My Daddy and I liked to ride horses. He taught me to ride. But that is not things we shared in common. On the night the above photo was taken, I had been indulging in another of our commonalities. After which I thought going barefoot after midnight through an artistic display of the Oklahoma land rush and hop on one of the 10 foot tall brass horses was a good idea.
My Daddy died of liver failure in 2020. He had cirrhosis for many years due to, we were told, contracting Hepatitis C while in the Army. When the illness became symptomatic, his doctor told him that he could drink or die. Daddy quit drinking that day. He was a very strong man that way. If he put his mind to something, nothing could stop him. He smoked as a young man, but declared he would stop smoking if the price of cigarettes ever reached $1.00 per pack. The story goes that he walked into a convenience store one day and asked for his regular brand. When the clerk said “That’ll be one dollar,” Daddy said “Keep it,” and walked away. He never smoked again. But, he craved them for many years after quitting, reaching for his breast pocket whenever anyone in his company lit up.
Daddy’s death certificate indicates “liver failure” as the final cause. Even though he had quit drinking many years ago, the damage was done by the Hep-C, I suppose. Cirrhosis is not curable, but treatment and management can extend life expectancy. With the help of good doctors, Daddy lived to 81. The week prior to his death, he received a liver cancer diagnosis, and I suspect he just didn’t want the hassle. He was gone the next Monday.
When his health history was discussed or during visits with a new member of his medical team, Daddy was always sure to say “non-alcoholic” cirrhosis, especially in the presence of our mother. I was amused by this, because it isn’t like he never took a drink in his life.
I remember being about 8 years old at a neighbor’s house for a cookout. I was allowed a sip from the rim of Daddy’s can of Coors, and I thought it tasted like his breath smelled. At that age, a girl thinks her Daddy is the greatest guy in the world, so that taste and smell equaled good in my mind. When I started drinking myself, Coors was the first thing I reached for. A cardinal in a tree outside my window brings my mother back to me, but a can of Coors always reminds me of Daddy.
When my siblings and I were young, one of our common weekend activities with Mom was “Let’s Find Daddy.” Our mother was a teetotaler and she never allowed alcohol in the house. On nights that Daddy didn’t come home after work (usually pay day) she would load all five of us in her little black station wagon and drive around to his favorite watering holes. With names like The Stork Club or The Celebrity Club, a child might get the idea that these were classy places… they weren’t. Our mother, maybe 100 pounds and a couple inches shy of 5 feet tall, would spot his white 1970 Chevelle SS, pull in, and tell us “wait here.” A few minutes later, Daddy stumbled out of the bar with tiny “Junie” hot on his heels. There was always an argument in the parking lot, her gesturing back at us peering out the car windows as Exhibit A of why he should come home at night. It didn’t always result in getting Daddy to come home, but Mom just wanted him to know that she knew, and his kids knew, what he was up to. Daddy eventually grew up and the “Let’s Find Daddy” game stopped by the time I reached junior high school. He still drank, but he didn’t spend his paychecks at the bars anymore.
They year I started driving, I discovered that Daddy had a secret in his truck; a bottle of Crown Royal in a soft purple bag tucked away in his 8 track tape case. This will mortify Crown Royal purists, but my girlfriends and I would take Daddy’s truck on a Saturday night, stop in at Sonic for a vanilla Coke add a “splash or three” from the bottle, and drive around town. If he ever noticed the level of that warm amber liquid was going down faster than it should, he never mentioned it – probably because that would have put the spotlight on himself with Mom. I learned many years later that I wasn’t the only one of Daddy’s kids who knew his secret.
So, you can see why Daddy’s emphasis on “non-alcoholic” was humorous to me. But, I also understand it completely. In his later years, he did not want to be judged for his past sins. He was sober now and he wanted to be seen for who he was in the present, not the past.
When I was 26 years old, I got cancer – Hodgkin’s Disease. I was lucky to have contracted it when I did because, just a few years prior, a breakthrough treatment was discovered that moved Hodgkin’s from a death sentence to “the one to get if you’re going to get cancer.” The treatment to shrink the fist-sized tumor behind my sternum was radiation from the bottom of my ears to my belly button, five days a week for six months. I was very sick, very weak, but in the end I went into remission. Just a few months shy of my five year mark, at the age of 31, the disease returned in another part of my body, the “lower Iliadic chain.” The recommended treatment was radiation to the area plus six months of chemotherapy. The memory of those 6 months is blurry. During that time, I had a best friend who was going through metastatic breast cancer treatment that she did not survive, the Federal Building in my home state was blown up by a terrorist and people I knew died, my then spouse was doing all kinds of sinister things behind my back. I could not work, I had no hair, no energy. I had a lovely support group within our church family. There was a long period of time after my remission that the sight of any type of casserole – especially shepherd’s pie – made me nauseous from remembering all those that showed up at my door while I struggled to keep water down. Those casserole bearers kept my children fed and my hope alive. I am forever grateful for them.
