My father's last column. Where I come from, Who I come from:

[DFW]

My Dad was one of the last Washington print journalists. His friends were people like Jacob Javits, Frank Church, Helen Thomas,
Bobby Kennedy, but also Bob Dole, Bob Novak, and people of their persuasion. He listened to everybody. That was his job.

A day after Father's Day, although I have posted this before, I repost his last column. He wrote this with his last bit of
energy as pancreatic cancer was eating him away. He did not live ten days after it was published.

BAD NEWS CAN'T NEGATE A WONDERFUL LIFE< FROM WASHINGTON (November 19, 2000)
By (DFW's father)
This is a column I was hoping not to have to write, especially this soon. Readers of this space know that I have been under treatment for pancreatic cancer for about nine months.

The treatment, mostly medication, plus chemotherapy infusions at an oncologist's office, was part of a study program approved by the Food and Drug Administration and involved chemo applications whenever the blood counts were adequate to sustain it.

It was designed for three treatments, one in each of successive weeks, followed by a week of "rest," during which the cells would have a chance to recover.

For me the treatment went in fits and starts. Only once did I complete a three-week cycle. Every six weeks a laboratory radiological office took X-rays to measure what was happening to the cancer, although pancreatic cancer is extremely difficult to read on X-rays.

About 10 days ago I got the bad news from the oncologist. The chemo treatment, which had been interrupted three times for infections and, most recently was accompanied by a substantial swelling of body fluid, had done about all it could to stem the tumor growth and stabilize it.

One other alternative he had held out was to switch to a different chemo protocol, but he determined that, not only was that treatment less effective than the one just halted, but might well have made me sicker.

He said I had put up an amazing fight and he would never have expected me to last as long as I had.

I was fully aware that the odds on stabilizing the cancer - it could never be cured - were tiny, but I had hoped I might have been in the small minority of those who survived. Ironically, my predecessor in writing politics for the Times, William E. Pearson, died of pancreatic cancer.

In the course of recent treatment my feet had become so swollen they could hardly fit into shoes or slippers, particularly when I was wearing socks; my legs began to look like a linebacker's, as opposed to my normally skinny appearance, and my belly had grown to a point that made me look as if I were pregnant. It was not unlike the famed Demi Moore magazine cover.

Medication I had taken to get rid of some of the fluid was not working.

And that left: Nothing.

In other words, treatment, except for medication to ease various problems - luckily I have been virtually pain-free during the whole procedure - provided no solution, and all that we could do was prepare for the end.

The obvious question was the length of time I had remaining, and the oncologist volunteered, "It could be weeks, it could be months."

If I had my druthers, naturally, I would choose months, but that is not up to me.

We have already had three visits from specialists from The Hospice of Northern Virginia: an overall supervisor, a nurse and a community affairs expert. This organization is a marvel.

It pays the full cost of prescription drugs - when our company insurance policy was subordinated to Medicare B, the drug coverage my wife and I had enjoyed at 70 percent of cost was eliminated - as well as the rental of a wheelchair. The drugs are delivered to the house.

Signing up for drug coverage for my wife under the AARP schedule would have been too expensive - the highest premium and only a small percentage of drug costs covered.

The Hospice people are on call 24 hours a day, have a small place where patients can stay if their spouses or significant others are exhausted from caring for their loved ones and offer expert medical advice. The swelling in my lower legs and feet, surprisingly, has already gone down with the experimental use of a diuretic drug, generic name aldactone, three times a day, rather than one or two.

The symptom to watch out for is dizziness, and, so far, happily, I have had none.

The inevitability of the situation, however, means has had to consult with accounting and legal firms to make sure all the necessary papers are up to date. I have to think about getting rid of mountains of clothes - dressing well was a weakness I never overcame - and piles of books and newspaper clippings and letters from VIPs. If that all sounds suspiciously like the angst Frank Augustine described in his throwing out a lifetime of correspondence, it should.

The family has already put in a bid for photographs, from college, from Army service in World War II, from journalistic trips around the world and superb color photographs of us with Presidents Reagan, Bush and Clinton and Sen.-elect Hillary Rodham Clinton.
There are all the drafts of lyrics I wrote for 25 years of Gridiron Club shows, notes from the president, members of Congress and diplomats, virtually every one of which is destined for the round file.

