Reginald Williams
Special to the AFRO
“I can’t breathe,” said a tormented Nisha.
Every 10 to 15 minutes, she would wake up, sit straight up in her hospital bed and, struggling, gasp for air.
Each pant, so intense, seemed like it might be her last breath.
I didn’t know it, but my daughter, Denisha Williams, was wrestling with her final moments. It was the wee hours of Nov. 12, 2024, when sleep seemed impossible. At one point, her agony grew so intense, I danced with the thought that death would be a more peaceful option for her.
Lack of peace had become a way of life for Nisha.
For two years, she complained about a persistent pain in her right hip. All the physicians providing her continuity of care agreed that she was suffering from sciatica. She followed their prescribed care plan, which included physical therapy and acupuncture. She added water aerobics to the mix. Only after two years of what I believe was negligent care did she receive a referral for an MRI that should have been ordered 18 months earlier. It revealed undifferentiated sarcoma in her thigh. It metastasized to her lungs and eventually her brain.
The five-year survival rate for a patient whose cancer is discovered at the point of origin is 83 percent. When cancer spreads, especially to the lungs, the survival rate falls precipitously to roughly 17 percent, according to the American Cancer Society. Early detection saves lives.
Nisha’s cancer was discovered after it metastasized to her lungs. She was robbed of early detection.
Nisha’s official diagnosis, essentially her death sentence, was delivered on Valentine’s Day 2024.
Sarcoma is a cancer that medical oncologists identify as having more than 120 subtypes. It isn’t one cancer, but more than 120 cancers that impact approximately 1 percent of adults.
The Mayo Clinic describes sarcoma as a “broad group of cancers that start in the bones and soft tissues.”
“Soft tissues connect, support and surround other body structures,” states information from the organization. “Soft tissues include muscle, fat, blood vessels, nerves, tendons and the lining of the joints…there are many types of sarcomas. They can happen in many parts of the body. Treatment for sarcoma varies depending on sarcoma type, where it is and other factors.”
Nisha’s undifferentiated sarcoma meant the doctors did not know what type of sarcoma she had.
The absence of restful sleep served as another burden for Nisha. Painsomnia was permanent. It became her new normal. But her ordeal on that early Tuesday morning hit differently. She made it through the morning but wouldn’t remain alive beyond 1 p.m. that November afternoon.
She was just 37.
At her death, I initially took up residence on Sad Street. But my thoughts shifted. I discovered that Thankful Alley intersected Sad Street. Beautiful memories of the last nine months flooded my mind. I leaned over her lifeless body. Tears welling, I smiled. Then I planted several kisses on her forehead and cheek. I whispered, “Thank you.”
Steeped in the rawness of her death, I reflected on how our time together taught me what love was. Not the father-daughter love. We already had that down pat. But the essence of love where the only requirement was one’s presence.
Prior to Nisha’s illness, we were two adults living our lives in different parts of the country. On average, we would get together three, maybe four times a year and hang out. Those selective visits changed into a season that gave birth to unexpected time together. The four-and-one-half-hour drive separating us was too far to be from my baby while she was sick. Even at 37, she was still my baby.
Nisha was compassionate with a protective spirit. She was known as a delightful, humble, sweet, soft-spoken soul with a servant’s heart—all packaged under the portrait of a tender smile. Her silent confidence mirrored a lighthouse, illuminating a way of safe passage for those who met dark times on their journeys. Her beaming light made a difference.
Nisha was an instructional assistant, working with children with disabilities.
The quiet giant always made silent entrances, yet her indelible presence was always prominent.
Being in her presence every day, and she in mine, reunited us with the days when I was a single dad raising a little girl who loved pizza. I remember as though it was yesterday, walking down Horace Harding Expressway in Rego Park, Queens, when Nisha said, “Daddy, I don’t know why, but I just love pizza.”
During her illness, we had pizza and movie dates. We loved discovering new vegan restaurants to dine. I hung out with her and her friends at poetry events. Then, there came a time when Nisha became wheelchair ridden.
At least three times per week, I’d get her in the car and head to the grocery store. I’d push her up and down those aisles like we were two retired old folks. Nisha’s loss of independence due to her inability to walk became yet another emotional burden for her. However, my presence offered her some comfort. While she preferred to walk, she felt a degree of happiness with her daddy pushing her. It was yet another bonding moment for us.
One day when I pushed her to the car and helped get settled in, she began to cry.
“Daddy, you get me in and out of the car with so much care. I really appreciate that,” she said.
Nisha was sick. She was dying. No matter how much I wanted her to be well, there was nothing I could do to make her well. Being my child’s caregiver was so surreal. But faced with the circumstance, I accepted it as my life’s work. I gave her my care and presence. That was all she wanted.
We shared days in the hospital when our conversation was minimal. She’d be asleep. I’d be curled up in the recliner, asleep as well. But in the quietness, we were together.
When I kissed her, I thanked her because she wanted to hang out with me, and there were so many days when she made me laugh. I thanked her because she wanted me to be well with the depth of her sickness. I thanked her for how strong she was in her fight to live, and how she found peace with dying. I learned so many lessons watching her, and my courage grew.
I thanked Nisha because I failed to thank her for all that she had given. I didn’t thank her while she was living, when just two days before her death she thanked me for being her dad.
In her death, I found so much to be thankful for.
I spent the last nine months with my daughter. We built new memories and had tons of fun. I know my daughter died a peaceful death surrounded by family. That’s something to be thankful for.
To learn more about sarcoma, visit: https://curesarcoma.org/
