TINY LIFE MOMENT
It’s Only Cancer
A Tiny Life Moment about one father’s terminal cancer
The moment:
“What did the doctor say?” I casually asked my dad, trying to remain as stoic as possible.
“It’s only cancer — lung and liver. Well, it started in my lungs and now it’s in my liver,” dad replied, his eyes never leaving the television.
He casually relayed what the oncologist said: chemo and immunotherapy would be the first-line treatments. They may work, or they might not. The cancer could get better, or worse, or wax and wane.
“Ah, well that sucks,” I replied, stunned. We both let out an unsuppressed chuckle; laughing at the worst of times is a family trait of sorts.
I excused myself to my office, where I sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
Reflection:
There is no “right” way to respond to devastating news. I mirrored my dad’s attitude and remained as calm as possible. If there’s anything my dad hates, it’s when I get overly emotional. This moment was for him, not me; though I felt as if my entire world was crashing around me, I was not the one staring mortality in the face.
About a week before this conversation, dad had gone to the hospital for chest pains. Initially, I wasn’t worried — he’d had a heart attack almost two decades ago, and I figured he was at the hospital as a precaution for his heart.
I knew something was different when I called him in the hospital. He barely spoke, instead responding with a “yeah” or a forced laugh at my attempts to make jokes about hospital food and Maryland traffic. He was entirely too quiet, and my heart knew something serious was happening.
You see, my father and I are extroverts. If we were a Dr. Seuss poem, we’d go a little something like this:
We’ll talk to strangers in a house,
We’ll talk to people with a mouse.
We’ll talk to strangers here or there,
We’ll talk to anyone, anywhere.
My father’s silence was deafening.
And so, my father and I are grieving his diagnosis differently. When we speak to one another, we are level-headed, rational, and calm. We discuss the future in facts and plans: his pension will go to mom, his 401(k) goes to my brother and me. He sent me a list of family expenses for my mother and brother, so I can ensure they are taken care of properly. We make jokes about his final wishes, “do whatever is cheapest and don’t make a big deal out of it,” he jokes (dad is known for his frugality.)
Alone, I grieve. I cry, I write, I get angry. I play video games or take the dogs on a walk to distract myself. And that’s okay.
My brother, who is much younger than I, is just like our dad: he grieves in silence. He goes to work, goes to the shooting range, and immerses himself in building projects at his workstation. Occasionally, when he and I are alone, we’ll talk about dad. And we’ll cry, and laugh, and talk about the future. And that’s okay.
Mom, well, she’s the family crier. And we love her for it. And that’s okay, too.
Takeaways:
- There is no “wrong” way to grieve, just don’t hurt yourself (like using drugs or alcohol to cope, for example.)
- Do not expect others to process emotions the same way you do.
- If you react to bad news in a way you didn’t expect, that is completely fine! There isn’t a playbook for grief and coping; you may react in a way that is highly unusual for you.
