"Cancer's a bitch," people say.
Some of them just repeat the phrase (or similar words) like it's a mantra to keep evil away, that if they acknowledge it often enough then their body is somehow more resistant to its silent call. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Knock on wood. Paint your doorposts with goat blood to keep the angel of death away. Because what else can you really do?
Others say the same words, but I can hear a different weight in them. Thick clumps of memory stirred up from the bottom of a clear lake by a stone dropped. It takes some time for those waters to settle again, the ripples to fade. They know.
I am the second of five of his children, and as a group our family was close. We endured a lot of things together. A lot of trying times. Some of those difficulties were self-inflicted, or so the wisdom of hindsight shows me. A lot of well-intentioned decisions gone bad, others leading to unexpected destinations.
But it was a journey as a family.
Mixed into that journey was a lot of love, both from my mother and father. I'm getting older, but I still remember that. Little snapshots of memories that serve as evidence of what surely happened, what my childhood must have been like. Postcards from my past, written in my own handwriting, but I only barely remember sending them.
I played basketball with my dad. Shooting hoops, playing HORSE, a little one-on-one. He had some decent moves for an older guy. He had a running hook shot across the lane that I could never emulate.
We played football too. Just tossing the ball around, nothing serious. It'd usually just be me and him, although occasionally one of my other brothers would join in. My dad would draw up plays on top of the football in his hand, designating for me to zig this way then zag the other, and he'd toss me the ball. Small hands and a big football didn't always end well, but I enjoyed it.
I helped him fix the muffler on our family car, once. A muffler bandage wrapped around the rusty sheet metal, goopy glop and rust dust falling into my face. I was plenty small enough at the time to fit under that 1970s whale, whatever bland piece of metal we were driving around at that point. Probably the Ford Torino, a banana-colored station wagon with the rear-facing bench seat so you could sit in the way back and face the cars behind you. Making faces or staring down the other drivers with my siblings was more entertaining than wherever we were going.
We'd watch TV together too, and I learned something about baseball (Milwaukee Brewers) and football (Go Packers!) from him. "How many football games do they play each year? Like, a hundred?" I had asked once, naive to the extreme. "No, no, their bodies wouldn't be able to hold up to that. 16 games is all they play." It felt like a lot more than that, since it seemed like we watched a lot of football, but I certainly didn't mind.
We All Make Mistakes
My dad was a strong man, both physically and mentally. He had a powerful personality, but he was usually restrained. He was idealistic, intelligent. Far from perfect. He made mistakes.
One of them was divorcing my mother after some 25 years of wedded drama, love, bliss, arguments (no, we're having a discussion!) aboard an emotional rollercoaster that probably resembled today's cryptocurrency charts. At least that's how my current brain sees it. Childhood brain saw it differently, and my mother and father having long debates about religion and money and my father's investment schemes seemed normal to me then. They seemed like they loved each other, and even if tempers flared and voices rose, there was nothing inexcusable that happened.
According to my childhood eyes anyway. I don't think I want my mother to tell me differently if there's more to the story.
My father eventually moved down to Iowa to be with someone else. There was a long period of time where nobody knew where he was. He had long since fallen out of contact, and out of our minds. I'd think about him briefly, in passing, but I was an adult, as was he, and we all have our daily struggles. All too easy to forget.
The Call
I got a call one day from the lady he was with. I had never talked to her, never met her, and certainly didn't recognize her voice.
"This is Reta, your dad's wife." It took a moment for my mind to reassemble the words into something that made more sense, but I wasn't entirely successful.
"Hello," I said. Or something like it.
"Your dad isn't doing too well. He has brain cancer. You may want to come down and visit as soon as you can. We're not really sure how long he has."
I had felt some degree of surprise at the news, but I was more surprised (afterwards) at how I didn't really feel any sadness. Shouldn't I be sad? I think I was more peeved at the disruption of my schedule and the effort I'd have to spend traveling.
