THE JOURNEY HOME
My Father's Story of Cancer,
Faith and Life-Changing Miracles
By Joseph M. Hanneman
Mount Pleasant, Wisconsin
2010
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Published by Strategis One LLC at Smashwords
www.journeyhomestory.com
Copyright © 2010 by Joseph M. Hanneman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any
manner or in any medium without written
permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Control Number 2009912719
ISBN-13: 978-1-449-91137-9
ISBN-10: 1-449-91137-4
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Contents
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Acknowledgments
Many people are an important part of this story. To be fair to them all would require many more pages than are available in this volume. Certainly we must acknowledge the main players: our Blessed Lord and my Dad. One directed the story and the other followed, with faith and courage.
Family is everything, and so we start there. Dad had five pretty special people helping him on this journey: his wife of 49 years, Mary K. Hanneman; my brother David C. Hanneman; my sisters Margret Hanneman and Amy Bozza; and our cousin (who is more like a sister), Laura Curzon. Each was a gift on this journey, and each played the role Dad needed them to play.
Of course we need to mention our prayer warrior, Sister Madonna Marie Mulqueen, Mom's sister and for more than 50 years a Franciscan nun. During so many crises, Sister enlisted the prayers of the Franciscans. I know those prayers were heard and answered.
Monsignor Duane Moellenberndt, the pastor of Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary Catholic Church, counseled Dad all during this journey. When we knew Dad's hour had come, Monsignor Duane dropped everything and rushed to St. Mary's Hospital to provide the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick. I do thank God for holy men like Monsignor Duane, and for their vocation.
Dr. Gregory Motl of Dean Clinic in Sun Prairie saw Dad through many health worries. He provided clear, calm thinking during the storm. Doctors Ibuki Kimura and Kevin Eichhorn, hospitalists at St. Mary's Hospital, were true heroes during the worst part of Dad's medical crisis the last week of his life. The entire staff of St. Mary's Hospital deserves praise for their skilled and compassionate care. Dr. Frank Byrne, you have a world-class medical center. Steve Sparks of St. Mary's public relations department, thank you for your patience and kindness in helping my parents make the donation of two 1850s-era stained glass windows to St. Mary's. It meant the world to my Dad during his final months.
Dean Clinic surgeons Louis Bernhardt and L. Douglas Cowgill rescued Dad from his first bout of lung cancer in 2004, and a life-threatening empyema in 2005. They are the best. The medical professional with the toughest job in all this had to be Dr. Michael Frontiera, Dad's oncologist. His encouragement convinced Dad to fight the disease. The chemotherapy treatments shrunk the cancer and allowed Dad to breathe again. He helped give Dad those final six months, without which we might have missed this incredible story. For that we are all thankful.
Sun Prairie paramedics Matthew Schaller and Traci Wilcox are true professionals who showed Dad real compassion. Sun Prairie police officer Jill Koll deserves salute for her quick response to our 911 call, and for her kindness and aplomb in a crisis situation.
HospiceCare Inc. in Fitchburg, Wis., is nothing short of incredible. What medical skill, mixed with compassionate nursing in an unmatched facility. HospiceCare gave Dad comfort and peace in his final days. What a blessing. They took care of us all, right down to the smallest grandchild. Dr. Bill Rock and the medical staff, thank you for the gift of your care for Dad. Mary Beth Graves, you made this all possible by securing a spot for Dad just when we needed it. Thank you.
Former Wisconsin Gov. Tommy G. Thompson was a great support to Dad with his acts of kindness. Former Sun Prairie aldermen Bill Clausius and Don Hooser provided help and kind words of support. Council President Zach Weber helped arrange the honor guard and procession of police, fire and EMS at Dad's funeral. We will never forget it. The Knights of Columbus Fourth Degree Honor Guard, including Dad's longtime friend Dr. Robert Sartori, thank you for being the "visible arm of the Order" at Dad's funeral and burial. Sun Prairie Mayor Joe Chase was a true gentleman for lowering the flags at City Hall to half mast in Dad's honor.
