By Anonymous
The Throat
It’s October 2008 when we get the diagnosis.
My father’s dream business of becoming a property owner had crumbled and left my family with no choice but to start over. With few other choices, my dad had decided to become a correctional officer at the prison in our small town. Training was eight weeks long and at a facility nearly seven hours away from my home; meaning that for those weeks my mother had to act as a single parent to three rambunctious children. The days were long and I can remember jumping into my father’s arms on weekends, excited to see the puzzle piece that completed our family jigsaw.
The throat is a rather unappreciated part of our body. It transports food from our mouths to our stomachs and it houses other important parts such as the esophagus and trachea. You only ever realize the importance of your throat until you have a viral infection that causes it to become sore. During the few weeks of training my father noticed something unsettling, his throat was constantly sore. He was eating nearly thirty lozenges a day to find some relief from the constant pain.
Enjoying the last few days of warm weather, I roll down the window of our red van and stick my hand out the window. The warm air rushes in between my fingers, cascading off of my outstretched palm and into my hair that blows in the breeze. As our van struggles up the mountainous back roads that lead to my home, my mom and I chat about how our days went. When you drive to my house, there’s this sudden curve in the road that makes the whole thing unsafe. It’s unexpected and bordered by tall oak trees on either side of the road. A local firefighter once died here when he drove the firetruck too fast around the curve, causing it to overturn and crash into the sturdy oaks.
As my mother slowly navigates around the curve she says, “Laura, honey. So you know that Dad has been having trouble with his throat? Well, they think it might be cancer. They’re not sure and more testing needs to be done, but I wanted to keep you updated.”
I wasn’t sure what cancer was, but I knew that it killed people. I could feel salty tears brimming in my eyes. I had to be brave, I had to trust in the uncertainty that everything was going to be okay. As our van completed winding around the curve, my eyes focused on the wooden cross adorned with flowers and a sign that said “Rest in peace.”
Perhaps one of the shittiest things about knowing that you may have cancer, is waiting for the official diagnosis. My mom and dad never left each other’s side. My family hoped and prayed for a miracle while awaiting the phone call from the doctors. When you’re diagnosed with cancer, the doctors aren’t supposed to tell you over the phone. Experiencing traumatic information over the phone may cause people to panic. When the office called to confirm that they had received the test results and would like to schedule an appointment to meet with my father, he demanded to know what the results were. I imagine the doctor tried to talk him out of it, but my father has always been stubborn. He wanted to know.
My mom says that one of her biggest regrets was leaving the house that day. As our red van came down the driveway, there was my father. He stood next to our laundry line in the middle of the yard wearing tan shorts and a red shirt. His fists were clenched at his side, pulled tight in balls of tension so that the veins in his arms were visible. His chest was heaving, moving up and down without control. His eyes- I’ve never seen a human convey such grief and fear through their eyes. It was enough to reduce me to tears, striking fear into the core of my soul. Sobbing, he frantically motioned for my mother to get out of the van and talk to him.“You can just go inside, Laura.” My mom said.
This was the throat that had cancer.
The Brain
My family feared for the day that we had to tell my grandmother that her son had throat cancer; despite his having led a healthy life and never having smoked. We agonized over the details of our nightmarish reveal, not wanting to upset her too greatly. We started by prefacing the conversation by letting her know it was serious, “Grandma we really need to tell you something and it’s not great news.”
The brain is often described as the command center of the body; it is the intellectual hub of our otherwise directionless skeleton. It processes emotions, houses memories, and generates thoughts and reactions based off of events. Psychologists and neuroscientists are fascinated with the idea that grief or sadness can cause physical pain and chemical imbalances within our brains. What happens when an event is simply too frightening or traumatizing to process?
My grandmother stretched her body across the white sofa, letting her head fall onto the armrest. The smell of curry floated through the air from the Indian neighbors cooking next door. Outside of this apartment life was transpiring; but behind the autumn wreath that adorned the door it had come to a screeching halt. My grandmother’s face swelled as if she was having an allergic reaction to something. She cried until her eyes could no longer produce tears. She mourned for her son, her son who was still alive. Having been a nurse for fifty years, she knew that his chances of survival were slim.
