My 5 is For Dad: We’re All in This Together
By: Matt Curtis
Tags: 5 For The Fight, Cancer, Dads

My 5 is for my dad

Dad, I remember vividly the day I took you skiing for your birthday, just over nine years ago. I had skied to the bottom of a wide bowl and waited while you worked your way down. I guess I had youth and speed still on my side, and you had learned a little more caution. It was cloudy, and the white blankness of the sky melded into the powder on the mountain in bland uniformity. It’s funny that such a blanched day sticks out with such stark color in my memory now.

“How did your latest checkup go?” I inquired when you caught up at last. It had been five years since your cancer diagnosis, and about four years since you beat it, but you still checked in with your oncologist at regular intervals.

“There were some spots on the x-rays,” you replied. “They were really small, barely visible, and the doctor said they might just be noise in the image.” You designed x-ray machines for a living and knew all about this. You seemed convincing in shrugging off the anomaly.

This was not part of the script. Time slowed and gravity increased.

And yet, as the words fell nonchalantly from your lips, I was keenly aware of this first aberration in our frequent dialogs on the subject. This was not part of the script. Time slowed and gravity increased. The moment disengaged from the regular flow of ephemeral experience and registered itself permanently in my brain. I wondered if this was the beginning of another battle.

Within weeks there was a diagnosis: stage 4 lung cancer.

Well, I consoled myself, we beat it the last time, and we’ll do it again. But further talks with you soon painted a darker picture: you don’t beat this kind of cancer. You never get rid of it. It sticks with you until it takes you.

That began another series of life changes. You started thinking about creating the circumstances that would best benefit Mom after you were gone. There was downsizing your home and simplifying your financial affairs. You moved closer to the kids. Some of these decisions hurt as you sacrificed some of your present comfort to better her future. Your love for her was evident in each step of your careful planning.

And of course, treatments began again. I dreaded this, remembering how many times during your previous cancer you languished through painful, solitary nights of suffering. There were nights too where loved ones suffered a little with you, unable to sleep because of what we knew you were going through.

Thankfully, treatments were milder this time. The goal was to slow the progress of the disease, not “give it both barrels” as they had previously done. You handled the injustice of it all with dignity. You bore the pain with bravery.

My wife, dad, daughter, and me during one of our wonderful family memories

Those last three years were a gradual slowing down. You had retired from work and enjoyed new hobbies such as professional consulting and weekday hikes on mountain trails, only to eventually give them up, one by one. We made many wonderful family memories though, including finally taking that cruise we had discussed for years. I treasured our time together, haunted as it was by the specter of the diagnosis.

I will never forget how you spent countless hours in those final, exhausted months of your life preparing an autobiography to leave to your wife and posterity — a tangible bit of you that would outlast your body. You had them printed and bound, and each copy included a hand-written note, personalized for the recipient.

I remember unwrapping my copy on Christmas, just twelve days before you passed away. I was keenly cognizant that I was loosening tape on wrapping paper that your feeble, spent hands had painstakingly applied — a task that took you many times longer than it would have taken anyone else, due to your depleted physical condition. But you wanted to personally wrap each copy, so you wouldn’t let Mom help. It was part of the gift. I still have the wrapped copy you made for my daughter, ready for her to receive when she is old enough to read the cursive note you wrote to her — I remember your instructions.

It seemed as if our concept of family expanded just a little, to embrace a larger portion of humanity than we had previously considered.

Your hospice nurses were so kind, patient, and helpful during your last months. So many people visited, sent you well-wishes, and prayed for your comfort. Throughout your eight-year cancer experience, you told me how much it meant to you when business contacts you had in China or India or other faraway places would tell you that they were thinking of you and praying for you. Location, race, and religion were irrelevant when it came to expressing love and support. It seemed as if our concept of family expanded just a little, to embrace a larger portion of humanity than we had previously considered.

The final days were very hard and I don’t really want to recall them in much detail. By the time your final battle was over, we had all been through a war. Our recovery took a long time.

Now, over six years later, I am able to look at your picture again and smile — usually. I am able to visit Mom in your home, where you are still so very present, and remember you with happiness — usually. I am able to remember our time together without tainted feelings — usually.

Remembering you and how things used to be

But occasionally your absence hits me hard. At times I miss you so acutely that I feel something approaching physical pain. And experiencing times like these reminds me of all those who are presently going through what our family went through just a few years ago. The suffering. The long, sleepless nights. The hoping against hope. The exhaustion. The eventual resignation and acceptance.

I am encouraged to learn about research going on. There are promising leads to chase down. There are brilliant people working on this. There is hope. Maybe someday we can eliminate this source of pain from the world. If we can, it would be worth the fight.

So in your honor, Dad, I am helping just a little in the fight against cancer through 5 For The Fight. I’m donating from my paycheck, running the 5k, wearing the t-shirt, and spreading the word. This is a cause worth pursuing. I believe we’ll eventually win, and in the meantime, we’ll do what we can to lessen the suffering.

After all, as we learned through your cancer experience, our family is all of humanity; we’re all in this together.

Today, My 5 is for my dad, to tell him how much he means to me. #5forthefight #My5isFor

5 For The Fight on Medium crowdsources wisdom from those affected by cancer.