‘Paul had always been my pop star, but in the end the roles were reversed’

Brynhild: ‘In the eighties Paul was the frontman of the famous Amsterdam show band Paolo Passionato & the Pennies from Heaven. He was original, authentic and passionate; a bon vivant who wanted to experience everything. At the age of 35 he decided to study medicine. Realizing that as an artist he would remain in the margins and chose to make music his hobby. We met during his graduation. I had a part-time job at De Laurierboom, his favorite pub. The moment he took a seat at the bar and I poured him a beer, I fell for him like a rock. I found him very attractive. We were together for three days when he left for Brazil, and a week later I followed him. It was so romantic, it was like a honeymoon. I was always a fan of Herman Brood and now I had a kind of Herman Brood myself. He was my pop star.

In the summer of 2019, there was a crazy little bump on his cheek. He brushed off the comment I made about that. He was a doctor himself and according to him it would go away on its own. But it didn’t go away and he finally went to the doctor in November, who said he would spoon it out. That turned out to be unsuccessful. He suspected it was an inflamed sebaceous gland and sutured the wound. The doctor referred him to a plastic surgeon. She said, ‘I don’t know what it is, but I’m not going to cut this. I’ll take some tissue and send it to you.’ That’s when Paul started squeezing him.

skin cancer

In January the plastic surgeon called with the announcement that it was Merkel cell carcinoma, a very aggressive form of skin cancer. A few weeks later we had an appointment at the Antoni van Leeuwenhoek hospital. Paul now had a lump on his cheek, the tumor grew terribly fast. The environment of the hospital did not suit him at all. He was given a pass with which he had to report to various departments. That tough, handsome Paul ended up in a factory where he felt like a number. I found him very pathetic and vulnerable. The first thing the surgeon said to him: ‘Well, Mr Verhorst, as long as you survive this’.

Sunday, March 8, I took him to the hospital for major surgery that would last ten hours. They removed a large part of his cheek, neck and jaw. A plaque was removed from his leg and they fastened it to his face. When I first saw him in the intensive care unit after surgery, I almost passed out. it was just The Silence of the Lambslike that skin was sewn on his face. The surgeon was optimistic; they had radically removed it, it was all gone. Paul still had 25 more radiation treatments, but the idea was that he would get better.

metastases

June 29th was my birthday and for the first time in all those months we went out for dinner. Paul was unable to sit properly in a chair due to back pain. The following week we had an appointment at the hospital to talk about the reconstruction of his face. Paul was very concerned that he would no longer be able to play the saxophone. During the conversation with the doctor, Paul mentioned that he had pain in his back, after which his blood was checked. The tumor markers in his blood indicated that he was full of metastases. It was said: ‘Mr Verhorst, we are very concerned’, a euphemism for: ‘You will not get better’. We didn’t see it coming at all. Suddenly the curative treatment was turned into palliative treatment. Still, we pinned our hopes on immunotherapy.

After the first three immunotherapy treatments, the oncologist greeted us as if we were best friends: ‘Sit down, I have good news!’ The treatment was successful, because the tumor markers had gone down considerably and the blood values ​​were considerably better. Paul thought: wow, I’m going to get better! He had hope again and went to great lengths.

Despite the pain, he walked every day with a walker. The hopeful mood proved short-lived when he presented himself for the fifth treatment on September 22. We first had a check-up with a nurse. In her room I saw all kinds of red bars on the computer screen. She said bluntly: ‘We’re going to stop the treatment, it’s not working anymore.’ Paul was stunned: ‘I want to speak to my treating doctor.’ He couldn’t come because he was too busy. Paul got angry: ‘I’m not leaving until I’ve talked to her.’ When the oncologist finally came, she stopped in the doorway: ‘Yes, Mr Verhorst, we are indeed going to stop the treatment.’ Meanwhile she looked at me with a look like: ‘Doesn’t he get it?’ It was horrible. That evening, over dinner, Paul told the children that he was going to die. We cried and hugged endlessly.

Red wine and camembert

Thursday, October 2, he said: ‘Bryn, I can’t take it anymore, I want to stop.’ The GP came and while he was preparing for palliative sedation, Paul wanted red wine and camembert. He could only drink through a straw, but the idea mattered. While the children and I were sitting around his bed, Paul asked the doctor: ‘Will I wake up tomorrow?’ The GP explained that was not the intention, she said she would put him to sleep and then he would slowly slip away. “Oh no, I don’t want that!” cried Paul. It was a really intense moment. But I was also happy, because I didn’t have to say goodbye for a while. That night Paul was in pain again and the next morning he said he really couldn’t do it anymore. I called the doctor again. This time Paul said he wanted to drink whiskey, Jack Daniels. My sister went straight to the Gall & Gall and came back with two mini bottles, to which Paul said, “Those aren’t bottles.” My sister went back to the store to exchange the mini bottles for two large bottles. I poured a glass, but he couldn’t drink at all. He sipped it with his lips.

Paul had always been my pop star, but in the end the roles were reversed. His last words were: ‘You are my wife, my own wife. You have always protected me, through you I learned what love is. There were many women, but only you are my own wife.’ Before the sedative was injected, the kids and I sat around him. He was scared, of course he was scared. I held his left hand and I told him we were in Brazil: ‘You are lying in a hammock on the beach and you are rocking back and forth. The waves roll in and out.’ When I paused, he said, “No, no, keep going.” I continued: ‘The sun shines on your face and warms your whole body. The sky is a clear blue and in the distance a white sailboat sails past.’ Then he fell asleep.’