With my continuing columns I remain the "dean" of the New York news media in Washington, as well as the correspondent with the longest stretch of news reporting of any newspaperman in the capital.

That must now come to an end, though not immediately, and, of course, I shall fight to push the envelope as far as I can, with the wonderful support I have received from relatives, friends, colleagues and neighbors. They have held us in their prayers, and we are tremendously grateful.

Hearst columnist Marianne Means and her husband, columnist James Jackson Kilpatrick, gave us an orchid plant about three weeks ago, and, in a small miracle, it is still putting out creamy white buds and flowers long after it should have succumbed.

It could be a sign, but we are realistic enough not to bet the farm on it.

There is a line in the song "A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square" that insists, "The age of miracles hasn't passed."
Only time sets the parameters. Until the body gives out (for the spirit never will), then I will have to call it a life.

The hour for feeling sorry for myself has passed. I envy those, like the 90-year-old woman profiled by John Golden in the Times recently; like my erstwhile partners on the tennis court and fellow performers at Gridiron rehearsals.

The incoming Gridiron president, Andrew Glass of the Cox Newspapers, wants me to serve as the club treasurer until my physical capabilities tell me, "Enough." Then a successor can be named.

I could complain that fate had dealt me a less-than-optimum hand, but that would serve no purpose and would ignore the many problems of those less fortunate than I.

I'm still here, and I want to write until the keyboard fails to respond to my fingers and my voice can no longer draw information from those to whom I speak on the telephone.

I don't know how near the end is, nor will I spend time worrying about it. It has been a wonderful life, personally and professionally, and the recognition of that from so many whom I love and respect leaves no room for regrets.

So, agree with what I write or not, don't stop reading. Each day has to bring a new miracle with it.

[DFW]

1. Too late to edit:

I forgot to mention--he was always an optimist. To the end he thought Gore would prevail in the dispute over
the presidential election of 2000. It was one the few times he got it wrong, and he never lived to see it happen.

I'm almost glad of that.

[kgnu_fan]

5. I sometime read my father's memoir and get new insight about him each time

You are fortunate because you get to read a lot of what he had written during his long and fruitful career.

[DFW]

7. He had quite a few stories to tell, that's for sure

Some were really funny. He once met Canadian PM Trudeau somewhere on vacation where Trudeau was hoping no
one recognized him. My dad did, of course, went up to him, and said, look, I'm with the Washington press,
and I know who you are, but we're both on vacation here, and I wanted you to know I won't be bothering you
in any way whatsoever. Trudeau thanked him in big relief. A few weeks later, he was with Nixon, whom he knew
since the famous 1959 trip to Russia and the "kitchen debate," at some big St. Lawrence Seaway event at the
border with Canada. Trying to be the big shot (as if being president wasn't enough) Nixon took my father's
sleeve and dragged him over to Trudeau saying, "here, have you met the Prime Minister of Canada?" Trudeau
recognized my dad right away from a few weeks before, and smiled, and my dad told Nixon, "uhh, well, yes,
actually I have." Nixon's face went limp and he just said, "oh."

Another time, some radio announcer in North Carolina somewhere tried a practical joke and said in a panicked,
anxious voice, "we just got in an unconfirmed report that an Amoeba has been spotted on the north side of town."
A few minutes later, he excitedly reported another Amoeba sighting at the other end of town. The people listening
were totally ignorant of what an amoeba is, and jammed the police phone lines trying to locate their kids or
husbands, and total panic broke out. The guy from the radio station got a week's suspension.

My dad used to take me down to the Capitol when I was a little kid and I would just sit around while guys
named Humphrey, Dirksen, Javits, Kennedy, etc etc used to gather and hang out in the Senate Press Gallery
with the Washington reporters. At the time, I had no idea what kind of company I was in.

[kgnu_fan]

9. May you bring out wisdom and compassion your father has exercised

I hope you share the greatness of your dad in your community, here included.

