death and a smile

Ten years ago, on November 4th, my father passed away, ravaged by the slow, but ruthless grip of prostate cancer. Nine years ago, on November 4th, my mother lost her fight with lung cancer. She was a non-smoker.

It should be pretty easy for me to hate November 4th. Anniversaries like this are not much fun to face for anyone. While I think it is important to recognize a dark event and acknowledge that it caused profound change, I don't see much good that can come of dwelling and obsessing. Whether it's Pearl Harbor, 9/11, or a personal tragedy, it is often difficult to think beyond "we could have prevented it" or "so-and-so is to blame for this". This is not to belittle any one event, but tragedies are unfortunately a part of life. Dying is part of life. No one likes it, and it isn't any fun to think about, but in the end, whether we are vice presidents, doctors, attorneys, convenience store clerks, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, we all stop living at some point for some reason. We are no different than plants, bugs, dogs, cats, computers, cars, or batteries: all eventually cease to function. And please don't batter me with discussions about afterlife....that is an entirely different matter, and subject to a huge array of beliefs. This is simply about cessation of the here and now.

After losing my folks, I choose to remember their legacy and the things they instilled in me. They were a part of the WWII generation. I came along much later than my sisters, more on the cusp of Generation X rather than the end of the Boomers (yes, maybe I was an "oops" but no less loved). I feel fortunate to have been raised by them, for theirs was a generation of saying what you mean, meaning what you say, and doing what you say you will do. They taught me to be trustworthy and honest; dependable, and reasonable. Dad was a total nut with a rather twisted sense of humor that seems to have been passed down to my children. He would always take me to jazz concerts in the park, and make the best homemade chocolate peanut butter milkshakes in the world. Mom was the sweetest, dearest lady you could imagine, and always stood up for what she believed. The day Dad died was an election day, and Mom still went out to vote. That's the kind of person she was. If there is one aspect of losing them that still remains painful, it's that my kids will know them only through stories and photos. But when they died, they were in their 70s, so there is some solace in knowing that they lived relatively full lives. Had the cancer not done them in, the ravages of time likely would have before my children were born.

But it is this thought that cancer killed them that still gnaws at me and it has gnawed me to the point that it has changed the way I see things. I see the value in life's small things more clearly now; I never take sunset and sunrise for granted, and a crying baby is not a nuisance, but rather a melody of new life. My parents' cancer has taught me to be aware and to be informed. I know now to watch for things and to take control of the situation, always asking the right questions about what's best. Perhaps that is their greatest legacy - bringing to light the realities and tribulations of cancer. It made me seek information, it got me involved with the Lance Armstrong Foundation, and it enabled me access to resources that may one day save my children's lives. When we learned that my wife, Dena, had early stage cervical cancer, we did not panic. We knew that there was information available and there were means to fight it. My own fate may very well include the same disease that took my father, but in one sense, I can thank him and I know the steps to avoid that same demise.

During those days, my folks lived in Colorado Springs. In the end, I spent many evenings after work and long weekends driving that 60 mile stretch. I was at work in downtown Denver when I got the call that I had "better get down there". Dad had suddenly taken a turn. I was just with him two days earlier at his bedside. We didn't say much, because he was very weak. He called me over closer to him to make sure I took his collection of watches, the most prized of which was a gold Hamilton that he'd received for his high school graduation. He knew. He just knew. I didn't make it to the Springs before he passed. And in my mother's last days, she had suffered a stroke. We later learned that her cancer had spread to her brain. She was never herself in the end, but I was with her when she died and I held her hand before her last breath. There was a strange moment where she suddenly seemed very alert and she squeezed my fingers ever so slightly as if she woke up and wanted to fight it. "It's ok Mom", we all said, "it's ok to go now". And she did.

Those are the things I do not care to remember. Those last memories are the ones that drive me to work for the LAF, and to help in the fight against the disease. Those are the memories which infuriate me when I think of the billions and billions that our nation spends on bombs at the same time it cuts millions from cancer research, clinical trials, and survivorship funding.
But mostly, I remember the good things....the family vacations, shooting hoops in the driveway, milkshakes, jazz concerts; their pride at my graduation from college, watching elk from the deck of their mountain home. Those things make me smile. Thanks Mom & Dad, for all the things you taught me, and for all that you gave me.