Over 25 years ago my dad started out his tour of duty as a Rochester police officer like any other day. He laced up his bullet proof vest, put his uniform on and belted his gun belt. He went to roll call, got his patrol car assignment and went out into the streets to begin his shift. Unbeknownst to him, this was no ordinary day. About an hour and a half into his morning he blacked out while driving his patrol car. Luckily his foot fell off the pedal and the car came to a stop alongside one of the city's streets without hitting anything or anyone. Unlike the mini-war zone that the city's become today, back then there still were good people who lived there who appreciated the police that kept them safe. One of these people saw my dad slumped over the wheel of his patrol car, stopped and called for help on his police radio. Help quickly came and he was whisked away to the hospital.
My dad came from the generation that grew up smoking cigarettes. It was something everyone did, the long-term health risks still unknown. He also worked a profession that came with a lot of stress that had a culture of drinking it away. For the past few weeks he'd been getting severe headaches and had made an appointment with his doctor. Now the appointment was a moot point. Numerous tests were run and the diagnosis wasn't very promising. The doctors gave him six months to live. He had advanced lung cancer.
Even though my parents got a divorce when I was three years old they always were a united couple when it came to things involving me. Looking back I was thankful that they could put their differences aside so that they could be my parents. I always felt loved by both of them.
That being said my relationship with my dad was always a distant one until I became a teenager. I started riding my bike over to his house. We spent more and more time together. We had some incredibly special fishing trips, developed my love of watching sci-fi movies and began to eek out our relationship and father and son. All of this made the diagnosis even more difficult to take for a young 16 year old boy growing into what I am today.
The next nine months were the most agonizing thing my mom and I ever went through. We both tried to spend what time we could with him. But it was a difficult transformation to watch. The cancer was vicious and had also spread to his brain. Over the course of nine months the 6'3" tall 250 pound man that I knew as my dad became a frail, 100 pound shadow of himself who didn't know who he was, where he was or who we were. My mom though stuck by his side until the end. She still loved him until he died.
The passing of my dad was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to deal with. Eventually we all have to deal with this situation, but typically after we've learned a little more about life. To this day I don't know how I managed to graduate high school, not kill myself or wind up in prison. Even though it was a difficult thing to go through, his death shaped what I am today. It wasn't the healthiest way to do it, but I lost 60 pounds that summer and my days of obesity were history. I got my act together and graduated college, followed in the footsteps of the family business of law enforcement and swore in honor of him that I'd never smoke a single cigarette.
Through the years I've kept that promise and have yet to try smoking. I've even managed to keep the weight off and as you know, become somewhat of a running fanatic. I'm even a physical fitness instructor with my department now. I guess sometimes great things can come out of terrible events.
It's been a rough two weeks. Last week my family celebrated my son's 10th birthday. It was a time of joy recalling the past crazy nine years of him growing into the incredible little man that he is today. He was born on his grandfather's birthday and if the doctor's are right, will easily surpass his at 6'3" height. He's already a little giant and I have trouble believing he's the same little preemie that I first laid eyes on so long ago. A few days before our celebration my mom admitted to me that after some medical tests her doctor told her that she may have lung cancer.
The following week was supposed to be a relaxing one of some much needed vacation time. Time to spend with my family, catch up on some good books, finally finish painting my cabinets and enjoy some good runs. Instead it was spent taking my mom to doctor's appointments hearing the news that 50 years of cigarette smoking had given her lung cancer.
At first I was furious with her for not quitting 25 years ago after watching my dad die. But as time went by I realized that I'm not perfect either. I have my vices too and some of them aren't good for me either. Anger's been replaced with compassion.
As I write this I'm sitting in her room at the same hospital they first brought my dad too. After 25 years I still hate the smell. Today she's having a procedure to see if the cancer is contained enough that the infected section of her lung can be removed. If not then there's other treatments of radiation and chemotherapy to follow. We're all terrified, but at least she's finally had her last cigarette.
I first hated this disease 25 years ago, through a bout of skin cancer myself, through numerous relatives and friends struck with it and will now hate it forever.
Many people falsely believe that cancer is a modern disease. But it's been around for quite some time. The oldest known records of it date back to 1600 BC where treatment was being done by the Egyptians for breast cancer. That makes me wonder what's the use in all this healthy living I've been doing? Who knows that in another 40 years I'll be taken by this disease that loves my family so much? But that isn't how it works. Evidence suggests that good health habits do matter.
I know that everyone hates Lance Armstrong, as they should. He's certainly done a lot of things to warrant that hatred. But he did get one thing right, he founded the Livestrong Foundation. I quickly embraced their philosophy of taking the battle to the disease and living your life to the fullest whether you have it, have loved ones who have it or have lost some to it. Even though it's not in fashion like it once was I still proudly wear that old yellow wristband.
It means so much. It's for my dad, it's because I survived my own scare with it and now it's for my mom who needs all the encouragement she can get to fight like hell.
My running, racing and zest for life will most definitely be dedicated to her this year. I woke up at 3 AM this morning so that I could get my two miles in for a friend who just had a large tumor removed yesterday and to continue my running streak before I came to the hospital. Some people who read this will think that's a little crazy waking up that early to run. But that's not it at all.
Be strong when you are weak.
Be brave when you are scared.
Be humble when you are victorious.
Be badass everyday.
And LIVESTRONG!
No comments:
Post a Comment