No matter what cancer threw at Brennan he fought back, he never gave up, lost faith. A month after he was told he was going to die you can see the joy in him when a brigade from the Texas Lonestar Chapter of Pink Heals led by a pink camo army truck arrived in front of his house. The restored army truck presented to Brennan as a memorial for his battle against cancer. Even when the tumor in his brain and the medication caused his face to swell and he could no longer smile, he would not give up. Brennan would take his finger and hold a smile in place for the camera. Four days before he died Brennan attended Brayden’s Dream Day to show support for another child battling cancer. This small wonderful ten year old boy, never lost his faith, never lost his compassion, never lost his courage. Brennan fought til the end and never once felt sorry for himself. So on those horrible days when life seems it’s darkest, understand and rejoice in the message Brennan was teaching all of us, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Brennan Diagle “At Ease” your battle is over, it is your time to rejoice with the Lord.

Anywhere But Here

Once again another day blurs into night as I sit here staring out the window of room 640 at Baltimore Washington Medical Center. To the right of me Dad is sleeping in his bed, to the left an orange glow of sunset is settling over Baltimore. For a moment I have to think what day it is, what month. Time is moving outside my window, but here on the 6th floor it feels like it is standing still. Life is on hold waiting for Dad to get better.

Halloween has come and gone, the clock is beginning to tick away at November. The orange of sunset is now being replaced by darkness expanding over the horizon. The landing lights are now visible and I can see the planes as they line up for the final approach at BWI airport. One, two, three, four, five, six planes I count waiting for their turn to land. They form a straight line of bright dots. I wonder where the flights are coming from? I try to imagine an exotic location warm and beautiful. Where the nights are filled with gentle ocean breezes. I try to envision a hamlet full of laughter and life. A place where I can escape the sounds and smells of the hospital. For right now I long to be at any locale, any city, any abode, anywhere but here.

Looking out the window I am lost in a day dream, a place unknown when the cries of pain from my father transport me back to reality. I call for the nurse, ask for more pain medication. Feelings of helplessness envelop me as I take his hand. I understand there is no physical comfort I can give him. I can only wait with him until his medication takes effect.

I hold his hand and look out the window at the traffic on route 100. I look away so my Dad will not see the tears forming in my eyes. His moans of agony break my heart, tear at my soul. I squeeze his hand, try to comfort him with words. I remind him I love him, everything will be okay. I hear his breathing begin to slow, his moans begin to fade, the medication is slowly taking effect. His grip begins to loosen on my hand, I know he is now asleep. I continue to peer out the window and begin to have selfish thoughts. I look at the highway below and wish I was on it. I long to drop the top on my Mini, crank my iPod and feel the wind on my face, through my hair. I am surrounded by sickness and I hunger to feel alive. I yearn to drive to distances unknown, somewhere fun. I wish I was anywhere but here.

I am lost in a memory of spring break when I am awaken by the red and white flashing lights of an ambulance as it arrives at the emergency bay below. Several times a night I see the lights reflect off the windows in the distant darkness. Every time I see the lights, even though I do not know the passenger I still say a prayer. I pray that whatever injury or illness brought them to the E.R. can be fixed and they can return home. I pray their family never has to stay here. I pray they have the choice to drive anywhere but here.

3:27 a.m. a cry breaks the quiet of the night, I hear the nurses call to each other. I lean forward, I can see the family crying. I can’t remember their names, only where they are from, how they like their coffee. I learned the day before their mother had stage four lung cancer. I witness them consoling each other. I realize their mom has passed. I squeeze my Dad’s hand tighter. I feel tears begin to pour down my cheeks. 4:00 a.m. the ding of the elevator reverberates through the hall. I look out and see the gurney with the unwanted empty burgundy bag turn the corner. A few minutes later the gurney returns, the bag no longer empty. It carries what was once a mother, grandmother, the love of someone’s life. The sight is more than I can endure. I let go of my Dad’s hand and rush to the bathroom to regain my strength, my composure.