During this time, when the cancer was discussed, I was always quick to point out that my cancer did not have a cause; but if it did have a cause it was stress or being a Type A personality. I never wanted anyone to think I had done something to bring this situation on myself. I sometimes wonder if, unconsciously, I thought I might have.
I went into remission a second time, where I remain to this day. Over the next 15 years, I raised my kids, welcomed their new spouses and grandchildren, moved back home to Oklahoma, divorced that husband and met the love of my life and started a new life with him. I stopped drinking, exercised regularly including a daily yoga practice, and changed my diet to whole foods, organic, vegan.
At the 17 year mark, I started to have heart and lung related systems; something my doctors had said could happen when I got older as a result of the radiation. Yikes, I guess I am older.
I did research and learned that my chemotherapy protocol was no longer being used in that combination and some of the ingredients were banned because of known organ damage, especially to the heart. My thyroid recently stopped working. The bones in my back are starting to crumble.
In the last two years, I have had one heart valve replaced and another one repaired. My heart is working as well or better than most people of my age. But, now, I am working with a pulmonologist to help me to breathe correctly. I have a doctor to monitor my thyroid and another working on a plan for my bones. I go to cardio-pulmonary rehab three times a week. I take a breathing treatment and about 10 pills a day (15 if you count supplements), to keep things working adequately.
My doctors have confirmed that my heart, lungs, thyroid and bones are damaged from my prior cancer treatment. To summarize: it is not my fault! One cardiologist called me “told me I am “the world’s healthiest heart patient.” I wanted to have that phrase put on my driver’s license or at least on a t-shirt to prove to the world that I am innocent and my health issues are unearned.
Like my Daddy, any time my health issues are a topic of conversation, or when I meet with a new member of my medical team, I am quick to tell the cancer story. I know it is on my chart, but you know they don’t always read those. I’m sure the doctors and nurses meet many patients who have horrible diets, don’t exercise and engage in behaviors that cause ill health. I have imagined them in the breakroom, saying “Well of COURSE, his heart is failing, jelly donuts is not a food group!” I want them to know that I am not one of those. Daddy did not want to be judged and neither do I. Does anyone?
A few weeks ago, a woman called to schedule my first appointment for a pulmonology function test. She was so warm and sweet. She said she was going to ask for my co-pay but she didn’t think it was correct, so I could pay when I get there. She talked about when I should arrive, what to wear, what to expect, and that she really hoped I got good news and had a very blessed day. Immediately, I launched into the cancer story. This complete stranger with a full time job listened patiently as I rambled on. I ended my story with “cancer, what do you?” That’s when she told me that she just got a cancer diagnosis that morning and she would be meeting with the surgeon next week. I told her I was very sorry and asked her name. It’s LaKeesha. I said I would be praying for her. She said she would be praying for me.
This week LaKeesha called again to schedule my follow-up. I asked her how the appointment went. She paused, then said “I can’t believe you remembered.”
I said “You’re on my prayer list.”
I heard her voice catch, as she said “It helped, my prognosis is very good.”
She didn’t tell me what kind of cancer it was, she didn’t tell me she didn’t deserve it. What she did say is “The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t He, Miss Diane?”
As we hung up, I was pleased that we didn’t even talk about me. I began to realize how exhausting my need to tell the back story probably is and how unnecessary my telling it actually is. The lady in the checkout lane or the lab tech shooting my x-rays don’t really need to hear it. People have their own problems. The elderly woman on oxygen in the cardiologist waiting room doesn’t need me to imagine what she did to land her in that scooter; especially after she offered me piece of extra dark chocolate from the baggie in her purse. Shame on me for judging sick people. Most people I encounter are not judging me for being sick; but if they are, that’s on them.
When I focus on not being judged by others, I am doing just that to others. Who am I to judge the man for whom jelly donuts is a food group? No one deserves a life threatening illness. No one decides to behave in a way that is sure to land them in a specialist’s office. We all have a life expectancy, none of us makes it out alive. Judging doesn’t make any of that better.
I wish Daddy had learned that before he died. I’m glad I did. Oh sure, I will backslide from time to time, I did this morning, as a matter of fact. But, at least I am aware.
Do me a favor, if I launch into my cancer backstory in your presence, please stop me. If you have dark chocolate in your purse that will help.
