Dad's Battle

Tragedy struck.  Unexpectedly.  My father, the pillar of strength in our lives, had just been diagnosed with cancer, the disease he feared more than death.  Dad had taught us that we could will away sickness and disease with sheer mind control and strength. And most of us do.  When I am sick, I go to work.  I have had to leave class more than once to throw up (I wasn't pregnant mind you) and returned to the class minutes later to pick up right where I left off.  When I have what appears to be an illness (a cough or a raspy voice), colleagues show concern but I assure them I am fine.  Their reactionary coping strategy is to keep their distance or comically follow me around with Clorox wipes in hand while commenting that people like me spread the plague.  This doesn't happen often.  I don't get sick.

I learned this from my father and in truth I wear an invisible badge of pride at my ability to ward off illness; however, I don't believe that is what he intended to teach us.  He tolerated illness in us; in fact he showed genuine concern when one of missed a day of school due to a sore throat, an upset stomach, or some other ailment.  He often lovingly phoned us to see what treat he could bring home that would alleviate the pains.  But he himself never missed a day of work, he rarely sought the advice of a doctor, and he could never explain blood running down an arm or a forehead since it seemed he never felt pain.  He modeled a loathing of self indulgence, a lack of self concern, and an incredible will power that to me was impressive.

He had retired only two years before the diagnosis, and the diagnosis was really just dumb luck.  He complained that his neck was hurting and my mom, who does wear and treat illness, decided to rub what she thought was a strained or overworked muscle down with some Deep Heat--one of her favorite home remedies. As she rubbed, though, she felt a lump.  And then another.  And then another. Although he resisted, claiming he was fine, she immediately made him a doctor's appointment. And then another. And then another.

He was devastated.  He was angry.  He was terrified.  He wasn't afraid of death; he was afraid that his kids and grand kids would see him sick.  He was afraid that happy memories would be replaced by images of illness, weakness, and death as he slowly shriveled away, trying to fight a desperate and unwinnable battle.  I heard him say more than once that he didn't know anyone who had conquered cancer, with hopelessness and resignation buried deep in his voice.

This cancer-filled man was not the man of my childhood.  This was not the man who treated illness with denial.  He was broken.  He was in need of support, and each of his five adoring children stepped in to offer that support in ways that I find strangely indicative of our birth order, our personalities, and our careers.  Support came in five very different packages.

Our family support quilt

Justin is the baby of the family.  He is an introvert, is paralyzingly shy, and likely struggles with social anxiety issues.  He also lives far from home and rarely can afford the time and money to make the trip.  He does stay in regular contact with dad but his calls are generally guarded, strictly informative, and without any real depth of emotion:  He is fine, the girls are good, his job is busy, and he would love a visit too. When he does visit, he disappears more often than he is present:  he doesn't like crowds, he avoids attention, and he has to keep moving.  He finds errands to run, he works at the farm, he goes for a coffee break--all in an effort to cope with a houseful of kids, grand kids, and noise.  Justin is also a worker.  He has been since he was a small child.  He was the child ever engaged in a chore.  He was the child who saw things that needed to be done and did them.  He was the child who grew to be an adult that finds self worth through a long day of work, a well-earned sweaty brow, and the satisfaction of a job well done.

 I knew Justin would be deeply troubled by dad's illness, but I expected him to withdraw, to handle his concern on his own.  I thought he would support our dad with the occasional phone call and pep talk. I expected his anxieties to make it difficult to provide evident support. He surprised us, though, by rushing home and by resisting his urge, his need, to escape.  He was present and communicative.  He seemed fully aware that our dad's extroverted personality needed his support in a typically extroverted way, and he willed away his discomfort in order to give it. He also noticed neglected tasks and fixed them:  a dripping water spigot, a decrepit fence, a loose screw or nail.  His devotion to dad was evident through work, both physically and mentally, as he embraced the chore of support and love.

Of all the children, Rob is probably most like my dad.  He has a huge personality that draws people in.  I have never been out in my community that someone hasn't come up to me and told me they love my dad. The same is true of Robert.  Everyone loves him and he loves them.  He is one of those people that makes you feel he is genuinely interested in you; he is one of those people that you feel nourished by; he is one of those people you can't help but be happy to see.

