ILLINOIS:What would you do if you had 6 months to live?

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http://posttrib.suntimes.com/5165629-537/jerry-davich-what-would-you-do-if-you-had-6-months-to-live.html
What would you do if you had 6 months to live?

JERRY DAVICH jdavich@post-trib.com May 17, 2011 
 David Beaham of Crown Point sits on his Harley-Davidson Wednesday, May 4, 2011, in Crown Point. Beaham was given six months to live because of cancer retired early from NIPSCO, has a trip scheduled to the Florida Keys with his wife next month, will attend his son's wedding in June, and then immediately leave NWI on his Harley to go to Sturgis. | Scott M. Bort~Sun-Times Media Hospice care
If a person is Medicare eligible, hospice care is covered 100 percent.
The Hospice of the Calumet Area also accepts insurance and private pay.
“If a person doesn’t have insurance and isn’t Medicare eligible, we’ll negotiate the fees on a sliding scale, or we may eliminate the fees entirely, depending on their financial situation. They, however, must complete a financial statement for consideration,” said spokesman Craig Harrell.
“Because we’re not-for-profit, our community supports us with donations and fundraisers so that we’re able to offer the best in end-of-life care to everyone.”
The agency, which serves all of Lake County, Porter County to the western edge of Valparaiso, and the bordering Illinois communities from Crete to the south side of Chicago, uses a team of nearly 400 volunteers, a focus on pain management, and a track record of 13,000 patients and their families.
“We’re also beginning a major education campaign within the next month to better explain hospice,” Harrell said.
For more info on hospice care and its cost, visit http://www.hospicecalumet.org/things-you-need-to-know-about-hospice/ David Beaham is going to die just like the rest of us. But, unlike us, he’s been given a timetable — a few months — due to terminal cancer.
What would you do if given a few months to live?
Would you live it up, throw caution to the wind, and cross things off your bucket list? Would you max out your credit cards? Would you travel the world? Would you finally perform at open mic night at the corner bar? Would you go skydiving? Would you hop a train to, well, anywhere?
Or would you simply retreat to the safety and solitude of your family and close friends?
Beaham is taking a different route. But maybe it’s the same route all of us might take if we were in his somber situation. The 59-year-old Crown Point husband, father and grandfather is simply, and quite matter-of-factly, going about his life business as usual.
“There’s no way I plan on jumping out of a perfectly fine airplane,” he told me with a smile. “And I don’t want to become a hermit waiting for death to take me. I want to go on living life as if nothing were wrong with me.”
But there is something very wrong with Beaham’s failing health. He was diagnosed with rectal cancer in 2006, the same diagnosis his father received nearly 20 years ago. His father died from that particular cancer in 1994 at age 68.
“He may appear normal, and even healthy, but he’s not,” said his wife of 39 years, Kathy. “Since our wedding day he’s always been a fighter, and he refuses to give in to it. But I know that our time together is dwindling.”
The couple just returned from a week-long vacation to the Florida Keys, knowing full well that it will most likely be their last one together.
“It will be a vacation to remember, especially for my wife,” David said.
The trip is one of David’s newfound “goals” since he was given a medical death sentence earlier this year.
He refuses to use the trendy term “bucket list” before he kicks the bucket. Nor does he want to use the dramatic cliché “last wishes.” They’re both too fatal, too final, too defeatist.
His next goal is to attend his son David’s wedding on June 4.
“It’s very important to us that he’s there,” said David Jr., 34, of Hobart, who scheduled his wedding around his father’s situation.
David Jr. says his dad has always been there for him and his family, and he hides his pain to spare their feelings. But they know he’s hurting, and he’s losing his battle to cancer. “It’s in God’s hands now, we know this,” said David Jr., a Hobart police officer.
David Sr. knows his son understands his situation because he hugs him every chance he gets.
When his sister, Nicole, heard that their father’s cancer had returned once again, she threw her phone against the wall. She’s getting married next year, seemingly a lifetime away.
“I was so angry,” she said. “We all hoped he beat it, but it came back again.”
‘We’ve run out of options’
Back in January, after David’s fourth round of chemotherapy, his doctor told him simply and squarely, “It’s not working. We’ve run out of options.”