My dear Aunt Elaine Hanneman (also my godmother) was a compassionate ear throughout the journey, and a constant source of support. You are a saint. The great neighbors who surround Mom and Dad's home in Sun Prairie were our safety net, especially Alan Murray and Tom and Vicky Happe.
My wife, Sue, and our children Stevie, Samantha and Ruby, made perhaps the biggest sacrifice. Their support and understanding allowed me to be away so much over three years so I could be there for Dad.
Last, but certainly not least, there is Chewy, the 6-pound Yorkshire terrier that came into Dad's life when he really needed a "little buddy." Your fierce loyalty provided more comfort than you could know.
It continues even to this day, as you sit quietly in the dark at the foot of Dad's bed each night. Dogs do not forget. Little buddies always remember.
It's OK. We feel the same way.
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Foreword
Each of our lives follows a path with a source and a destination. During my Dad's three years of illness from 2004 through April 2007, I came to fully realize that life's source and its destination are one and the same. Life comes from, is destined for, and fulfilled in God. This is the story of how Dad lived with his lung cancer. But it is much more. Through his illness and the miracles we experienced, I came to see that Dad's was not just a journey. It was a journey home. Home to God.
I struggled mightily with this concept during the ups and downs of Dad's cancer treatment. My strong Catholic faith was a gift from God, sent through my parents. Even with this gift always at my side, I strained to understand it all. How I wanted to write the story my way, so I could choose the ending. I suppose that is a very natural way to feel, to want to fix things, alleviate suffering and make it all better. I played some of those roles during the final six months of Dad's life — as did my Mom, my two sisters and my brother. None of us wanted to see Dad get sick or suffer. Certainly we did not want him to die and leave a hole in all of our lives that no one could fill. So we all tried to influence the story and its outcome.
I could sit here and say I knew all along how this would play out, or that I could tell God had a message to deliver through Dad's sufferings. But that would be a load of horse hockey. I didn't have a clue. But through my faith, I did listen. I know there were many angels who tapped on my shoulder during this journey. Some I'm sure I missed. Others got my attention. Eventually I figured out that I was supposed to listen, follow and learn. When I listened with faith, it became clear what my role would be — and it wasn't to determine the story's ending. And as you will find out in this book, that is a very good thing. God had quite a plan for Dad. He didn't need a co-author. Once that sunk in, I was witness to how a tragedy led to something inspiring and miraculous. You will see.
David Dion Hanneman was born March 27, 1933 in Wisconsin Rapids, a paper mill town on the Wisconsin River in Wood County, Wis. He spent his years growing up in a small town called Mauston, the county seat of Juneau County, about 70 miles north of Madison. During his formative years, Dad showed the many talents we came to appreciate. He had great musical abilities, not the least of which was his rich baritone voice. He played bass drum and trumpet. His mother Ruby was quite a vocal talent herself. She used to do live vocal performances during intermission at the New Palace Theatre and the Ideal Theater in Wisconsin Rapids in the 1920s and 1930s. She no doubt fostered Dad's love for music.
Dad truly loved people. He was one of the most social beings I ever knew, seemingly comfortable in any group of people. As an accomplished introvert, I resented that at times, but eventually I learned much from it. That quality was part of what made Dad a great salesman. He probably could have sold sunglasses on the dark side of the moon. He had a long career in sales of pharmaceuticals and veterinary medical supplies. He took each of his kids along on his week-long sales routes, visiting every burg and farm town in Wisconsin, from Oostburg to De Pere to Mondovi. But the collapse of the farm economy in the early 1980s left him without a job or much of a prospect for one. That setback led to one of the numerous times Dad reinvented himself as a professional. He went to school and learned the insurance business. After many months of hard work, he earned licensure as an insurance agent. A new career was born selling for companies like CNA and AFLAC, long before the latter company had a popular duck mascot to deliver the company name on television: AFLAC! Dad did very well selling life insurance, long-term care insurance and other products.
