Pat and Dick Cartwright
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My parents were amazing people. Pillars of their small community. They were educators, active in their church, members of numerous community clubs, and active in many social circles. They married in the summer of 1968, built a home on the Cartwright family farm, and proceeded to raise 2 daughters.
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Mom loved to travel with friends and work in the stained-glass studio Dad built her. Dad was a simple man who enjoyed rebuilding cars and tractors in his shop at the house and spending time with friends, especially when shenanigans were involved.
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They lived their lives in a family-oriented and Christian-based manner, always there to lend a helping hand to anyone in need. They lived their lives together as long as they could, and though they passed years apart, they succumbed to the same disease. I share their stories as part of the Cradic Cartwright Brain Alliance in the hopes of helping others dealing with glioblastoma.
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Mom’s story…
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In August 2007, my parents were at a fundraising dinner. Suddenly, Mom felt like she was choking and couldn’t breathe, even though she wasn’t eating or drinking anything. She motioned to Dad that she was choking. He immediately responded, but before he could act, it ended, and she felt seemingly okay. Still, they went to the closest ER.
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She was told that she had experienced a seizure of an unknown cause and more information was needed for a diagnosis. They went home and scheduled the suggested follow-up appointment. Her first appointment was weeks later. Initial imaging showed eight lesions on her brain, but still didn’t provide a diagnosis. There were several suggestions, but more tests were needed to be sure.
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A few weeks later, more imaging showed that the original eight lesions were larger, and there were four new ones. More info was needed for a conclusive diagnosis, so a biopsy was scheduled. Still, we were hopeful.
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Her only real symptom was not being able to speak her thoughts, but she was a smart lady and quickly found a workaround. She figured out that she could write her thoughts out and read them as she was writing. This wasn’t required every time she spoke but was helpful when she couldn’t. Otherwise, she seemed fine, continued working, and began knitting hats for the newborns at a local hospital.
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It was easy to turn a blind eye to what was happening and hope for the best. Then, the morning of her biopsy, our hope began to quickly fade. Mom awoke that morning unable to speak or walk. Her face was drawn. She was rushed to the hospital.
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Based on her symptoms, we assumed that she’d had a stroke. Mom was admitted into the Neuro ICU section of the hospital. While discussing things with the doctor after her initial exam, I noticed he was referring to her lesions as tumors—until then, they had always been lesions. I didn’t understand.
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I asked about the change and was told, “Now they are acting like tumors.” That’s the day I learned that lesions don’t rupture; tumors rupture. It was a Friday, and out of nowhere we were dealing with tumors, not lesions. Some unknown cancer was taking over mom’s brain.
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Lesions provided some kind of unspoken hope. Tumors seemed so much scarier. Still, the biopsy had to be done to know exactly what we were dealing with and how to treat it. Her biopsy was rescheduled for the following Monday. I realized it was time to call my sister and tell her to come home.
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She made it to the hospital that night. I remember Mom reacting to seeing my sister and realizing that she was aware of everything happening around her. She just couldn’t communicate with us. It was heartbreaking.
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Dad wouldn’t leave the hospital that weekend. My sister and I only left to sleep and get food. Leading up to her biopsy, we took turns sitting with her and visiting with a continuous stream of friends and family. We collectively held our breath and hoped Monday’s biopsy would bring back some hope.
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When Monday came, we met with the surgical team before the procedure and were told it would take six to eight hours. We settled in for another long day at the hospital. Then, roughly three hours after she went into surgery, her surgical team came into the waiting room. I felt nauseous. My fears were correct. The news was not good. The lesions were confirmed to be tumors and she was “a very sick lady.”
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Everything after that is a blur. I vaguely remember talks of dual chemo and radiation treatments as treatment options were discussed. One thing was certain: the odds were not in her favor. Biopsy results can take up to a week, and they are needed to develop a treatment plan. They brought Mom back to her room to wait.
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The next night, I was scheduled to work at a local pizza parlor. My shift didn’t start until 9pm, which was usually when my sister and I would leave the hospital, so I decided it would be a welcomed distraction and went in. I’d worked there for years. The staff was small, we were close, and everyone knew what was going on with Mom. I don’t remember anything about that shift other than the phone ringing around 2am. Everyone froze. We all knew it was for me. I vividly remember the look on my friend Allie’s face as I dropped my mop and walked to the phone. Everything around me went silent as I heard my dad’s broken voice tell me that I needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I went straight to the hospital where, in the early morning hours, we said goodbye to Mom.
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It wasn’t until days later, when I called to get her biopsy results, that I first heard the word glioblastoma. There were only 82 days between her first symptom and her passing. It was so fast that she was gone before we even knew what it was.
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Dad’s story…
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Dad definitely struggled after losing Mom. He threw himself into the local car club and rebuilt old Chevys as therapy. He eventually found love again with a family friend, and they had a happy life. They traveled and laughed. They had a large friend circle that kept the retirees very busy. I loved seeing him be happy again. Then, in January 2021, everything changed for all of us—especially them.
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Dad called to tell me that he has an ‘episode.’ It seemed like a minor stroke, and he had gone to the hospital. Tests showed the unfathomable; it looked like glioblastoma. The doctors said he had around nine months left.
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This made Dad’s story different from Mom’s. We didn’t have the hope that we had with her. Dad had been given a death sentence, and we all knew it. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.
Dad did immunotherapy for a few months and got his affairs together. That September, we learned that the cancer had metastasized. He ended all treatment and started hospice care at home. His mental state and overall health faded pretty quickly after that.
The disease affected Dad differently than Mom. She couldn’t always speak her words, while he couldn’t stop singing. I was sitting with him one day and he was just singing away when he had a moment of clarity. He turned to me and said, “I just can’t stop.” He looked away and began singing again. I did the only thing I knew to do. I grabbed his hand and joined him in song.
Eventually, though, the singing stopped. Thanks to the efforts of Dad’s partner, my sister, my daughter, myself, hospice personnel, and numerous friends and family, Dad was able to pass peacefully in his sleep, at home, in his bed, surrounded by loved ones.