In the days following his diagnosis, my father was a walking zombie. I imagine that he contemplated serious questions of life and reflected on his own journey. Crying became an accepted part of our daily routine for my family; we had to express the emotions which gripped our hearts so tightly. I thought of my wedding day, would my dad see my wedding from heaven? Who would walk me down the aisle? I pictured my younger brother twenty years from now, would he forget what dad was like?
With my brother and sister enrolled in school counseling, I was the only child in the family not receiving professional help through this difficult time. My parents asked me repeatedly if I would like to see someone, but I always insisted I was okay. I could get through the days with a brave face and I could tell you all about how my dad had cancer. “He’s lost sixty pounds and can’t eat anything. When he eats, he throws it back up. All of his hair is gone and he’s pretty weak; but everything is going good.”
My hard exterior and ability to speak fluidly about my father’s condition escaped me at night. Crawling to the foot of my bed and sitting on my knees, I often wrapped blankets around my head so that my sobs couldn’t be heard by my parents in the bedroom upstairs. My nightly prayer ritual was hours long and lasted until I had cried myself to sleep. I frantically pled to a higher power to save my dad, just this once. I promised a lot of impossible things in return. “And I promise that I’ll never be mean to my siblings again. I’ll go to church every day for the rest of my life and I’ll always love other people. Kill me, God. Take me because my family can’t live without my dad.”
Following the diagnosis, my father went on medications designed for persons coping with traumatic events. These medicines helped him step back from our world so that the piercing reality that his life might be ending didn’t seem so jagged.
These were the brains that mourned.
The Chest
When you’re undergoing chemotherapy, the doctors have to have a way to pump the chemicals into your body. The chest is the area between your neck and abdomen; it houses the ribs that protect many of your vital organs. Due to the large surface area of the chest, it makes it the perfect place to put in a “port” which feeds the chemotherapy into the body.
Getting a port placed in your chest is what doctors call a same-day surgery. It’s generally a short procedure and frequently performed on cancer patients. The day my father went in for the procedure was the day that the cancer became real. Since the minute of diagnosis my family had been paralyzed in fear, unable to think straight. The port was a clear indication that it was time to stop feeling sorry for ourselves, this cancer was going to be dealt with.
Ports look like a fluid filled cyst beneath the skin that stretches the subcutaneous layer to unimaginable proportions. When my father came home from surgery, it looked as if a bottle cap had been forced into the right side of his chest, causing the area around this foreign invasion to turn a dark purple and black. A white string emerged from the bottle cap and rested upon his chest like a slimy worm. When I looked at my father, I made every effort not to look at the port. Its appearance made my stomach turn.
Not looking at the port was more difficult than it sounds. The area around it was always so sensitive and irritable, that my father took a pair of scissors and cut circular holes in all his shirts to avoid further inflammation. As he walked around the house with the string swaying from side to side across his chest, I felt stick to my stomach. However, staring at the bottle cap-string contraption made me realize that there was hope. Doctors were fighting this cancer and if they could do it, so could my family.
This was the chest with the bottle cap.
The Tongue
In compliance with the strict treatment recommendations, my father underwent chemotherapy and radiation at the same time. It was a radical treatment plan. After enduring hours of chemotherapy in one office, my father would walk over to another office for radiation. The doctors and specialists were nervous to perform radiation on my father’s neck because it was such a vulnerable area. If the beams weren’t aimed at precisely the correct location, they could strike the thyroid or face. To avoid this, they fit my father for a mask that could be bolted down to the radiation table. When the mask was over his face, the scene in the radiation room looked like that of a modern day torture chamber.
The side effects of the radiation were what truly made my father sick. The human tongue is approximately four inches long and is the primary organ for taste. It aids in the process of chewing and swallowing, successfully transporting food to the stomach.
After four weeks of radiation, my father made a horrifying discovery; he could no longer taste food. Although the delicious aromas associated with his favorite foods such as cake or pie still caused his mouth to water, the substance tasted like nothing but cardboard. Eating had become a chore for my father. In addition to not being able to taste anything, the chemotherapy caused him to feel nauseated.
