The Sick and His Passenger

By Ryan Donnelly

This is a true story. A story about a loving, caring, and dedicated fathermy father, who was plagued with the sickness of pancreatic cancer. You will get a glimpse of how pure of a man he was. Throughout the book, youll bounce back and forth between the good and the badmemories of his journey and how hard he fought through it all. It can range from heartful family memories to painstaking crucial ones. Cancer is a hideous disease. This is his journey through his darkest battle. We take the good and the bad, hoping for more good. Youll feel the love, laughter, depression, heartache, and a sense of hope. This is my familys journey through pancreatic cancer; more importantly, this is my fathers story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543461909

Book preview

The Sick and

His Passenger

Ryan Donnelly

Copyright © 2017 by Ryan Donnelly.

Library of Congress Control Number:           2017916682

ISBN:                   Hardcover                                 978-1-5434-6188-6

                            Softcover                                   978-1-5434-6189-3

                             eBook                                        978-1-5434-6190-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/30/2017

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

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PROLOGUE

G ROWING UP, EVERY kid had a hero, whether it was an athlete, musician, actor or actress. We all had someone we looked up to. It didn’t always have to be someone in the spotlight. My hero was my dad. I couldn’t get over how cool he was. He took charge of everything. He was loved, not feared, but respected.

My dad’s name is Brian Donnelly, and he is an absolute savage. My dad meant the world to me. He showed me what it was like to take challenges head-on. He ushered me into a world of sports, which I’m forever grateful for. He worked his ass off. I was too young to realize it at that time, but the more I grew, the more I realized how much work he puts in for us to have what we have. He was the boss man, but he had a comedic side to him that everyone eventually witnessed. It didn’t seem like he had one single flaw in his system, but he was my dad, so it makes sense that it seemed damn close to perfection.

He’s the type of guy to tell you how it is, no bullshit like he always says, but he had a soft side to counter his tough outlook. He would tell me how it is, even if I didn’t like it, but he’d also bend the rules to have a little fun. One time I was across the street from my house where there was a grass field and tennis court. A few of my friends and I wanted to continue throwing the football around, but light was the issue. My dad drove up onto the sidewalk and flashed his truck lights on so we could continue playing football. He always went the extra mile for someone he cared about. He taught me what it was like to win and to savor that feeling because he also taught me how to be humble in a loss. Whether it was sports or life in general, he told me I could always build off a loss and one day make it into a win.

Dad seemed like he could do it all. He was the closest thing to unstoppable that God had created, so I thought, but nothing is unstoppable. Dad was living the dream with a well-paid job, his friends, and his family that he had built himself. It was picture-perfect, except I never realized how perfect it was. Maybe it was because I was brought up in a home where not much went wrong, or if they did, it would get fixed before it got worse. My life was safe. Safe is probably the closest word that comes to mind, and that’s because of my mother and father. I could go on and on about how amazing they both are, but that is a tale for another day. This is my dad’s story. This is his journey. This is when my safe and sheltered life fell on its side and was replaced with a can of chaos that opened wider than I ever could imagine.

CHAPTER 1

I T WAS THE summer of 2014 when the world, as I knew it, flipped upside down. My dad, who is the most outgoing person I’ve ever encountered to this day, started coming home from work more and more tired than usual. His stomach began to nag away at him, which was strange to all of us because he never got sick a day in his life. He had an iron stomach. He could eat anything you put in front of him, and it wouldn’t faze him a bit. So we thought maybe it was just a bug. Plus, his exhaustion could’ve been from a healthy mix of hot weather and all the manual work he was doing. He was an electrician. Dad has always been the type of person that does everything himself because then it gets done right. Still, his behavior was slightly concerning, but it was kind of brushed off in a way.

