Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

A husband's final promises

David Ford struggles to keep two vows to his ailing wife that he hoped he'd never have to keep so soon.

By COLLEEN JENKINS
Published August 23, 2005

David Ford stands at his wife's bedside. The first time Lynda battled cervical cancer, three years ago, David promised her two things: that she would die at home, where she could be with family, and that he would bury her, because cremation is against her religious beliefs. But he can't afford a burial plot unless someone gives him a loan.

	[Family photo]
	Lynda Ford, with a grandchild several years ago, was called a "miracle patient" after her initially successful fight with cancer.
	[Times photo: Kathleen Flynn]
	Above Lynda Ford's bed hangs a drawing made by her grandchild Justice, 7, and family photos. Justice drew this as a map to heaven for her grandmother to follow. She wants to meet her grandmother in the left corner of heaven someday.

HOLIDAY - He was putting fresh cabinets in their newly refinanced home three years ago when she started bleeding.

At first, Lynda Ford passed just a little blood. Then, her husband, David, said, "she started hemorrhaging all over the place," gurgled and lost consciousness. He called 911. He thought she was dead.

She wasn't, but she was very ill. It was cervical cancer, the doctors told him. They said she had a year to live.

Lynda was 48.

Chemotherapy and radiation followed, and they nearly killed her, too. Doctors kept her on high doses of morphine.

David promised Lynda two things: If she died, she would do so at home. She wanted to be surrounded by her family. And he would bury her. She didn't want to be cremated because it went against her religious beliefs, and fire scared her.

But Lynda was a fighter. She started to improve. Almost as suddenly as the cancer came, it seemingly disappeared. Her doctor started calling her his "miracle patient."

* * *

David Ford, 54, calls from a pay phone because he doesn't have enough money to buy more cell phone minutes.

He is not asking for a handout, just a loan to help with a promise he didn't think he would have to keep so soon.

Three months ago, the cancer came back. Lynda is dying, and he doesn't have the money to pay for her burial plot.

She is 52 now, and a double dose of disease has taken its toll. Her vivacious face and healthy figure are gone, replaced by an older, frail frame confined mostly to a hospital bed in the Fords' living room.

A construction foreman, David was at a site in Sarasota last week when his family called to say Lynda was going downhill fast.

"You've got to come home," his sister-in-law said.

Finances have been tight ever since Lynda's initial bout with cancer. She had long been part breadwinner for the family, working her way up at Sears' photo studios from a photographer to district manager. When the company downsized, she went into telemarketing.

But when she became too sick to work, she lost her health insurance, her husband said. David signed her up for COBRA insurance, which provides an employee temporary coverage at his or her former company's group rate, but he couldn't keep up with the $300-a-month payments after he had to take a leave of absence to care for her.

Social Security disability, Medicare and Medicaid helped with expenses but still didn't cover everything. The couple wiped out their savings getting Lynda well the first time, David said.

For about a year, David was able to return to work fairly regularly. They scrimped to get by.

"Then boom!" he said. "She got sick again."

* * *

A faulty carburetor brought them together, 37 years ago.

Her '64 Corvair had broken down in an Illinois parking lot. He stopped to help, and they realized he was dating her cousin. He liked Lynda better.

She liked the sound of his name.

"She didn't fall in love with me," David said. "She fell in love with my name. Something about my name, she said. We've been together ever since."

They had four children: two boys and two girls. Lynda's job brought them to Florida, then Louisiana, then back to Florida.

He took care of the kids when she went to night school at Illinois Central College to get her associate's degree in business management. She made the dean's list.

Their work schedules didn't leave much time for hobbies together. Lynda loved fishing and a good yard sale. She attended Sunday services at Calvary Chapel Worship Center.

They ran into a few rough patches with the law. Eleven years ago, Lynda got in the middle of a verbal argument between David and his daughter, and he went to jail for pushing her out of the way, he said. Another time he beat up an ex-son-in-law for choking Lynda. Both cases were dropped, according to state records.

"I'm not saying it's been a bed of roses," David said last week.

But the idea of losing Lynda crushes him.

"I always thought I was going to go before she did, you know."

* * *

He slips out to his little hideaway room off the garage to smoke a Marlboro and sip some Busch, a brief moment apart from his wife. A ceiling fan stirs the muggy air.

He can't stay away long or Lynda might have an anxiety attack. Nothing has been easy since she started feeling bad again three months ago.

Doctors found a new tumor hiding behind her pancreas. They said the cancer had spread to her esophagus. This time, they said there was nothing they could do.

In July, after two months in the hospital, David brought Lynda home.

Hospice sent nurses for around-the-clock care after David refused to put his wife in one of the organization's homes. One promise down, one to go.

Lynda's sister plans to cover the funeral costs. A funeral home called Friday evening and offered to provide its services for free if David agreed to a cremation. Again, he refused.

"I can't cremate her," he said. "I promised I wouldn't."

He figures he needs $1,800 to buy the burial plot. He could start repaying the money when he goes back to work at Gulfstates Industries, a roofing company. He doesn't like to owe anybody anything.

But he doesn't see another way to do right by Lynda.

"I've always been the kind of guy who felt if you can't get it yourself, you don't want it," he said, grief choking his voice. He removes his tinted glasses and wipes his eyes with a blue handkerchief.

"I'm just worried about putting her in the ground."

--Colleen Jenkins can be reached at 727 869-6236 or cjenkins@sptimes.com

[Last modified August 23, 2005, 02:45:30]