“It’s breakfast for dinner.” My mom said as my siblings and I rejoiced. We loved breakfast for dinner and tonight we were making scrambled eggs and pancakes. Sitting down at the large oak stained table, my brother began rambling about his day at school and soccer practice. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my father take a bite of the eggs. He scrunched his face with the same distaste that is associated with eating something sour. Bite after bite, he shifted his weight in the chair and poised his body as if he was getting ready to jump up. “And then Ryan kicked the soccer goal, but that should’ve been my goal because I had been there the whole….” my brother stopped his words mid sentence as our attention turned to my father. Jumping up from his chair and running into the bathroom, I heard the noise of his weak vomiting as he lost the few calories he could consume. For the next month, my father never ate a meal with us. He couldn’t bring himself to chew the textured cardboard that had become our meals.
Instead, he turned to beer. This may seem like an odd choice of nutrition for a cancer patient, but it was the only thing he could drink that had a substantial amount of calories. My father loves to joke that beer saved his life, but in some ways the statement is very true.
I was in seventh grade when my dad had cancer and I weighed one hundred twenty pounds. My father was six foot one and forty nine years old when he had cancer and he weighed one hundred fifty pounds. If you’ve ever seen the horrific pictures of concentration camp survivors from World War II, then you have a slightly exaggerated idea of how malnourished my father appeared.
The doctors begged him to have a feeding tube put in place and my father agreed right away. At the pre-surgery consultation he pressured the doctors for the specifics of the operation. “Once the feeding tube is in place you’ll have a bag that is attached to an IV pole. The IV pole will go everywhere with you. The bag will drop the nutrient-rich fluid into your stomach and help you to maintain weight.” My father was horrified at the idea of such an invasive surgery and immediately cancelled the procedure, promising to work on eating food and maintaining weight. His efforts were fruitless and in the following weeks he lost an additional five pounds. After relentless pressuring from the nurses, he scheduled another feeding tube operation.
Twenty four hours before, he called and cancelled. “Mr. James, truly think about if you want to cancel this operation. We’ll never schedule you again.” My father replied, “Good, you don’t have to.”
This was the tongue that couldn’t taste.
The Eyes
“Laurabelle, I’m going to go see a property on Lake Lamoka, do you want to come with me?” My father’s voice came over the home intercom system with a soft lull. Dad’s driving all the way there? “Yes!” I yelled at the intercom.
Four weeks out of chemotherapy and radiation he was regaining strength and interest in the world around him. “Now, I don’t want you to tell your mother, but listen, I’m thinking about buying this place. It’s a little expensive, but it’s an island. A real private island nestled in the Finger Lakes. Can you imagine? It’s a private island and we could own it.”
The eyes are a pair of globular organs that allow humans to view the world around them through a complicated system of cones and rods. It is the source through which we view the world, the good and the bad. My father’s eyes were dim when he had cancer, the light was lost as he fought for his life. As my father shook the hand of the real estate agent, I saw the light of his eyes return as we surveyed the property.
It was a two-acre island located on Lamoka Lake which was only accessible by walking over a four hundred foot rickety bridge. On the island stood an old house with a wrap-around deck that had panoramic views of the lake and surrounding hills. The lake was shallow, unable to be swim in due to the large amount of mud collecting at the bottom. On the Northern end, a swamp was in the back that housed thousands of animals. Birds swooped through the reeds as turtles lay on logs and fish jumped in the water. My father looked at that island and he saw paradise. “Man, this island is really amazing. Why would anyone want to give this up? Why is it for sale?” he asked the real estate agent. “It’s really sad, the man loved this place, but he died of throat cancer.”
I looked at the expression on my father’s face, he was shocked. “Listen man, I think we’ll buy it.” he said.
These were the eyes that saw hope.
I can’t begin to explain the appreciation I have for the medical geniuses that saved my father’s life or the friends and family who helped us through our struggles. It’s 2015 and my father has been cancer-free for seven years. The world is beautiful and it has beautiful people. I am forever indebted to the kind souls who accepted our fears with open arms and acted as a blessing for us. I can only hope to have such a profound impact on other people’s lives. My family’s journey with cancer didn’t end when my father completed chemotherapy and radiation. I make an effort to speak about his cancer so that people around me know that a cancer diagnosis doesn’t mean death. Too often we associate the words cancer and death together, but there’s hope.
I have grown up far faster than many of my peers because I understand the enormous gift of life. Young people like to believe that they are invincible, but in reality we are vulnerable to the chaotic and beautiful world around us. My father is the most inspirational man I know and he carries his wisdom with grace. As my family sits on the deck at our island, the world shrinks into Lamoka Lake. All worries and fears disappear as I enjoy time with the people who love me most.