One day that summer, my friend Torts and I were doing the Ice Bucket Challenge. Next thing I know, Dad comes outside to get in on the fun. We constantly try to be a little extra at everything we do; this resulted in Torts getting into one of my trash barrels. I filled up a huge bucket with frigid water and bags of ice, but I couldn’t lift it high enough to pour it onto Torts. That’s when my dad stepped in. He lifted the tub of water effortlessly and drenched Torts with a batch of freezing water. Yeah! Now that’s how you do it! I can hear him saying it in my head as I write this. He laughed like he was a ten-year-old kid all over again. That was the dad I was used to, but even after the Ice Bucket Challenge, he went inside to rest on the couch. Fatigue made itself comfortable with my father.

Day after the day, Dad’s new routine took place, and my mom was starting to worry. I was a bit oblivious to the fact. I knew he was becoming much more tired faster, but it was my dad. He bounced back from everything. He would be fine, right? I mean, what could go wrong? Everything, apparently.

One summer day, when I came home from whatever pointless activity I was up to, I noticed something off about my dad. He looked like he was beginning to lose weight. He didn’t drop fifty pounds on the spot, but he looked maybe ten pounds or so lighter, and his arms that were solid as a fucking rock started to lose their tone. It was off-putting to say the least. Energy was shrinking inside of him. Mom couldn’t wait any longer and decided to call the doctors for my dad to be seen. He still had this nagging pain in his stomach, but he would never let us in on how much it was really affecting him. Dad’s pain tolerance would have to be sky-high for him to give the doctor a call. He once fell off a ladder at work, cracked open part of his head, got stiches, and said, All right, I got to get back to work. That’s a glimpse of how tough, dedicated, and crazy this guy is. So yeah, getting him to the doctors was my mom’s bidding.

They ran some tests on him for protocol, and then we had to play the famous waiting game. My dad assured us that he was fine, and once again, I believed him; it was hard not to. Dad had been like Superman to me all my life. Growing up, he was the coolest guy in town. He was solid as an ox and had an undeniable strength that he clearly didn’t pass down to me.

For example, we were on vacation in New Hampshire with some family friends of ours, and this guy Michael, my friend’s father, carved a walking stick. He spent hours crafting this thing, and it was pretty impressive. Each of us took a turn trying to break the stick. Michael was so damn proud of how strong his craftsmanship was holding up. Guess who came over and changed that quickly? My dad, goofing around, began to bend it over his head. With the blink of an eye, it snapped in half, wood bursting all around. Even he was in shock. Everyone there couldn’t help but laugh.

Anyways, my dad could do anything. You catch my drift. You picking up what I’m laying down—another overused line Dad really drove through my childhood, but I loved it.

There was no obstacle that man couldn’t hurdle. All these amazing attributes that he possessed really wowed me growing up, but none of them were the actual reason why I dawned him the name Superman. Back in the day, Dad showed me a song titled Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down. I fell in love with it instantly. It was the first song I had ever learned word for word. We sang it together all the time. If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman? We used to belt it out no matter where we were. If that song came on, then we were performing a live cover band version of it; and from that day on, I only viewed him as Superman.

Back to the results. The doctors came back with news of a mass sitting right on top of Dad’s pancreas. It was pressing down on it with so much pressure, causing the main source of pain. This was my first actual oh shit moment when it came to anything concerning with my dad, but I looked over at him, and he was the usual—cool, calm, and collected. It made me feel a little better that he wasn’t scared, even if the rest of us were. Dad didn’t get scared though. He did the scaring. That’s why Halloween was his favorite holiday. It was a day made to scare the living shit out of anyone, and he took full advantage of it. When we were real young, Dad had a mask that scared two of my cousins, along with myself. Mom told him not to wear it, and of course, he did. It was terrifying at that time but hysterical to look back on.

The doctor told us he planned on doing a surgery on Dad sooner than later, which involved inserting a stint between his pancreas and liver to relieve the pressure. Nerves jittered from the rest of us, but my dad stood pact as always. When the time came for his surgery, Kristen and I weren’t there for the beginning of it. When we arrived at the hospital, my mom was in the waiting room with, I believe, my auntie Karen and auntie Liz. My nana and papa were also in the room, my auntie Andrea and auntie Diane shortly after. Finally, we received word that Dad had finished and was in the recovery area. The doctor assured us he did great; a collective sigh exhaled from the group.

