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Five Years
“Dad, I just realized yesterday was World Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Day. I’m so sorry I missed it.”
“Yeah, I was expecting dinner and flowers, or at least a card. But nope. I cried myself to sleep.”
“Fuck you, and your tumor.”
“Ah, the truth comes out.”
“Dad, I just realized yesterday was World Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Day. I’m so sorry I missed it.”
“Yeah, I was expecting dinner and flowers, or at least a card. But nope. I cried myself to sleep.”
“Fuck you, and your tumor.”
“Ah, the truth comes out.”
That was an actual text conversation with my father about two weeks after he was diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer. A colleague showed me the CT scan in the recovery room at my hospital after I finished a case. I saw the large mass in the head of my father’s pancreas, the
dilated common bile duct, and the spots on his liver that meant it had already spread. I walked back to my office burdened with the knowledge that my father had cancer before he even knew he did.
After the initial shock of the diagnosis wore off, we quickly reverted to our dark
After the initial shock of the diagnosis wore off, we quickly reverted to our dark
, twisted, and completely inappropriate sense of humor to communicate. I saved all our texts from the last seven months of his life. There are some that make the above exchange look positively lighthearted. I never let him see my cry in those first months, and he had the decency
to do the same. Insincerity was our way of being sincere.
He was 59 when he was diagnosed. He’d never been happier. We had grown closer in the previous few years, and he had become more than my dad, or maybe I finally felt like I had a dad. When I was a kid he always seemed
He was 59 when he was diagnosed. He’d never been happier. We had grown closer in the previous few years, and he had become more than my dad, or maybe I finally felt like I had a dad. When I was a kid he always seemed
preoccupied and a little bit unhappy. Looking back through the lens of fatherhood, I now realize that he was doing the best he could under the circumstances, and I wonder if my kids think the same of me. If so, I hope they will someday arrive at the same conclusion, and cut me
some slack.
He opted for chemotherapy hoping to shrink the tumors enough to make surgical removal a possibility, and spent the rest of his life impossibly sick in the hopes of becoming well. There was hope, but the same medications that were quite effectively shrinking his tumor
He opted for chemotherapy hoping to shrink the tumors enough to make surgical removal a possibility, and spent the rest of his life impossibly sick in the hopes of becoming well. There was hope, but the same medications that were quite effectively shrinking his tumor
were also shrinking the rest of his body, and the cancer had too much of a head start.
He died five years ago this week. Prior to that we had some pretty deep talks about death and dying, and expressed our love for one another. When he finally started the downward spiral, I
He died five years ago this week. Prior to that we had some pretty deep talks about death and dying, and expressed our love for one another. When he finally started the downward spiral, I
realized there was something else I needed to tell him: that he was my best friend. He probably knew, but by the time I actually had a chance to whisper it in his ear, I fear that he probably wasn’t with it enough to truly understand the depth to which I meant it. He was never
one to offer unsolicited advice, but I don’t think I’ve ever known a better listener, so maybe he was still listening.
This year is hitting me especially hard. Five years of accumulated conversations that couldn’t happen. There is so much I want to tell him, so many wonderful
This year is hitting me especially hard. Five years of accumulated conversations that couldn’t happen. There is so much I want to tell him, so many wonderful
things that I wish he could have been part of. He never put pressure on me to succeed, but on some level I think that made me want to make him proud even more. I want to believe he’s watching from somewhere, listening. His grandsons talk about him all the time, and my wife spends
hours telling them about him, and about how funny and cool he was. It means so much to me that she does that. I wish I could too, but it still makes me too sad to talk about him at any length.
He never got to meet my daughter. That bothers me the most, because she evokes his
He never got to meet my daughter. That bothers me the most, because she evokes his
memory more than anyone. Her eyes are his, and her facial expressions, and so is her innate sense of mischief. The curls of her hair are his, only long and wavy, with the color and shine of spun gold. She is funny in a way that would have given him endless entertainment. I know
they would have been inseparable, but they missed each other by a mere 14 months.
I feel silly writing and sharing this, but I guess I feel like putting it out in the ether is a way to send it to whatever consciousness is out there that remains of him. Maybe it’s the shared
I feel silly writing and sharing this, but I guess I feel like putting it out in the ether is a way to send it to whatever consciousness is out there that remains of him. Maybe it’s the shared
memory. Maybe there is an afterlife and they still check their social media pages. I’m sure he’d have something funny to say about that, or he’d point out that it’s no weirder than visiting and talking to a rock that’s strategically placed six feet above an ornate box
with a rotting dead person in it. And those are the kinds of conversations I miss. I miss my dad.