We set up a visit to drive down with a couple of my siblings, a somewhat long drive from Wisconsin to Iowa in high summer.
With some trepidation, we saw our father for the first time in many years at their small home in an older suburb of Fairfield, Iowa.
My dad was much as I remembered him. Bald, easy smile, white hair and beard, soft spoken. My sister had brought her almost-newborn daughter along, and this was the first time he had held her. It was also the last.
There was a lot of talking for the next couple hours, and in our comparative youth myself and my energetic siblings ended up tiring our father out. The effects of his cancer weren't physically evident, but mentally he was just not able to keep up with our talk.
He went outside for some peace and silence. I and my younger brother joined him later, and my brother prayed for our father in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. I am not a religious man, but I prayed too.
Our group left shortly thereafter, somewhat somber on the long drive back.
It was a couple months later that Reta called again, informing me that my father was not doing so well. She was trying everything she could think of within her limited means, but brain cancer is a tough thing to fight. She was staying strong, but the flutter in her voice told me things weren't well.
"You may want to come down and visit again. I'm sure he'd love to see you."
That's when it became real
After a couple weeks, I went down to visit, myself and my wife and my younger brother.
My father was a husk of what he had been just a month or two before.
He was as skinny as a rail, laying on a hospital bed in the middle of the living room. He talked to himself, using nonsense words and syllables, eyes closed, huddled like he was a sleeping child.
We roused him and helped him to a chair at the dinner table where his wife fed him peeled frozen grapes and other things he could swallow. We ate hot dogs.
Then he had to go to the bathroom. It was a sobering, perception-shattering experience to have to help your father to the toilet, pull down his pants, and do the things for him that he can't do himself. Reta had been doing this for months now, and I respected her for that. I wondered if I'd be as equally capable with my own wife, or she with me. Or as patient.
Seeing him like that, that's when it all became real.
We put my father back to bed in the living room, and he huddled up, eyes closed, murmuring pleas for us to be quiet, shhhh, even as we whispered around him.
Reta invited each of us, individually and in privacy while the others left the room, to lie in the bed with him and hold him as a father might with a child. He had regressed to something nearing childhood, and we were the adults now. She suggested we should talk to him, quietly, tell him about ourselves and our lives and what we were doing and planning to do.
She was sure he could hear and understand, that some corner of his brain was trapped in complete awareness, fully functioning, desperate for us. I wanted to believe it too, even thought the thought was frightening. So I told him about what projects I was working on, and my house, and my company, and how much I loved him and how I thought he had been a great father, despite the bumps in the road.
And then we left, leaving him to whatever fate the gods had in store for him.
A couple of weeks later, Reta called and said my father had died. Peacefully, in his sleep.
I felt nothing except relief. I had spent my emotion already, had already resolved myself for what I knew was coming.
He died October 21, 2010.
The last time I saw him was when I went to his funeral. A tiny affair in some antechamber of a church I had never been to, his ashes in a jar next to his picture, with people on either side of me I didn't recognize.
"Cancer's a bitch," people say. I didn't really know it before then, but I know it now.
Extra Thoughts
I didn't sit down to actually write this particular thing when I sat down to write.
My wife went in for an MRI last week to try and track down the reasons for some stubborn side-effects of her car accident last year. Fleetingly (I did not let my imagination dwell on it for long) I wondered what would happen if they discovered something bad in her brain. Fortunately, her results came back yesterday with things consistent with concussion trauma, but nothing beyond that.
I also did want to record some of what I remember of my father to the blockchain. Every time I think of him the memories grow less distinct, more hazy, like grasping for a dream once awake. I chatted with my younger brother yesterday to try and capture his memories of our last visits with our father, and while he remembered some things strongly, other things were just shadows and emotions, nothing concrete.
We all want to leave some legacy behind in the world and be remembered, but most of us don't achieve that. At the very least, now, I've rekindled some of the memories I've forgotten of my dad, and passed his memory on to whomever chooses to read this.