My mom, Kristen, and I all went in to see him. He was extremely out of it, and his skin was a tint of yellow. The doctor told us that it was from jaundice and that it would eventually clear up. I don’t know when they came because pieces of it all were a blur, but my auntie Andrea and auntie Diane were also in the room with the three of us. Dad was zonked, but the rest was well deserved, so we let him doze off.

I thought the doctor had finished, but he was far from done. I believed whatever the mystery mass on his pancreas was scrapped off during the surgery and long gone, but the doctor’s puzzled expression left my stomach in knots. He told us word for word that it was a tumor. It was cancer. A jolt of pain sprang throughout my body. The doctor kept talking, so I forced my ears to listen, distracting myself from the nagging stinging feeling coursing in my body. He told us that they would have to do some tests on the tissue they pulled from the mass to see what stage it was, and if it was early enough, then it would be very treatable. He told us that the mass didn’t look too large, so if he had to guess, it would be an earlier stage, like 1 or 2.

Instantly, I started to cry, not the loud obnoxious cry but the silent sneaky cry, like you do at a movie theater; the cry that people would only notice if they were looking directly at you. I felt my auntie Andrea’s hands wrap around me as I was nailed frozen to the chair. A cold shutter left me my heart in a constant downward spiral. We all cried but did our best to pull ourselves together. He’s going to beat this. We have to think positive. We have to believe, my auntie Diane said, and she was right; but at that moment, I only needed to hear from one person and one person only.

I hugged my mom, two aunts, and sister tightly. I walked fast into the hallway, passing the waiting room like the blur of an isolated man. My other two aunts and grandparents were there. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop because conversing would’ve only gone poorly. I needed to hear the voice of one person only right now to tell me that it was going to be okay, that life, as I knew it, was not fading before me.

When I was off at a far-enough distance and surely alone, I called him, my cousin Jake Liberty. Jake was more like a younger brother to me than a cousin. We are attached at the hip. He is undoubtedly the miniature version of me. He’d constantly reminded me how much he looked up to me, but it was I that looked up to him.

It might sound weird that I’m looking up to my younger cousin when I’m supposed to take on the part of the role model, but Jake was, and still is, like no one I have ever met. The kid had everything going for him. He was popular, a class clown, sharp as a tack, and loved by all. Usually, Mom, Dad, or my sister knew the right words to say, convincing me that things will actually be okay, but they were in the same boat as me, and I needed Jake to keep us from sinking.

Jake answered, Scoomba, how’s Uncle Bri? I hated that I had to tell him over the phone, but he was at school, University of Massachusetts Amherst. I wanted him here, but a phone call was the next best thing for the both of us. I told him the news and chocked up on cue when I had to utter the most heinous word in the English dictionary from my mouth: cancer. My brain couldn’t comprehend the words cancer and dad in the same sentence. It had to be some sick joke.

After I told him everything the doctor explained, he said, Why are you crying? You should know better than anyone that Uncle Brian can do anything. You got to keep thinking positive. Hopefully, the doctors are right, and it’s an early stage; but regardless, Uncle Brian can handle it. If he can handle unclogging my toilet after I used it, he can handle anything. You’re all welcome for the imagery.

Words flowed effortlessly from Jake. He could definitely paint a picture. He was charismatic about anything. He made you want to believe him, and he was right. There’s a chance that it’s an early stage, and the earlier, the better. As scary as it all seemed, I began to feel relief flutter in my chest. The throbbing tension yanking at my heart had subsided because Jake was right. He had to be right.

When I got off the phone, I went back into the room to see my dad. He was more alert but still quite drugged up, which I have to say was always a funny time. Anyone and everyone hugged me; all the faces seemed to blend together. Everyone meant well by it, but the only matter at hand going