What you are about to read has not been approved by my dad. So please don't talk to him about it. You can talk to me and my family, but he would rather not discuss it. If it comes up in conversation, do not mention that you read it here. Say someone else told you. In short, do not treat him any differently. He doesn't want that.
When you throw out the word "cancer," a funny thing happens. People's eyebrows go up, their heads tilt to the side, and everyone is on high alert. There's a very specific feeling that goes along with that word; a feeling of apprehension, anxiety, and fear. It's everywhere - everyone has been affected somehow by this malicious disease. As for me, it has come closer than I ever imagined it would.
Over the course of my twenty-three years, my perception of my dad's identity has been constantly developing. I have a whole list of words that fit the sentence "My father the __________." Things like...
Dad. First and foremost, he's my dad. Always has been, always will be. Sometimes he wouldn't let us do things we really wanted, but overall, I'd say he's done a pretty good job filling this role.
Professor. My dad is an instructor at Grand Rapids CC in the dental hygiene program. He's been there as long as I can remember. He uses me and my brothers as examples in his lectures and his students could probably pick us out of a lineup. Or, at least, they could have when we were younger.
Occasional Dog Lover. We never had a dog growing up because my mom and I are allergic to them. I wouldn't say that my dad is an animal person. He tolerates them and doesn't go out of his way to touch them. But when the dogs next door are outside, he'll walk to the property line and they'll run to him and he'll scratch their heads and talk to them in a baby voice. It's pretty cute.
Rescuer. About two weeks ago, I was trying to get out of the driveway at the house where I work. My little 2-wheel drive car couldn't get up the incline to the road and started sliding backward down the driveway toward their house. It was ice and slush everywhere, so my brakes were useless. I collided slo-mo with a tree, effectively destroying one of my taillights. I had no idea what to do, and whenever that happens, I call my dad. He was already on his way home, but he turned around and drove out to where I work to help me get my car out. He always keeps his cool when one of us calls him in such circumstances. And he comes to the rescue.
Fount of Common Sense. Here are some of my favorite phrases that he would shout whenever we did something dumb:
- "Close the door! You weren't born in a barn!"
- "Turn off the water! I have to pay for that!"
- "Don't touch that end of the hook."
- "Stop looking straight at the sun. Unless you want to go blind."
- "If you don't brush your teeth, they will fall out and I will not buy you new ones."
Red Wings Fanatic. If the Red Wings are playing on TV, you can expect to find my dad on the couch downstairs in front of the big screen. The only sounds he makes are when someone scores. If it's the other team, he grits his teeth and lets out a sort of frustrated groan. If it's the Red Wings, he shouts "SCOOOOOORES!" You can literally hear it anywhere in the house. It has scared my mom and I on more than one occasion. I jump right out of my skin. Other than those two things, he doesn't make a single other sound.
Italian chef and baker. My dad loves to cook and bake. Anyone who has sampled his goods will tell you that his homemade bread, cinnamon rolls, bread sticks, and homemade pizza are the best they've ever had. He also specializes in pasta dishes, grilling, and s'mores. For catering information, call us.
Face-melting bass guitarist. When I was in high school, my dad decided that he wanted to pick up the bass. He hadn't learned to play any musical instruments when he was younger, but he was in choir and knew how to read music. One afternoon, he told my mom that he was going down to Rainbow Music to look at some guitar models, get some information, and "just see what's out there." He came home with a blue bass guitar, amp, and starter pack. He started taking lessons from my biology teacher and playing at church, and he's been at it ever since.
Airplane enthusiast. Dad loves planes. Not flying on them, necessarily, but the planes themselves. For a while, he built and flew remote control model airplanes whose wingspans are as tall as I am. They're all hanging from the ceiling of our storeroom. He has these big books of full-page photos of planes from wars past and present. I'm pretty sure that the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum was one of his favorite stops when we went to Washington D.C. The man loves planes.
Man who thinks of fruit as a dessert. As far back as I can remember, my dad has saved his fruit for last when we eat dinner. He was always the last to finish eating, usually after my mom had started reading the devotional, savoring his fruit.
There are many other identities that my dad has. Two months ago, a new one was added.
Cancer patient.
My dad was diagnosed with a slow-growing non-aggressive form of cancer shortly before Christmas. He didn't tell me and my brothers until after the new year had started. At first I was mad about that, but then I realized that that was a smart decision, since it probably would have ruined Christmas. He told us not to tell people, that it wasn't a big deal, that he would have surgery to remove it and then we'd be done with it.
But it was a big deal. Cancer is always a big deal.
It didn't matter that they caught his cancer early, or that it was easily removable, or that he probably wouldn't need chemo or radiation. As soon as I heard him say "I have cancer," it was all over. I remember feeling like I was in a wind tunnel, with a loud rushing sound in my ears and an inability to remain standing upright. It was just like in a movie: his mouth was moving, but I wasn't hearing his words because my own thoughts were drowning them out.
Yesterday was the day of his surgery, which went well and with no complications. He stayed the night at the hospital and came home early this afternoon. No fanfare, no carepage, no bulletin announcement. Since the beginning, my dad has wanted this whole thing kept on the down-low. He didn't want people bringing meals, or coming to pray over him, or any sort of "cancer attention." That decision was very hard for me to accept because I needed to form a support system and learn to cope with this new dimension of my dad. He was acting as if this was no big deal - the whole family was - but I couldn't handle that. I would find myself thinking, Am I blowing this out of proportion? If they're not worried about it, shouldn't I just calm down? WHY IS EVERYONE ACTING SO WEIRD?
I did end up telling a few people simply because I couldn't help it. My close friends could tell that something was wrong as soon as they asked about how my parents were. I'm sure my face gave it away every time. I'm not such a great actress sometimes. Once the "secret" was out, I always felt so much better. These were people that I could trust with my emotions and could share my burden. I knew I could count on their prayers and support and phone calls and love. I had a hard time accepting that my parents apparently didn't want this. I had an ever harder time reconciling the fact that telling was something that I needed to do, but that my parents forbade me to do.
My dad has since changed his mind about our vow of silence, but I know that he still doesn't want a lot of attention about this. So here's the gist: he's home recovering from surgery for about three weeks, he'll be back to work after GRCC's spring break, his lab reports come back in about 10 days, and he'll have more blood work done in a month. Based on the location and type of his cancer, his doctor is fairly sure that it was isolated and he most likely won't have to have further treatment. They caught it really early and he'll be back to 100% pretty soon. For all intents and purposes, the most serious part of this leg of the cancer journey is behind us.
There is, of course, always the chance that cancer will pop up somewhere else in the future, but as my dad always says, "We'll jump over that bridge when we come to it." I've laid awake at night thinking about what would happen if it grows somewhere else. That's the funny thing about cancer - you can never be 100% sure that the doctors got all of it. There's always that chance that it will come back, even after many many years of remission. It keeps you off-balance that way. It's not over 'til it's over.
So here we are. My dad has cancer, but he's okay. My family and I ask for your prayers and encouragement, but nothing more. We don't want people to bring meals or to treat us like he's on his deathbed because he isn't. The best way for you to help us is to pray for us and let us know that you're thinking of us. I repeat: no meals, no fruit baskets, no gifts, etc. It would make him feel very uncomfortable.
Thank you for reading this novel, and thank you in advance for your prayers.
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