Photos by @negativer
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This post has received a 50.00 % upvote from @sharkbank thanks to: @sammosk.
I stumble across this now as I came looking for @morodiene. I very much appreciate how you wrote this, very honest and openly. It gave me tears in my eyes as all of us must say goodbye to parents. My elderly parents live with us and my mom also has breast cancer but at the moment is in remission. You have good memories of your father growing up and that is precious. Blessings!
Thank you for reading! Obviously, we all have to die sometime, and some ways are better than others, but we all have to live with the decisions we make at the end and the way we treat others.
I feel no regret with regards to my father, but I do feel a sense of loss for the days and years missed. You never get those back.
Thank you for replying @negativer. I am glad that you have no regrets because all are in the past. That is true that you don't get the years missed back. So that is why we should spend quality time with the people that are still around us.
Blessings for the rest of the week!
Hmmm..death sometimes only becomes real when it occurs to a loved one of you..thanks for this @negativer
Thank you for reading!
Death is somewhat always real, but we often fly in the pink clouds of our own phantasies and later we suffer.
This post is everything to me. It is just amazing how the memories of someone we love so dear and spend the best part of our lives with (our childhood) becomes so less distinct and hazy as years go by
You remind me so much about the good and bad time spent with my dad. I will also like to pour out my heart and save his memory on the blockchain on his death anniversary.
Your writing is heart felt and an interesting read.
Thank you! I don't know you, but I feel like you know what this means. Save and remember what you can, because time doesn't care about any of it :)
That was beautifully written. You think you'll remember everything from those poignant moments but the passing of time always makes it grow dim. The details that make it real left behind. Thanks for getting it in writing so I can pass it on to my children.
What a story. I have read a few of these today and it's striking a chord in me as I've been disconnected with my Family for the past 6 years. My memories of my childhood and of them are becoming more and more faint. They didn't pass but it seems as if they did. I often ask myself if they did how would I feel and would I be ok with living today as I am. It's nice that you were able to reconnect, even though during this very unfortunate time. It sounds like it maybe have brought some closure for you as well. Very inspirational that you were able to forgive and visit with him during his last few days.
Thank you for reading and offering your thoughts. It's hard to reconnect and stay connected with family sometimes. Our own lives eat up so much of our time. To get the chance to reconnect at the end is valuable, but it makes you wonder how much more you could have had if you had taken the steps earlier.
I hear you. I think I might feel that way when I'm better suited to approach them. For me there is just so much pain when it comes to them and not so much that I'm busy or caught up with what's going on in my world. I'd love to reconnect but I can't change the morals and values of others and honestly am fearful of subjecting my children to the pain and anguish my parents and siblings put me me through. My kids were very young when we disconnected from my side of family because of something one of their cousins did to them. Thankfully at this point memories have faded but I know for my oldest who did have a relationship with them for the first 5 years of his life, it's effected him negatively. I'm not sure I want to risk putting him through that again. Time will tell I suppose!
This was an amazing read, @negativer. You so beautifully captured the complexity of relationships, and the fact that even when family members fall away from each other, the ties that bind them never break.
Time does tend to heal at least some wounds. It sounds like you found a way to forgive your father for his mistakes as he neared the end of his life.
Great post. Amazing retrospective.
Thank you @jayna! I didn't really know what I was trying to say until I was done writing. It really is about family, and even when there is baggage and people have bad feelings to each other, somehow it all goes away when the truth of mortality kicks in. We're all in the same boat at the end.
It's a strange thing when you really think about it.
The seemingly random events of life. I don't believe they're random at all. I believe that they all have purpose, even when we can't see the big picture or notice any patterns in the mesh of chaotic scribbles that connect one to another.
I'm sitting at home, reading your post about your father - who I've never met. Why? Because one day, I went into a discord channel. Felt completely out of place. But right before I left, Rhonda made me feel welcome. A few minutes later, a man was joking with me about bacon.
