A private family memorial service was held Saturday, Sept. 13, for Eric Todd Hiroto, 52, at Fukui Mortuary Chapel. He passed away Aug. 25 after a brief losing battle with colon cancer. Predeceased by mother, Margaret F., he is survived by father, W.T. “Wimpy” Hiroto, and brothers, Russell (Jill and Sydney, Wesley) and Jeffrey (Carol and Ryan, Alex, Cody).
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It is not often a columnist begins with an obituary notice of a son.
Needless to say it is a piece written in tears; the most difficult challenge I have ever confronted.
I made somewhat of a public spectacle out of the passing of my wife some 21 months ago. No apologies, even now. She deserved all of the plaudits and paeans, public and private, and should be remembered for them.
In the case of Eric, where to begin? He was the oldest but least known of my trio. Some friends aren’t even aware I had three.
He was dealt a 16 at life’s blackjack table yet managed to cope and survive with courage and resilience, never complaining, never a malcontent. [I’m sure this strength played a role in his early death; there must have been some earlier hint of a stomach problem before it reached Stage 4, inoperable. But what do I know?]
Rick graduated high school but a normal future was curtailed and limited, but not impossible or totally disheartening. His disposition and temperament made it possible to overcome many challenges and obstacles, but life was not easy. His mother was always at his side, supportive, protective.
When she became a victim of Alzheimer’s, Eric’s reason for being became apparent. In helping to care for her at home for 14 years, he was an indispensable partner, a bulwark. During the trying and testing “late stage,” who had the patience to give her Ensure a teaspoon at a time? Two or three breakfast loops at 5-minute intervals because she had difficulty swallowing? The task of care-giving is unforgiving. I often bent; Eric was a stalwart, unwavering.
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Eating was his sole pleasure. [If I didn’t have to cook for him I would’ve made an 11 standing next to Twiggy from weight loss.] So when he suddenly lost his appetite in June it was obvious something was wrong. Routine checkups revealed nothing. By now he was gagging at the sight of food, surviving on liquids.
Before any further tests or delays, I took him to emergency. They were about to send him and an excitable father home without an explanation when a suggestion to take a CT scan of his stomach was okayed. [The ER was strangely empty that evening and when you ask nicely, sometimes you get what you want.]
It showed a growth the size of a grapefruit which had metastasized throughout his stomach! They cut him open on Friday, the 13th, and immediately stapled him back up. No hope. The oncologist’s forecast: six months to a year.
I brought Rick home. There would be no radiation or chemotherapy. There was no sense in adding to the pain and discomfort.
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As a parent I would rate myself with a B grade, earning an occasional +, as well as several minuses along the way. But now I found the need to be a friend to Eric rather than a father. Why did it take so long to realize such an obvious void? There are no mulligans in life, no make-up tests. Even so I tried to cram in as much in 11 weeks as possible in a vain attempt to catch up.
As Frank Sinatra confesses, “Regrets, I have a few . . .” I was much too late to befriend a son who so sorely needed one. Such a shame.
Eric didn’t have anything to eat the final 3 months of his life; not even Jello, ice cream, puree. He survived all that time on Pepsi and ice water.
His lips and inner mouth became so parched even liquid intake was difficult. Morphine never completely erased the constant pain, whether in pill, patch or liquid form; it’s side effects unfairly adding to his distress.
The final five days he could not speak. He would try to communicate but nothing would come out. To alleviate his frustration Jeff and I would go down a litany of subjects, hoping to hit upon something that could be answered with a nod. [I am told bodily functions shut down one at a time, like a train going from gland to gland, until the heart fails. The last to go is the brain.]
Once I guessed right when I told him the Sparklett’s man had been notified to cut down delivery. The water man also brought tears.
The tears continue to flow, unabated. Why do I leave his glasses where they can be seen? Why don’t I throw his slippers away? I do not bewail the Fates for taking him though a timely colonoscopy might have saved him. [How ironic his first was too late while his cautious father has had a dozen!]
I wonder about the chronology of life and death. I also am not one who prays very well. So I take solace in the conviction that Eric is now with his beloved Mother where he is safe, comfortable, pain-free and happy.
[A personal note to parents: Tell your adult children how much you love them and give them an unexpected embrace. They will think you’re nuts but what else is new? They will also wonder why the sudden display of affection? You will know.]
I am unable to forget how he plaintively asked one day, “When are we going home?” To the very end with Eric it was always “we,” never merely “me” or “I.”
And he was too young to die.
Meanwhile, I rattle around an empty house, lonesome and forlorn, trying to convince myself that the weeping is for joy . . . . . .
W.T. Wimpy Hiroto can be reached at wimpyhiroto@msn.com Opinions expressed in this column are not necessarily those of The Rafu Shimpo.
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