In the late 1980s, he decided to get back into politics and successfully ran for Sun Prairie City Council. He had been on the council back in 1968 and 1969, but had to give it up due to the travel demands of his job. Starting in 1988, he undertook a new political career that would include eight years on the City Council and a term as council president. He served seven years on the Dane County Board of Supervisors, a post he resigned after being elected mayor of Sun Prairie in April 2003. As one colleague put it, he served in those posts "with distinction and class.”
During this political renaissance, Dad worked his way into a new career as a real estate agent and broker. Again, he had to study diligently to master the information needed for licensure in Wisconsin. But like so many other things in his life, he was good at it. In 1998, he was recognized by ERA of Wisconsin as a multimillion dollar seller for ERA Kraus Real Estate in Sun Prairie. Even in the depths of his illness, he took a number of courses in December 2006 to secure a three-year renewal of his licenses. With cancer battering his body at the time, that was a major achievement. All at age 73.
Throughout Dad's life, his Catholic faith was the light that guided him. I make no claim that he was perfect or saintly, but he knew the key to life and his future was found in his faith. From the days back in 1967 when he helped found St. Albert the Great Catholic Church in Sun Prairie, to his 53 years as a member of the Knights of Columbus — serving the Church and her holy priests was an important part of his life. He lived his Catholic faith right up to his last breath — and beyond. You will see what I mean throughout the pages of this book.
Dad's Catholic faith was influenced by his time growing up in Mauston. The family home on Morris Street reflected the Catholic faith. Near the dining room table on the first floor hung a painting depicting the Sacred Heart of Jesus. A beautiful 18-inch-high Austrian porcelain statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary was placed on a special shelf just above the old Westinghouse radio in the Hanneman living room.
Grandma Ruby often read from her well-worn Our Sunday Visitor Vest Pocket Book of Catholic Facts and her pocket-size Sunday Missal. Grandpa Carl had a pocket size New Testament, given to him by Father Joseph Kundiger when he was confirmed into the Catholic faith. In the back of that book I found a purple scrap of paper with a handwritten note from Ruby to Carl, dated Sunday, March 22, 1970: “I love you, Carl! Always, Ruby.”
Dad was an altar boy at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Mauston. He joined the Knights of Columbus in 1953, just two years out of high school. That continued a tradition started by Grandpa Carl when he joined the Knights back in 1934.
There are many possible ways to react to a diagnosis of life-threatening cancer. It's easy to imagine wanting to wall yourself off from the world, or feeling angry or victimized. I never once heard my Dad say, "Why me?" He didn't say, "It's not fair." I said those things on his behalf countless times. If he ever felt that way, he didn't share it.
He did share plenty of other things, though. In November 2006 when he was so sick from his cancer treatment, he had an inspiration to do something for St. Mary's Hospital in Madison. From the moment he decided to donate two giant stained-glass chapel windows, he was a man on a mission. The towering 1850s-era windows, which had to be 20 feet tall fully assembled, were originally part of the chapel at St. Mary's, until a renovation in the late 1960s. The windows sat in our basement for nearly 40 years. We often wondered just what Dad was going to do with them. "Someday," he would answer. The someday came in March 2007 when Mom and Dad gave them back to St. Mary's, which restored them and incorporated them into a beautiful new wing of the hospital. Dad wanted to give back, and so he did, right to the end.
It would be tempting to say my favorite memories of Dad are from his youthful days, with his jet-black hair, deep singing voice and the broad shoulders we hung on during trips to the swimming pool. Or seeing him speak with such confidence and distinction on television news when he was mayor of Sun Prairie. Just few years ago, those memories would have ranked among my favorites. But after witnessing his journey home, the most precious and inspiring memories I have of Dad are the frail but determined steps he took as he walked to his own Calvary — and on to his own Easter Sunday.
That is the enduring story of this book.
– Joseph Hanneman
Mount Pleasant, Wis.
