That afternoon, I went alone to the hospital to tell my father that he had cancer. I made my way ever so slowly from the car through the lobby to the elevator and up to his room, all the while rehearsing dozens of ways to tell him. Each one was different, yet each the same -- unacceptable.
When I arrived, he wanted to know how everyone else was doing and wanted to be sure that there wasn't any needless worry for him. I couldn't get around to telling him for over an hour, because I couldn't find a place to begin. Then Dad, in such a simple, easy way, as he had done so many times before, gave me an opening, an opportunity to succeed. He said, "The hardest thing about all of this is not knowing."
Now all my excuses were gone. "Dad," I said, "I talked to the doctor earlier this afternoon. It's cancer."
He stared at the ceiling and chewed on his lower lip. After a few moments he said softly, "Damn." It was the first display of any sense of letdown or anger since he had learned of the spot. We sat in silence for awhile, and then he asked, "How did your mother take it?"
"As well as could be expected, I guess, but she's very upset," I replied.
I went on to explain the operation for the removal of his right lung and the good prognosis for recovery. He felt more optimistic and joked, "I guess I'll have to slow down after all of this is over -- no more all-night parties."
The operation was scheduled for one o'clock Friday afternoon -- just one week after the phone call from my mother. My wife and I went to the hospital about 10 a.m. and talked with Dad for three hours. Like always, there was much laughter and leg‑pulling. He reminisced about his first Model‑A Ford that was lucky to run to the end of the block and about the time he had to give a speeding ticket to the base admiral. I rolled my eyes in mock disbelief at his tried-and-somewhat‑true war stories and shared a wonderful morning that I shall never forget. We gave him an upbeat good‑bye, and the nurses prepared to take him to the operating room.
I watched him being wheeled away feet first. The oxygen mask was over his face, and his hair was mussed. Suddenly, Dad turned his head around to have one last glimpse of us. He had a look in his eyes that one sees on a small child who has been thrown into a strange and fearful situation for the first time. It was unnerving coming from the man who, for all of my life, had been my rock, my shelter from the storm. And there was nothing I could do for him -- except pray.
By Monday morning, Dad was over the hump. The doctors claimed success in removing all of the cancer along with his right lung. He was in intensive care and was scheduled to be moved to his regular room on Tuesday. Mikki and I decided to return home with our daughter, Wendy, and stopped by the hospital for a short visit on our way. Wendy was not allowed in the I.C.U., so we had to visit Dad in shifts. Mikki went first, and then it was my turn.
I told him how glad I was that he had made it. He said to me: "I guess I am what they call 'blessed among men.' I have a wonderful family who literally drops everything to come to me in this difficult time. What else could a man want in the winter of his life? I love you, son."
"I know you do; I've always known it," I said. "I love you, too, Dad."
He asked to borrow my electric shaver to freshen up, but he was so weak and tired that he couldn't finish. I picked up the shaver, placed my hand on his balding head, tilted it just a bit and finished for him.
When we got home, the adrenalin that had been sustaining us finally gave out. We took the phone off the hook and collapsed into bed for some much-needed sleep. The knock came at the door in the wee hours. The policeman said, "Call your sister. It's about your father."
At first, all she could get out was, "He passed away." Then, she said something about his oxygen level rapidly deteriorating as his left lung wasn't able to do the job, not enough oxygen in his system, irregular heart beats, cardiac arrest, 2 a.m., doctor very sorry. I was trying, in my awakening state, to process all the words.
The funeral was like watching a movie. I performed the appropriate gestures -- greeting friends and relatives, expressing thanks, crying and hugging. But a part of me refused to participate. My feelings of shock and disbelief isolated me from the full impact of my loss...
Continue to (FINAL) Part 5 > > >
Copyright c 1991 by Dennis Volz
It's a Good Life !
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