Random. And now - here I am.... finding more about my friend through the reflection of his father. And I'm appreciative of the memories that you shared, and the emotions that you penned, and the honor that you gave your father by memorializing him.
Looking at the picture of your father with his granddaughter - it's special.
Thank you for sharing your life, @negativer. I treasure it :)
Thank you so much for the personal insight @dreemsteem. It's always a weird thing to have any kind of impact on someone you've never met, whom you only know via intangible electronic methods. From my recent steemit meetups, I've realized that connection is just as legitimate as any made via 'traditional' means.
I agree that things are connected in some invisible way. It's like a mesh that lays over everything (or maybe a bowl of spaghetti dumped on the floor). Everything touches everything else, but none of us can see the pattern or know it, we can only guess at it.
Thank you for reading :)
Agree! Sometimes.... I would even venture to say that the connection made online can be much stronger....sometimes! The "real world" connections can have a lot more masks, ironically! But sometimes the "safety and distance" of the internet can cause us to feel more comfortable to share things that we might not IRL.
It allows some people to see more of what's truly in our hearts and minds, and..... deeper connections can result.
Doesn't always happen, but when it does, it's special
Hope someday I can meet you IRL! ☀️ Have a beautiful day my friend!
Cancer is indeed a bitch. I've lost more than one relative to it, and my aunt may be the next victim. Luckily my dad is still kicking, but I am naturally scared to death that my dad might have to deal with the big C as well.
Great piece. I enjoyed reading it.
So sorry to hear that @dbooster :( We never know when it's our time, especially with cancer. Best of luck to your family, and hope for your dad that he can avoid the russian roulette of cancer.
Strangely, I found your tale with your father inspirational. In the end all humans pass and it comes one way or another. It still hurts. I know. But it is the beautiful moments and the 'bumps in the road' that matter and shape us. You revealed of yourself a forgiving and strong spirit. I think the block chain is lucky to have such reflections building it. Much love, Negativer.
I'm so glad you found the positive side to this. Real life is not some fantasy Disney journey of perfect steps and perfect words. Real life has a lot of those bumps in the road. There's value in taking what you can from the hard parts and making it part of yourself and your memories. Thank you for reading @prydefoltz!
Thank you for sharing. You tale with help those who are the road to healing:)
This resonated with me. I lost my grandfather to cancer and after watching his health deteriorate, it was a relief when he passed and was finally able to be at peace.
It was also a time when, despite our differences, we united as a family again. Cruel as it might be, mortality has a way of bringing people together.
Thank you for sharing this.
You are right in that. People come together in times of tragedy, and it lends some degree of urgency to our own lives, to right the wrongs, find love/humor/happiness, and discard old grievances. We don't always do it, but at least we get the chance to.
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts!
Beautiful post @negativer - I think you've definitely honored him and left a legacy here <3
Every time I think of him the memories grow less distinct, more hazy, like grasping for a dream once awake. Haunting, and too familiar! Dammit Neg, you really know how to tug the heart strings! The blockchain, to preserve memories, not just words: there's a thought. Love the photos, and most of all, the feelings behind this. So much is packed into this one post. You're a genius at that! I've rekindled some of the memories I've forgotten of my dad, and passed his memory on to whomever chooses to read this. Yes. The spark has traveled, and lit something in me, and your love for your dad travels now in whoever else takes this via the blockchain.
Thank you for reading, @carolkean! I've never been good at writing down my personal memories in any format (diary, scrapbook, letters, whatever), so this at least gives me a chance to collect my thoughts into something cohesive that resembles what I feel right now, and be able to move on from there.
We don't need to write memoirs to tell our stories. The truth is best told in the guise of fiction, I always say (just ask @rhondak or @jodyewing).
That said... your fiction tends toward the brutal... maybe you're exaggerating. I hope, I hope.