November 1, 2009
Solemnity of All Saints
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Chapter I
A Day Long in the Making
The October night had a foreboding chill. The fall wind blew ominously as I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. As cyclones of yellow leaves swirled about the parking lot, I tried to process what had just happened. I fumbled for my cell phone and called home. Maybe the words would make sense after I spoke them to my wife, Sue. "Dad's lung cancer is back. It does not look good." There, I said it. But it only increased the dread welling up inside. Standing outside the Dean Clinic in Sun Prairie, Wis., I felt utterly helpless.
My mind raced back to when I was a child. I used to worry that Dad would not come home from his weekly sales trips. It made me feel afraid. Dad was the one to do the protecting and comforting back in those days. The rock of our family. Now he faced a life-threatening diagnosis of lung cancer. I could not fix this for him. I could not protect him. All I could seem to do is stand there in the dark, listen to the fall wind and say, "Lord Jesus, please help us with what we're about to face."
We had been desperately trying to get Dad in to see Dr. Gregory Motl since the prior week. Dad was having great trouble breathing, and got winded even from walking short distances. He was coughing a lot again, and the coughing was painful. We needed to find out if his lung infection from the previous year was back. Or if he had a tumor growing in his lungs. He underwent a CT scan a week ago. Now we sat in the doctor's waiting room on October 30, 2006. We did not know it, but this would be a milestone day for the entire family. One of those events that radically changes the direction of life. Things would never be the same again.
We waited in the examining room for maybe five minutes, but it seemed like three days. Finally, we heard rustling in the hall, following by the click of the doorknob. Dr. Motl wasted no time delivering the news. "Dave, it's not good," he said, still walking across the room. He sat down on the round stool and looked Dad in the eyes. "The cancer is back, and it looks like it has spread." Wham. This gut punch seemed to suck all of the air from the room. I waited for a scrap of hope from Dr. Motl. Maybe a caveat, or a hopeful "but there's good news." But all I heard was a long, ugly silence.
Dad shrugged his shoulders dejectedly and looked down at the floor. "Oh, well," he said, trying to be matter of fact. But those two words did not come easily. He choked up. I put my arm around him and gave a squeeze. It was all I had. No solutions, wisdom or sage advice. Damn. When Dr. Motl left the room to arrange a consult with an oncologist, I recovered my bearings just a bit. "It's OK," I said, knowing it was not. "Don't give up, Dad. I'll be here for you every step of the way." He nodded his head, and tried to gather himself. "I should have known," he said, shaking his head wistfully. "I saw what cigarettes did to my Mom and Dad. I should have known better." I told him that no one — no one — deserves to get cancer, no matter if they smoked for 60 years or not a day in their life. "You don't deserve this even for a minute," I said. "You are a great guy, Dad. If there was any way for me to take this away from you, I would do it."
I went to the Dean pharmacy and waited for Dad's prescriptions. Some heavy-duty painkillers and an anti-anxiety medication. The pain medication was to help stem symptoms from the squamous cell carcinoma (tumor) in Dad's lung. The other medication was supposed to help relax him and ease the sensation caused by the tumor that he couldn't catch his breath. Once I rejoined Dad and Dr. Motl in the examining room, we were told that an initial consultation with oncologist Dr. Michael Frontiera was scheduled for Thursday — three long days away. "I'm getting you in to see the best," Dr. Motl said. "As I said, they're developing new treatments all the time."
As we drove home after the dread diagnosis, I knew this day had been long in the making. It was a day I had long feared. Dad started smoking cigarettes when he was 16, back in his hometown of Mauston, Wis. In those pre-1950 days, everybody smoked. Both of his parents smoked, and I'm sure many of his high-school buddies rolled packs up in the sleeves of their T-shirts. Smoking was manly. It was feminine. In fact, it was healthy. Or that's what everyone was told in the days before surgeon general's warnings, nicotine patches and quit-smoking support groups. Everywhere you looked — from Hollywood movies to consumer magazines — people were smoking. I don't know if Dad smoked Camels or Lucky Strikes back then, but in the end it didn't matter. Long before he left home, got married and started a family, Dad was hooked on cigarettes. Addicted to nicotine. I had long ago stopped being angry at him for smoking, even though the smell of smoke caused my throat to spasm, making it almost impossible to breathe. Over time I came to realize his "habit" was nothing less than a drug addiction. He tried countless times to quit.