It has taken awhile before I started to understand who my dad truly was as a human being and only after he passed away. Now I am more like my dad naturally. I feel he lives on within me.

[DFW]

14. I WISH I had his wisdom and compassion

The main reason I didn't go into journalism myself, even with all those doors open to me, is because I
thought his shoes (in his field) were just too big to fill. Judging by the paucity of objective journalism
in Washington these days, I'd say that his shoes are still waiting to be filled.

[kgnu_fan]

17. I think you write well --- you can have your own style

Journalism itself is changing now. "Old style Washington" type of journalism may not come back. We need to invent something else.

Have you read "The Death and Life of American Journalism - The Media Revolution That Will Begin the World Again" by Robert McChesney and John Nichols?

It is a good read.

[hippywife]

2. ...

:hug:

[mmonk]

3. Thanks for sharing.

:thumbsup:

You had a great dad.

[DFW]

4. That I did!

Fortunately, I got to let him know it, too.

[mmonk]

6. And that's an important thing.

I know some who never did or were able.

[DFW]

8. More than a few.

And that must be a sad burden to carry.

[Laughing Mirror]

10. He's lucky he had good health care

I thought you were from Texas.

[DFW]

11. Dallas resident (officially) for more than half my life

Born in Virginia, been all over the place since I was 16. When I go home, it's to Dallas,
where they have fabulous medical care--if you have a decent employer. I wouldn't want to
speculate on what you get outside the big cities, though. Dallas, Houston, Austin, I'd risk
it. Pot luck elsewhere. Maybe great, maybe lousy.

A few months before he died, my dad was wasting away in bed when he heard that there was a
proposal for Medicare/Medicaid to reduce the coverage of outpatient chemotherapy from 95%
to 85%, in order to save the government money. As one who was receiving chemo at the time,
my father saw the fallacy in the idea, and managed to arrange a conference call from his
sickbed connected to Sen. Moynihan's office and the White House. He explained to them that
if they made outpatient chemotherapy too expensive to low income people, they'd just opt
to take their chemo during an overnight hospital stay that would cost the government twice
as much. Moynihan and the White House agreed, and the idea was scrapped.

[Laughing Mirror]

12. He obviously had a lot of pull in Washington to be able to make such a call

and get people in high places to listen. It's a very heartening story and thank you for sharing it.

How did you wind up in Texas?

[DFW]

13. He was the longest serving print correspondent in DC at the time

He knew EVERYBODY. And his principal paper was in upstate New York, so he knew all Senators and Congressmen
from New York State and all Great Lakes States, as well as every Canadian ambassador (I still stay in touch
with the last one he worked with, Raymond Chrétien). Think about that over the last 50 years. Who has been
from NY or the Great Lakes States? Thomas Dewey, Hugh Scott, Nelson Rockefeller, Mario Cuomo, Javits, Bobby
Kennedy, Pat Moynihan, Al D'Amato, Phil Hart, Gerry Ford, Humphrey, Mondale, Everett Dirksen, the list just
goes on and on. This doesn't even start with his own press colleagues. Helen T is only the most prominent of
them. He was an exception as he was a one-man Washington correspondent for a small town newspaper, although
his stuff often got syndicated and picked up elsewhere.

He was also on the Nixon trip to Russia in 1959, was president of the Gridiron Club during Clinton's term
in office, etc etc etc.

I ended up in Texas because my little outfit's HQ was transferred there from the east coast for cost reasons
during the great Reagan recession of 1981/1982. I transferred my residence along with it. I still run up to
Virginia to see my brother, who is still there, when I can, but home is now the Big D. Most of my time is
spent over here stationed in Europe these days anyway. My wife is German, and she prefers living there anyway.

[Ishoutandscream2]

15. Believe it or not, you can be from Texas and receive good health care

If you have a job with good benefits, or you have a lot of money, you can get excellent care. Just like anywhere else in the US.

Now I need to get on my horse and ride into town...

[DFW]

16. I believe yippikaiyay is the proper expression.........

I'll have to look it up in the manual of Texas etiquette....they gave me one when I moved
down there, and I can't remember if it was on the front or the back of the card.