In addition, Rob has a compelling sense of humor and a contagious laugh.  He has the ability to see and enjoy humor, and he was on more than one occasion able to find and share laughter amidst the family battle.  Dad was very upset at the thought of losing his hair.  For some reason, losing his hair was symbolically the physical representation of defeat.  He was stuck on the idea that he didn't want the grand kids to see him that way.  When the hair loss became inevitable, though, Rob and his sense of humor took over.  He announced the event, produced clippers, and shaved dad's head is a loud and raucous ceremony.  With his contagious laughter, he introduced us to our dad, the "cage fighter."  And dad laughed and was okay.

The boys sporting their support!

Heather is both a youngest and a middle child.  For many years, she was the youngest of 3, but after a couple of accidents she was reassigned the position of middle child.  At a very early age, she showed promise as a gymnast and if not for a career-ending injury she was, according to family lore, Olympics bound.  Before the injury, we spent many years cheering her on; after the injury, in another role reassignment, she found a new athletic career as a college cheerleader.  As a result, I think, she frequently finds opportunities to cheer for each one of us, and I often hear cheers when she speaks of her clients and their challenges and successes.

Not surprisingly, she became the head cheerleader of the family. She and her kids joined a cancer awareness run, invited grandpa to inspire them on at the finish line, and celebrated each of grandpa's successes.  When she visited, she brought the energy of a pep rally.  She orchestrated family gatherings, she exuded energy and optimism, she figuratively gathered us together for a hoorah.  Just as an athlete finds a second wind amidst the cheers of fans, dad rallied as Heather led us in loud support.

Kelly is the second child, only 16 months younger than me.  She is generally the center, the instigator, of fun.  When we were teens, dad was always proud of her ability to create enjoyment.  A bus ride across the state was made fun for all by Kelly and her friends when they instigated a "save the whales" campaign, even though they may never have seen a whale at that point in their lives.  She is also naturally compassionate.  When someone is in need, Kelly can generally be found at the person's side providing assistance, support, and love.  Nursing, of course, proved to be her natural career choice and all who have benefited from her professional care have been grateful for her generous, kind, and enjoyable personality and care.

Kelly's immediate reaction was to jump in as dad's personal nurse and healthcare coach.  She counseled dad on his medical plan, she attended all chemo sessions, she took over the medical concerns for dad and the family.  She met with doctors, negotiated his meds, checked on him daily, and reminded him often of his role in allowing his body to heal. She also communicated the treatment plan and the prognosis to the rest of the family.  Perhaps most importantly, to dad at least, she orchestrated a family quilt project so that dad could symbolically wrap himself in the love of each one of us.

I'm the typical eldest child in many ways:  type-A, driven, and (if you ask my siblings) a bit bossy.  I often take charge--of whatever I can take charge of.  In this situation, though, I felt helpless.  I didn't know what to take charge of.  In an effort to find some semblance of control, I studied.  I wanted to know about this illness that had a grip on my dad.  I think I felt that if I understood it, I would be in a better position to do something about it so I immersed myself in research.

But I also deny illness--which I have already credited to my father.  My kids joke about my non-empathetic response to their complaints of pain.  Because I don't admit illness, I struggle supporting it.  My way of supporting my father was to use my information to help him understand his situation in relation to the research.  He handled the chemo well, based on what I understood about the typical reaction, and I told him.  He needed more fluids, more rest, and more positivity.  And I told him.  I also brought him fruit Popsicles because he said they tasted good.  Other than that, I acted like he was fine.  And so did he.

As of this writing (July 2015), Dad's cancer is in remission, and through his battle he proved once again that he can in fact will away sickness and disease--even the worst of them.  However, this time his sheer will was supported by his wife, his children, and a throng of grand-kids--all of whom used their own will to bolster his.

Update:  Cancer is back and so here we go again, each fulfilling our roles as we battle this beast!

Written July 2015