That first night after the cancer diagnosis was horrible. Mom was at St. Mary's Hospital, recovering from knee replacement surgery. My sister Marghi and I stayed upstairs at the house to keep an eye on Dad. I drifted in and out of sleep all night, woken countless times either by my own troubled dreams or the sound of Dad calling out in his sleep. I got up and stood at the doorway to Dad's room. He was thrashing about and talking in his sleep. His breathing was rapid. He was clearly in distress. In the morning we got on the phone and after some lobbying, we got the oncologist appointment moved up a day. It was crucial to get his treatment started right away. I was not sure he would agree to undergo it.
The Dean Hematology & Oncology Clinic on Madison's far west side is housed in the glass, multi-story Sauk Trails Plaza. We had to get to the fourth floor for Dad's appointment with Dr. Frontiera. Dad was so winded that we got a wheelchair to move him from the parking lot to the waiting room. Dr. Frontiera, Dean's director of oncology and hematology, outlined a plan to attack the lung cancer with chemotherapy. Dad was not a candidate for some of the new trial drug therapies, Dr. Frontiera said. He was not discouraging, and offered Dad the hope of stopping the cancer's growth and shrinking the tumor. Not a cure, but hope to get relief and some quality time left to live. To my surprise, Dad readily agreed to get started. Dr. Frontiera put his hand on Dad's arm and projected confidence and compassion. Dad seized onto it.
Shortly we had a six-hour appointment set up for round one of chemotherapy. On the way out of the office, Dr. Frontiera pulled me aside and chided me for bringing Dad in a wheelchair. "Let him walk. He needs to push himself," Frontiera said. "I can't stress enough how important that is." At first I felt defensive at the advice, but I quickly realized that it made sense. Dad needed to believe he was up for the fight. The name of the game was to think and act like we knew he would get better. "He was pretty encouraging," I remarked to Dad as we drove home. "He seems to feel he can help you. I feel good about that."
The chemotherapy treatment room at the Dean Hematology & Oncology Clinic consists of multiple bays, or "staging areas" that look like small living rooms with recliners, television sets and chairs. From the fourth floor windows you could see for miles and admire the changing colors of the trees. These little living areas were rather cozy. It didn't feel like a medical clinic. This was good, since patients often spent five or six hours hooked up to IVs to receive their chemotherapy drugs.
Once we got Dad settled into his chair, the nurses prepped him for the IVs. The first 45 minutes or so he would only receive fluids and Benadryl to lessen the chance of allergic reaction. After a few minutes on the IV, his cheeks turned pink and he dozed off to sleep. I tried to work on my laptop computer, but the room was very warm. My eyelids became like lead. We both drifted in and out of sleep. In between, we watched the TV and chatted.
The nurse hung some more IV bags. Thus began a four-hour infusion of methotrexate, a standard chemotherapy drug often used to treat lung cancer. There was no visible sign that the IV had switched from benign fluid and Benadryl to a cytotoxic drug designed to stifle the wild growth of the cancer cells.
By the time the IV was nearing completion, Dad was more than ready to get out of there. He showed some flashes of anger. "Why is this taking so long?" he snapped. "Dad, they told us it could take five to six hours the first time," I said. "The IV is almost done. We'll get you out of here soon."
