Cancer and the death of my father

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Cancer and the death of my father (10/2/06)

My first brush with cancer (prostrate, if it matters) was when I was 10. My father, who was much older than my mother, had never been much of a classic father to me. His knees had problems so we couldn't play baseball for very long, and being from an older generation his ideas on morals and values were a bit dated to say the least, so we clashed on a lot of things. I'm still not sure why I've taken to science so strongly other than that I find myself asking "Why?" several hundred times a day and because my dad supported this. At 7 he had me reading Physics and talked forever with me about electrical work, automotive concerns, and astronomy. Baseball? Not so much, but I knew how to wire a junction box and replace an alternator!

The transition was subtle at first. My mom and he went to the hospital weekly it seemed, and dad would come back looking like he'd just run a marathon. He always had a Sprite, apparently because the sugar can help with the chemo side effects. I doubt that now, of course. The good days weren't. Going to the store was an education in death. Suddenly I was the responsible party. It wasn't good.

And then one day I was at Boy Scouts and my mom came in early to pick me up. She was crying and we raced to the hospital. I'd had an argument with my dad earlier and it turns out that was the last intelligible conversation I had with him. He'd had a stroke. One side of his face just didn't seem to have muscles, but I could see in his eyes that he was still there, still thinking and wondering what was happening, concern registering on his face. I went home that night thinking he'd pull out of it, that we could go back to normal and everything would be ok.

The next morning revealed he'd had several more strokes during the night. My dad was effectively erased, replaced with a blank slate and barely any control over his body. The next year was about living like this, with him in that condition. Things worsened and, being way before assisted suicide concerns, I remember making a just-the-right-thing-to-do decision that would turn stomachs today.

He died just before my 13th birthday, on the same day my great grandfather was born. In a lot of ways it was the end of a run of bad luck started by that man way back in the 1890s. I'm still trying to understand it all. What I do know is I grew up knowing the men in my family didn't live past 60. Period. I also knew I would get cancer. Period.

Cancer is a vindictive bitch, far worse than any of the worst things you can imagine. It kills indiscriminately. Fighting it is a war of attrition in every way, shape, and form, and I can't imagine the thoughts which must run through a person's mind who is fighting it.

The men in my family, as it turns out, died at the average age of death for their generations. I just happened to be born to them. I found this out in my 20s, and found out I could very well last into 80 or 90, let alone 60. My death sentence was lifted, however I remain vigilant against my enemy, as do many, many others, locked in battle or not. I honor them as I honor my dad, by bearing witness, enjoying the now, and forever standing watch.