Karl Davis Funchess
Daddy
My two sisters, my brother and I always called my
father, "Daddy", even after we were all grown-up, and
too old (by some standards) to do so. But, we are Southern, and
Southerners always call their fathers "Daddy" no matter
how old they are. It is a very special name, as the saying goes,
"any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be
a "Daddy" . . . and he was very, very special. My daddy
was loving, devoted to his family and his church, a spiritual man
who read and studied the Bible daily, intelligent, funny, and
generous. Daddy didn't really have any hobbies, like golf or
fishing, he had four children to put through college and he did.
Daddy was the original computer guy, becoming involved in
computers in the 50s and 60s when they were huge and housed in
ice-cold rooms. At the time of his illness, he was the director
of computer services for Panama City, Florida, after having taken
early retirement from the Navy civil service. Daddy had had a
massive heart attack and undergone open heart surgery in May
1986, but had come through the surgery with flying colors and had
followed the doctor's order religiously, even seeing the
"physical terrorist" as required.
The first clue that we had that something was wrong was in the
spring of 1987 when Daddy and Mama had taken a trip to Atlanta so
that Daddy could attend a seminar. Mama was staying with Daddy's
sister and family in Monroe, Georgia, north of Atlanta, near
Athens. Daddy would stay in Atlanta during the week, and head for
Monroe on Friday. This was to be a 2 or 3 week seminar. After the
first weekend, Daddy asked Mama to come back to Atlanta with him,
because he was having trouble with his driving, particularly his
vision. At one point, he had pulled off the road and asked Mama
to drive -- something that had NEVER happened before.
When they returned home, Daddy went to the eye doctor, several
times, but the eye doctor merely changed his prescription and
sent him home. Soon Daddy's personality began to change, he was
confused, antagonistic, and began seeing things that were not
there. He began to have problems walking. My mother called me
several times (I live a hundred miles away), and I would just
urge her to take him to the doctor, something that would not have
been easy anyway. I didn't realize how out of control he was.
Finally, she had to take him to the emergency room and have him
admitted. He, too, recognized that something was wrong with him,
but no one suspected what a horrible and devastating disease had
him in its grip.
The doctors in Panama City were perplexed, and initially
diagnosed him with paranoia. My mother and I were so frustrated,
we knew it was not a mental disease, even though we were not
medical professionals. We knew that it had to be neurological
because he had begun to jerk and move convulsively, even in his
sleep. The doctors recommended that we take him to Gainesville's
Shands Hospital, so we did. At Shands, we first heard about CJD,
although the doctor there called it "Jakob Creutzfeldt
Disease". The doctor wasn't sure of his diagnosis and said
that the only way to determine for certain was a brain biopsy,
but they didn't want to do it. I insisted, because I hoped that
they would find that it was not this horrible disease, that they
had made a dreadful mistake, and that it was something treatable.
After all, couldn't every disease be treated -- even cancer
patients could be treated? But, it was our worst nightmare -CJD
was confirmed- no treatment, no hope. Although Daddy had periods
of lucidity before the operation, after the biopsy, he never
spoke again. The worst moment of my life was telling my
85-year-old grandmother that her oldest son was dying. It is not
easy to lose a child at any age!
We took Daddy home to Panama City where he stayed in the hospital
for a few weeks, then we were basically told to take him
somewhere else, they could not do anything for him. He was in
what they call a "vegetative" state - how I hate that
description- he had periods of wakefulness and sleep, but no
longer responded to us. We kept talking to him and touching him,
hoping that we could get through to him and let him know how much
we loved him. My mother, God bless her, would not put him in a
nursing home, she insisted on taking him home with her and she
did. She got a hospital bed, and all the equipment she needed,
engaged a home health care nurse to come in 3 times a week for 4
hours and cared for my Daddy from October of 1987 until his death
on Jan. 20, 1988. It was hard work, he had to be turned and
medicated every four hours, and he was on a feeding tube, but for
her, it was a labor of love.
The very best Daddy in the world never got to see his first
grandchild, who was born on April 17, just 3 months after his
death. He knew that he was going to be a granddaddy, because my
sister was able to tell him while he was still lucid. Rebecca was
born with a tiny heart-shaped freckle under her right eye, her
"angel kiss." We have always told her that her
Granddaddy gave her that kiss right before she was born. Daddy
now has six grandchildren, two named after him, and he would have
adored those children and would have been the kind of Granddaddy
that all kids want, but CJD deprived these children of ever
knowing what a wonderful man their grandfather was!
Daddy was killed by a disease he had never even heard of, and we,
his family, still do not know how he contracted it. It is
relentless, untreatable and heart-breaking. I hope and pray that
one day this killer will be stopped and that no one will ever
have to go through again what my family went through.
Kathryn Funchess
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