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My father has cancer.
Prostate cancer.
I’ve known for a little while now, two weeks or so. But my brothers
didn’t know yet, and couldn’t write about it until they were told.
I cried when I hung up after hearing the news, more out of shock
than anything. I mean, what are you supposed to feel after hearing
something like that?
“I wanted to tell you that I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Please don’t tell your brothers.”
It’s much the same way I heard about his heart attacks. “Thought you should know, don’t mention it to anyone.”
I wouldn’t say I’m angry about the request for secrecy. I
understand. They’d rather tell people at their own pace. I get it. What
I don’t get is reporting it as a weather report. Though, I guess it’s
sort of a defense mechanism. Stick to the facts. So, in a way, it makes
sense. Maybe I do get it.
I don’t know how bad the cancer is, how advanced it is, or if it’s
spread to other parts of his body. Dad’s still waiting for some test
results. Initial consultations led us to believe that it’s still early
and small.
What scares me the most right now? Is that I’m not scared. I’m not worried. I’m not sad. I’m not anything….not
even numb. It’s not that I don’t understand it, I do. My father has
cancer. Cancer kills. It’s sneaky. It lurks in the body, hidden from
sight and detection, often until it’s too late.
I love my father. He’s wonderfully unique. He’s gruff, and
sarcastic, and patronizing….he has a quick mind, a wonderful sense of
humor, and uncanny talent of finding the practical way to help someone
in need. He always means well. He’d do anything for his family. He’s
loyal to a fault. He stands by his convictions…at times more than I’d
like him to. When I attempted suicide, oh my holy hell - 11 years ago
this week, he was the one who came to visit; the one who talked my mom
into coming.
And yet, I’m coldly unaffected by this. Me? I cry in Disney movies
or especially poignant Hallmark commercials. I cry when I’m tired, or
stressed, or if I have a bad feeling that something’s happened to the
dog because I just read something on yahoo about pet dangers that lurk
in our homes.
I don’t want him to be sick. I don’t want him to, God forbid, die.
My brain is yelling at me to stop writing this, that even thinking
these things is horrible, but I don’t feel it. If this were a
movie, I’d be crying (stoically, of course, and never with unsightly
snot bubbles or hiccups), lamenting the cruel passage of time. I’d
catch the first plane out there, with a nice Thomas Newman score in the
background, and we’d apologize to each other in rushed phrases,
interrupting each other to say “no, it was MY fault.” He’d embrace JS
in a big bear hug and make him promise to take care of his little girl.
He’d be in the waiting room, holding one pink and one blue balloon,
unsure of the sex of his soon to be grandchild. His cancer would go
into remission after the first treatment, and we’d all breathe a huge
sigh of relief. “Phew, that was close. But, praise be, look how this
brought us together.” There would be a big family feast, a la a
Shakespeare comedy, so the audience would know that all ended well.
But this isn’t a movie.
My parents still want me to admit my sin, and my faulty decision to
move in with my “un-Christian” boyfriend. (Who, ironically, had taught
me more of Christ than anyone I’ve known.) There’s still a pregnant
pause anytime I slip up on the phone and say “we” instead of “I.” There
are no apologies, just an unspoken agreement not to discuss “it.” I am
flying out to see them soon, but with a sense of cautious trepidation,
rather than a desire for reconciliation. My father’s cancer isn’t
cured; it’s not even completely diagnosed.
Instead of thinking back and remembering all of the funny and sweet
memories (one Christmas, he bought us all desk lights for Christmas; he
once made us excel spreadsheets to check off what chores we’d done to
determine our week’s allowance - after a hard week of dusting,
vacuuming, doing push-ups, and weeding the fruit trees, when we’d
earned about $2.10, my brother’s and I revolted and checked every box
on our sheet and made $3.35; he’d often play his guitar in the evenings
- we’d sit around him and sing Puff The Magic Dragon or Christopher Robin or Anchor’s Away),
I find myself dwelling on all the ways I wasn’t good enough for him.
All the ways I failed. All the ways he let me know, outright or
inferred, how I
