Batter Up: Curve Ball Coming

I got a call from my Dad yesterday evening that both shocked and, yet, did not surprise me at all. How is that even possible? I’m telling you…it is. In his long, drawn out preamble to what it was he wanted to tell me, my mind took me to all of the worst possible places and I was already crafting responses. Turns out my mind was right on track. After he made me promise not to tell a soul, and I did so with crossed fingers, he told me that his wife, my step-mother for 21 years, loving Grandma to my kids, has Cancer. Colon cancer.

After I admitted that I didn’t even know what to say, he told me that the reason he was confiding in me was because I was just through this with my Mom and I would know what to do…the questions to ask. Yeah, I know the burning question on my mind…Why? For most of my Mom’s heartbreaking battle, we refrained from asking that "W" question. Looking back, I think it had much to do with the fact that my Mom rarely did. She always said, “It is what it is,” and she dealt with it as best as she could getting treatment and living her life. I wasn’t so strong yesterday and while I never spoke it, I thought I really wanted an answer.

My response at being asked to be my Dad’s confidante was…”Dad, I know nothing about colon cancer.” Nice. Way to throw a leaky inner tube to a man whose lungs are filling with freezing water and then cut the twine. I immediately felt so selfish and ashamed, but also so sad and scared. You see this isn’t about my Mom and it isn’t about me, but it is hard for me to admit that.

Then I started asking the obligatory questions. Details about the diagnosis and the treatment plan, which are both in the early stages and hopefully the cancer is too. For heaven’s sake, they just got home from the hospital. She went straight to bed exhausted, I am sure, from the shrapnel that has ripped holes in her life, and my Dad was making a meatloaf, just comfort food for any other cold, rainy day. Life goes on. Right? Please, someone tell me how?

I spent the rest of the night stuck in a somber, sulking state. I was a tight rope walker balancing on the narrow life line between the dark abyss and stoic strength unable to cry and unable to scream. When this emotional paralysis strikes me, I want to shut out every one and live as a secluded island as we all know no man is.

On my way to work this morning, I started to thaw. Coming back to life hurts. It stings as the feeling returns and our shaken nerves alert every inch of the body to brace for what is in store. I knew I couldn’t do Christian music (too fragile) or talk radio (too angry), so I just cried in silence.

After I calmed down and did a little research on the Web at only reputable sites, I called my Dad. We talked for a good, long while and we had a good, long talk.

This is particularly hard on my Dad because he doesn’t trust hospitals and he has little respect for doctors. I did ask him to put those feelings aside and to just accept that surgeons are difficult and will never give them the time of day that they feel they need and/or deserve. Now having written that, I realize that there most definitely are exceptions to my hard and fast rule, but my Dad is someone who sees the world in only two colors: dark black and stark white. Here’s the thing, my Dad was receptive and I actually think genuinely appreciative of my advice and that may be a first. I feel the weight and responsibility of that seismic shift and I am not absolutely certain how I feel about it. I’m scared to see my Dad scared. But it’s not about me. My Dad is scared and he needs my support and he will have it no matter how difficult it is for me to tread on hostile territory and expose recent wounds still raw, festering and fleshy. I know how scared my Dad is when he talks about keeping life as normal as possible. And I also know that we do what we have to do because it is what it is, but we do not do it alone!