“Well, I’ve already beaten the odds,” explained David, who’s battled cancer for five years, including radiation treatments, surgeries, infections and other painful complications. “Plus, I’ve outlived my father’s battle with the same cancer.”
In February, his doctor referred him to the Hospice of the Calumet Area for end-of-life care. The agency, one of my favorite such organizations, is taking good care of David and his family. Staff members visit weekly but they will visit more often as needed.
“We support the family, which allows the family to care for their loved one at home,” said spokesman Craig Harrell. “In our 30 years of existence, we’ve never refused anybody based on their ability to pay.”
Last year, the agency conducted a survey asking people what they know about hospice care in general. Its major findings didn’t surprise me: People know hospice is “something good,” but they don’t know any specifics; they don’t know how it’s paid for; and they don’t know how to access it.
(For those of you not clear what hospice encompasses and its cost to you, take a peek at the sidebar accompanying this column.)
David, who was born in Iowa, came to this region in 1961, and worked for 30 years at NIPSCO until he was forced to quit for health reasons.
“To date, it’s not been a good retirement,” he joked, lifting up his shirt to reveal his nasty scars and the surgically implanted port in his chest.
His next goal after attending his son’s wedding is to return in August to Sturgis, S.D., a sleepy town until it hosts its annual motorcycle rally. David, who’s been riding a motorcycle since 1967, has been there several times but he wants to go one last time with his full-dressed Harley.
“But I probably can’t ride all the way there this time so I’ll be the trailer queen,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve tried to go twice before but my cancer always got in the way.”
‘Always been my hero’
In 2009, while staring out his home’s living room window, David felt the presence of God. God told David that he’s not alone in his battle to stay alive. Other people, many other people, are in his corner.
For the past few years, David has learned that having cancer can make you feel like you’re all alone, even in a crowd of people. God reminded him he’s not alone, he said.
Still, David gets hurt, if not irked, when people ignore him or don’t contact him to stay in touch.
“People tell me, ‘If you need anything, just call,’ but why don’t they call me?” he said in mild disgust. “I’m still here. I’m not dead yet.”
Bruce Wallace, who lives directly behind the Beahams, has taken it upon himself to help the couple, no questions asked. He has mowed their lawn, made needed repairs, and even drove David to Chicago for doctor visits.
“While so many other people told me to call if I needed anything, Bruce took it upon himself to make the call,” said David, who values such noble deeds. “The only thing he asked in return is that I didn’t give up.”
Wallace has also maintained a normal relationship with David despite the dire circumstances, such as road trips to Menards, downing cold ones in the garage, and sitting on the back deck shooting the breeze.
“It’s just the right thing to do,” said Wallace, a fellow 59-year-old retiree.
David’s wife, Kathy, said one of David’s biggest fears (beyond dying) is not being remembered after he’s gone.
“He doesn’t want to be forgotten,” she said.
No one wants to be forgotten, I told her. All of us want to leave our footprints here in some form or fashion.
“David’s footprint will be in other people’s memories,” she said. “And of course mine, too. He’s my hero. He’s always been my hero.”
David is pragmatic about his heroic situation, saying all of our fates have been decided but, unlike the rest of us, he already knows his.
“All of us have an expiration date stamped on our forehead, but I’ve been given a peek at mine,” he said. “That’s why when I wake up each morning I thank God for another day.”
“Cancer will stop me in my tracks some day, but not today, not today,” he said over the barks of his dog, Mimi, and chirps of his bird, Pretty Bird.
Since he found out his terminal prognosis, he has been hustling to get his affairs in order, including his finances so his wife isn’t left in a hole. He’s also made a list of house upgrades, such as when the roof was replaced and the new furnace installed.
He’s even written his last wishes and final thoughts about his life, and life in general, as part of his eulogy.
“I’ll bet I’ve rewritten it a dozen times so far, and I’m sure I’ll rewrite it again and again,” he said with a smile.
His son will read it at his funeral. (If I’m allowed to attend, I’ll write about it in a future column.)
In the meantime, David will keep battling cancer and dreaming of his “grand goal,” a cruise with his honey on the Mediterranean Sea.
“It’s not gonna happen, but oh well,” he said with a shrug. “Until my time is up, I just want to be me for as long as I can be.”