Mercifully, before Dad got himself worked up again, the IV course was finished. Now it was time for him to go home and get some rest in anticipation of the inevitable side effects from the harsh toxins used in chemotherapy. We walked ever so slowly and carefully to the elevator and through the lobby. It was more of a shuffle than a walk. Every time Dad let out a sharp exhale, I was reminded of his pain — and his lack of lung capacity. But I tried to be mindful of Dr. Frontiera's admonition that Dad should push himself. We got into the Honda Odyssey van and pulled away. Dad came to like the van, so I always drove it when I came to visit or take him to appointments. It had a great suspension and smooth ride. The less he got jostled from potholes, railroad tracks and dips in the road, the less his chest hurt him. Score one for the mini-van.
As we got underway for the 25-minute drive home, Dad suddenly had an inspiration. "Now there used to be the nicest German bakery in Middleton. I used to go there often. They had the best bread," he said. "I can just see it. It must be around here. Go there, take a right at this exit." We got off the Beltline Highway onto Parmenter Street. I had no idea where I was going, but Dad suddenly had a taste for authentic German bread.
We were now on a mission for fresh bakery. After a couple of blocks we turned left onto Donna Drive, and there it was: Clasen's European Bakery. I tried to learn over the years not to question my Dad on these types of matters. This was a good example of that wisdom. I thought we might spend a half hour driving in circles, but I kept quiet. Which was good, since Dad's recollection was precise. The bakery was exactly where he said it would be. So I was able to avoid that hearty laugh and the inevitable retort, "Don't doubt your father." We pulled into the crowded parking lot and headed inside. I tried to get to the glass door first, but Dad pulled it open and in he went. As if to head off what I was about to say, Dad chimed in, "I'm fine."
Dad used a grocery cart for support as we started our tour of the world of German bakery and confections. We slowly moved around the aisles as Dad provided running commentary on how the various goodies were made and what made them so good.
We saw apfelkuchen (apple cakes), strudel, gingerbread, and pfeffernüsse cookies. And the breads! Pumpernickel, sourdough white, Müensterländer, Black Forest rye. All baked daily in stone-lined ovens. They did look good! I came to appreciate the art and skill of the German baker during that 20 minutes at Clasen's.
I also started to understand the pride Dad had in his German heritage. Somewhere between the sourdough and the coffee cake, I also realized this errand was not just a stop at a store, or a desire to quiet a dessert craving. This was important. Dad was telling me something. Many things, actually, like the importance of heritage, family traditions and history.
Eventually we settled on two loaves of German hearth bread and a pan of Morning Buns. It was one of many encounters on this journey that I will never forget. On a day filled with the specter of cancer and a most uncertain future, Dad found solace and comfort at the German bakery.
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Chapter II
Stunning Setbacks
There is an old adage that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That is a basic goal with chemotherapy. The treatment can give the body a real beating in its effort to kill the cancer. We did not have to wait long to find out how Dad would tolerate the chemotherapy. He didn't. Within a few days, his condition was in rapid decline. He was overtaken by extreme fatigue, bloody diarrhea, loss of appetite and chills. And so it began.
Just after midnight on November 8, 2006, my sister Marghi rushed Dad into St. Mary's Hospital in Madison. Blood tests showed a range of serious problems. His blood counts were dangerously low. Doctors worried that Dad's volume of blood was also low. The chemotherapy drugs had laid waste to Dad's blood system. Within 90 minutes, he was in an isolation room at St. Mary's receiving a blood transfusion. He would receive six units of whole blood over the next week in an effort to restore his blood and shore up a devastated immune system.
The door to Dad's hospital room stayed closed. Posted signs warned visitors to don masks, gowns and purple nitrile gloves before entering. With a dangerously low white blood cell count, he was at great risk from any infection. A low platelet count made him susceptible to uncontrolled bleeding. Doctors were taking no chances. Further testing indicated problems with the functioning of Dad's liver. We worried that meant the cancer already moved into the lymph nodes and other organs. Things were looking rather bleak. Doctors ordered IV antibiotics to fight what they eventually concluded was some kind of liver infection. It was going to be a slow climb out of this one. Several times Dad insisted he would not undergo any more chemotherapy. He believed his time was up.