The loss of that Collie dog in your childhood. A few words typed in a Reply section of a story. And I'm so haunted, yet, I'm heading out the door to go walk my own two Collie boys!
Still waiting for some happy endings, Neg - maybe I should challenge you to write a romance with a Disney-happy ending. :-)
I get that feeling of relief. With terminal cancer, the grieving begins once you know and takes you through the process as your loved one slowly fades away. My grandad had aorta cancer that metastised to his brain and we lost who he was long before he died. It's that relief that the pain is over, both for your loved one and for the family affected by the suffering they went through. gentle hugs
It's a hard thing to feel relief when somebody dies...but they are most certainly relieved for their own passing. Their struggle is over.
I feel for your grandfather, and for his family, and you. It's a hard thing to leave the world in that fashion. :(
Quite a moving story. At least you have some memories of your father. Mine left when I was little so I have few memories of him and than the funeral. A good thing you wrote the story down, especially for the future generations in your family - like the baby in the picture. One day she'll find Grandpa on the blockchain.
Thank you for reading! I feel for you, not having a father since you were little. I can't comment if that was good or bad in your case, but in general I hope for the best for your family.
Thank you for sharing, and for putting down these memories for posterity.
Thanks for reading, @nobyeni!
The memory of your father now lives forever.
We lost grandpa to cancer 2 years ago too... It was hard to see him suffer, but I'm at least grateful I had the chance to say goodbye to him.
thanks for sharing this neg...
You don't really realize the value of that last moment, the last chance before they die, until it's too late. Life is full of those moments, because you never know...
Thx for reading!
...drama, love, bliss, arguments (no, we're having a discussion!) aboard an emotional rollercoaster that probably resembled today's cryptocurrency charts - just one of many lines that deserve to be preserved in the blockchain!
all too human, my friend.
Enjoyed the humor coloring the piece through out; your writing leads me to believe your humor might be as much your father's legacy as this recorded reflection.
Go Pack Go, my friend; the love and the no love lost, it's all too human.
I'm happy you found the bits of humor in here. My dad always had a sense of humor and a song in his voice, and I wouldn't mind carrying that with me all the way to the end either.
This is beautiful, @negativer. Thank you for sharing your father with us. hugs
Thanks for reading, @therosepatch :)
Nice memories and somehow it was obviously a suitable moment to try to collect them all.
Leaving stories like this in the blockchain feels right. Thank you for sharing buddy!
Thank you @steemfluencer! You've been with me almost since my blockchain journey started, so I appreciate you being part of this as well!
He sounds...human.
This is so sad. And I'm glad your wife is fine.
Thank you for reading, and your thoughts on my wife :)
Really sorry about your day..guess i can say i know how it feels cause i lost mine recently as well..i pray God grant you the fortitude to bear the loss. Be strong
What a touching story, and a wonderful tribute to your father and to your family. Blessings to you, and virtual hugs, too. 💙
Thank you!
Wow good post, vote back yea :)
wtf is wrong with you, moron, atleast read it before writing your crap spewed from your shit face.
I almost said the same thing. Dang these spam commenters. Thx speedy :)
For me, this was a difficult read. In many ways, your story mirrors mine with my father. All families come with some sort of baggage, some more than others. I think you did manage to get some closure with your father on your last visit. This will go miles in your healing for the bumps in the road. I was not as fortunate and did not recieve the closure I sought.
All families carry baggage, you are absolutely right. It's a shame you didn't get a proper closure for yourself. It sounds like you tried, perhaps, and it didn't work out how you wanted? Either way, at least you tried, and I think that's better than not even making the attempt and forever wondering...what might have been.
I did try but it was not meant to be...
When my father died at age 37, I was 12 years old. The grief hit hard; the sudden death was a shock to the family, especially to me, my sister and mother. Don't like ads? Become a supporter and enjoy The Good Men Project ad free. It happened on a beautiful sunny April day. I can remember it clearly.