I lock the bathroom door, I need to be alone. I feel everything closing in around me. I am afraid I am not strong enough to handle another day, another night. I am scared I am moments away from losing my sanity. I wash my face, stare at myself in the mirror. The reflection I see is not me. My face is so tired, my eyes appear sad. I look like I have aged a hundred years since Dad first arrived on the sixth floor. I hate this place. This floor is taking everything out of me, I am losing hope. I fear the optimist in me is slowly dying. I lean against the wall, catch my breath and ask God why can’t I be anywhere but here?

After a few moments of self pity I remind myself I need to have faith in God, in myself. No matter what the outcome it will be God's will. He will not give me anymore than I can bear. I grab a paper towel and remove all remnants of tears from my face, take a deep breath and head back to Dad’s room. I grab another pillow and sit in my chair between Dad’s bed and the window. I change the play list on my iPod, try to get as comfortable as possible. Once again I take Dad’s hand, stare out the window hoping to find a star to make a wish on. I slowly drift off to sleep, dreaming of happier times when life was the way it was suppose to be. I am almost off in peaceful slumber when the tech wakes me, she has to take Dad’s vitals. I need to move my chair. I stand and continue to gaze out the window. Light is beginning to penetrate the darkness. Another day has arrived. I feel a gentle squeeze on my hand. Dad is awake. He smiles at me. As the warm glow of the sun enters his room I realize here is the only place I want to be.

Simply a Song

The past nineteen days I have spent with my father in the hospital I have been serenaded by the song of cancer. The bleeps of his monitor, the whirl of his feeding tube, the bubbling of the oxygen line, the alarms on his IV, the sounds of the suction machine clearing his airway, the elevator's ding outside his room. Dad's constant chants, his malignant melody, the easy sounds to hear. Strange as it may seem, I have come to appreciate this anthem. For I know as long as I hear these notes Dad is holding his own, he is still here. No matter how much I hate the tune, I know it is much better than the song of silence that awaits me. For now, I cherish his lullaby.

The harshest refrains are the echoes that resonate through the halls at night.  They breach the silence of sleep. The chorus of urgency is so loud, so constant it causes me to stop whatever I am doing to pray. The ward's bewitching waltz; cries of pain, alarms alerting nurses of a patient in need, deafening code blues, and the swift shoof of shoes as they rush to divert darkness' dance partner. Attempt to save the song for one more day.

There are sad ditties as well, the melancholy psalm of despair that tears at my soul and causes me to weep for the unknown person. The sobs of a patient a few doors down. He cries from loneliness every night. He longs for his son to visit. His chorus never changes, please God. His is one of many falsettos released from the open doors. They reverberate from room to rotunda. The intonations of pleas pierce the middle eight and change the composition.

I have learned there is a certain rhythm to tears. Everyone cries in beat as they stand in the hallway, gather their courage to call family members, disclose the diagnosis is cancer. The vagueness in their voice, the uncertainty of fate, solicitation for prayers, a lyric I have lived. They are at the beginning of the song, the first stanza of cancer. Christened the new frontmen in the fight; surrounded by those who await the closing curtain, pray for one more bridge, one last chorus. The crescendo of confusion and desperation, sung in rounds, fills the theater, circles the heart and submerges the soul. No mater, they continue to play, hope for harmony between life and death.

The opera that rages deeps and cuts like no other, the heartache of the final farewell. The last verse written. The cry is a note unlike any other. When the anguished aria is sung, there is silence in the ward. A sound everyone recognizes and fears. The final lyric is the heartache that we all must face. It is life's ending hymn that none of us are ever prepared to sing. We understand once the final note is sung, there is no encore, the ballad, the battle, is finally over.

Holding Dad's Hand

Usually when one thinks about two people holding hands they envision lovers, boyfriend/girlfriend walking together. The first realization that a guy is interested in you is when he first takes your hand. The first contact between a boy and a girl. The first sensation of their touch, their skin against yours. Holding hands is the beginning of a relationship. Sometimes it is a relationship that only lasts a short time, other times it signifies the beginning of a lifetime together.

