How Could This Be?
By Florence Rozendal
There are many memorable days that will never be forgotten. Many of us will remember the V-J-Day celebrations or the day President Kennedy was shot. Most recently, we all remember the Sept. 11 tragedy.
One such day I will never forget is March 17, 2003, when a cancer diagnosis was made. How could this be possible for the love of my life, my husband, Harley D. Rozendal?
The very kind doctor wanted Harley to have further tests to determine the best treatment options. After much testing, in and out of the hospital, the nasty diagnosis was made. Cancer of unknown primary (CUP) was the verdict. Tough to treat, not knowing the direct source and already advanced to the lymph nodes.
We had never heard of this type of cancer, but Harley was sure he could beat it. The doctor said Harley maybe had two years to live. Needless to say, we were both shocked and wondered how this could be. I think only people that have been given these words can understand the terrible sense of urgency to DO SOMETHING!
Harley had always been strong and healthy. He had none of the risk factors associated with cancer. He drank very little, never smoked, had no family history of cancer, maintained a healthy weight and lived life as it was thrown at him. He was always an optimist and so very strong.
We learned about so many things. All were things we didn’t ever suppose we would need to know. There was the port surgically implanted to administer the chemo through. We learned about clinical trials, side effects and more and more confusing information. When chemo began, we actually laughed at the hair loss and skin so very smooth. This was the first time ever to see Harley without the mustache. How handsome he was without it; I wished he would have shaved it sooner.
When one is in the situation of losing their life or that of a loved one, you will do anything to find a cure. We spent two weeks at NIH (National Institute of Health) to qualify for a stem cell transplant. This was a clinical trial, and that is how many of the cancer cures are found.
Harley’s “little” brother was a perfect match and very willing to do whatever he could even though he is “needle phobic.” Unfortunately, after testing everything, it was determined that Harley needed radiation to shrink the tumors. We went back home for this so I could continue with my job. This also meant Harley could be back home, where he wanted to be.
Having radiation means having some dots (tattoos) put on to know where to line up the tube for treatment. We laughed at the “tattoos” because anyone who knew Harley would know he would never willingly get a tattoo! Sometimes it is so hard to find humor in such a bad situation, but at the same time, it gives a much needed release of feelings.
Harley was a fighter, and he fought hard. He survived Vietnam after being seriously wounded and was awarded a Purple Heart and many other awards. Never would he brag about any accomplishments.
Most important to him in life were family, work and Corvettes, in that order. He was so brave until the end and left us Nov. 9, 2004.
As for me, I continue to work and see most of our old friends. It is difficult for me to do all the household chores since I’m mechanically challenged. I appreciate the kids for the help they give me. Also, I have wonderful neighbors that help out.
It is different to be single again, and sometimes I don’t fit in to social gatherings. I’m volunteering at the veterans home and enjoy that very much. I also take some classes and always enjoy traveling.
The hardest thing is getting used to doing so many things alone. It is impossible yet for me to go out to eat or to a movie alone since we always had a “date” for all our years together. Family gatherings can also be hard, especially weddings when the minister says, “Until death we do part.” I try to do lots of new things we never did together so there is not quite the sense of Harley’s loss. I laugh a lot and then I also cry some, but the memories prevail and thus keep me strong.
We never failed to say, “Nite Nite, Lovee, I Love you,” to each other when we went to bed. For the most part, I am happy, and every single night when I go to bed, I say, “Nite Nite, Lovee, I love you.” If I am especially tired, I can almost hear my Harley say, “Nite Nite, Lovee, it’s all OK.”
UPDATE MARCH 1, 2009:
Florence’s husband died of cancer of unknown primary (CUP) in November 2004.
“In writing my story about losing my Harley, I wish I could say it made me miss him less. It did, however, make more people know what a wonderful husband, father, son and friend he was. Also, hopefully, that he fought hard to live.
“I’ve gone on with life, as there is no other choice. I do, however, avoid some of the places and things we used to do together. I have tried many new things. Veterans have become more dear to me than ever before.
My gypsy blood keeps me on the road, traveling and cruising the Caribbean every chance I get. Harley did not like to travel after his tour of Vietnam. Even then, there will be something that reminds me of our life together that was way too short. I will miss him forever and the country song about ‘Waiting on a woman’ — I know he is still waiting for me.”
Tags: Florence Rozendal
