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When my father was diagnosed with colon cancer, it had already spread to his
lymph nodes. Surgery was scheduled, but we were told from the onset that the
cancer would likely reoccur.
My father and I hadn't hugged since I was a child, more than thirty years
earlier. Awkward handshakes punctuated our reunions like misplaced commas. I
once tried grabbing his shoulder as we shook hands, but the look on his face
made me withdraw it immediately.
We spoke on the phone just before the operation. From the sound in his
voice, I could picture him putting on his macho mask. "I'll beat this thing," he
said.
"I know you will," I told him.
I was living a thousand miles away at the time. It was difficult getting
away from my new job and leaving my family, but I knew I would be there. I got
to the hospital while he was recuperating and I consoled my mother who looked
much older than she had just six months earlier. We hugged and cried; then we
put on our own masks and went to see him.
Attached to tubes and machines, my father looked like a frail, old man. A
bony leg stuck out from under the covers. I had never considered his mortality
before and now it was evident he would die soon. Although the doctor declared
the operation a success, that meant merely it would buy time. The plan was
for him to start chemotherapy as soon as possible.
I sat at his bed, waiting for an opportunity to talk. "I feel good," he
moaned. "The doctor said he cut out all the cancer. I'll be as good as new in a
little while."
I wanted to say, "Dad, I know the truth." I wanted to say, "Dad, I love
you." All that came out was, "You're a fighter, Dad."
I returned home and he underwent chemo. My mother told me how terrible it
made him feel and he told me it wasn't so bad. We made plans to visit, this
time with my wife and son. He said to come in a few months when he'd be feeling
like his old self.
We prepared our son, who was about six at the time, and we prepared
ourselves. When we saw him again, we were pleasantly surprised. Considering what he'd
been through, his color was good and he seemed in good spirits, even
energetic. The first thing he wanted to do was take his grandson fishing. I went
along figuring it would be a good time to talk, but we both used the boy as an
excuse not to discuss anything more than the damn Republicans and baseball.
That evening he and I sat on the living room couch as my wife and mother
played with our son in another room. We stared at each other uneasily.
"So how are you?" I asked.
"Better than I thought."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."
Suddenly, out of nowhere, my father said, "When the doctor told me I had
cancer, I cried."
I wanted to reach out and grab his shoulder, but I couldn't move or say
anything. Just then, my son rushed in and jumped on my lap. I hugged him and we
listened to him tell us that grandma said she would bake chocolate chip
cookies. Three years later, my father was dead.
Dad. I just wanted to say: I cried, too.
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