The first time we "hold hands", our first lifelong relationship, is with our parents.
The inaugural touch outside our mother's womb happens usually moments after birth. It is our parents caressing our arms, hands, placing their finger inside our hands, the first time someone holds our hand. As a small child our parents hold our hand to keep us safe, keep us from running off, keep us near. Holding our hand is in essence a safety net between us and the outside world. As we grow older, as we feel safer, we reach for our parent's hands less often. They too relax their "grip" on us. With continued independence we no longer seek the contentment, the safety of our parent's hands, we seek the comfort of a companion's hand.

Over the past eighteen days I have lost track over the number of times I have held my father's hand. Late at night when Dad has trouble breathing he reaches out for my hand. Anytime he is in pain or scared I reassure him everything is okay by simply taking his hand, caressing his fingers gently as they wrap around mine. The simple gesture of holding his hand let's him know I am not going to leave him. I will always be with him.

Thursday night as he was sleeping I sat in the chair next to his bed staring at our hands entwined together. I could tell when my Dad was in pain, I could feel him squeeze my hand in his sleep. I noticed how frail, how thin his skin had become. I began to wonder when did I stop holding my Dad's hand? When was the last time I remembered reaching out for him? I searched my brain, trying to locate the answer to my question.

Over the past five years as Dad has battled his cancer, I have caught him when he has fainted. I have put my arm around his waist helping him in and out of his wheelchair. He has leaned on my shoulder when he needed help walking. I have placed my hand on the small of his back, balancing him, shadowing him as he walked up the stairs, walked down the hall. I was there ready to catch him if he fell. I have sat with Dad stroking his arm while he was waiting for a doctor, while he was getting chemo. Until he was admitted to the hospital my Dad never reached for my hand, I never reached for his. The last time I remember holding my Dad's hand was in 1985. I had just given birth to my daughter. I was excited to be a mom, Kathryn was beautiful. As I laid in the recovery room after having a c-section the realization hit me I was going to be a single mom. I was going to be raising my child on my own. I suddently felt alone and scared. When I saw my Dad come into the recovery room I reached up for his hand. I needed him, holding his hand was my safety net. When he took my hand, when I felt his fingers around mine, I knew everything was going to be okay. I was not alone.

I continued to stare at our hands. I was amazed at the difference time had done. Our hands had drastically changed over the past twenty five years. My Dad's hands went from being strong and tan to frail and covered in bruises from all the injections and IVs. I thought to myself, twenty five years later our roles were reversed. Before his hand was the reassuring grip, now it was mine. In the past it was the gentle squeeze of his hand that let me know I would be okay, he would always be there for me. Now it seemed, it was me letting my Dad know I was going to be with him, I would help him through every final step he faced. He would not be alone, I would always be with him.

In my mind I was trying to recall when did this transformation take place. When did I become the parental/sheltering figure. The longer I laid with my head against the back of the chair staring at our hands, the more tears began to form in my eyes. I began to comprehend the truth, our roles had not reversed. Dad may have reached for my hand in comfort but he was giving me more. When he was squeezing my hand he was letting me know he was okay. I began to understand, as long as I could hold his hand, no matter how weak his grip was, I felt safe. As long as I could hold his hand, I could still hear his voice. Over the years, hearing my Dad's voice always made any bad day better. Dad had a way of making me feel like everything would be fine. I could handle it.

Ever since I was a little girl, Dad was my umbrella protecting me from all the frightening storms that lay ahead of me. He was always there when I needed him. I slowly began to comprehend looking at his frail fingers wrapped around mine soon I would no longer have his hand to hold. I would no longer hear his voice ask how my day went, how I was doing. We would no longer share our talks on Thursdays. My lifeline, my safety net was slowly leaving me. The man who in my eyes could make any and everything better, help me solve any problem was no longer going to be here with me. I was going to miss him more than I could ever adequately describe in words.

While I sat next to his hospital bed, holding his hand, Dad's grip tightened around my fingers as if he understood what I was thinking. What I was trying to accept. I smiled, told Dad everything would be alright, I would be alright. I promised him once again I would be right next to him holding his hand. The rest of the night while I sat with my father, I longed to have those twenty five years back. I wish I could regain all the times I neglected to reach for and hold the most wonderful hands I have ever known, my Dad's.