My parents were in dire financial straits most of my childhood, and I had no idea. I knew my dad had been suddenly injured in an accident, breaking his neck and acquiring myriad other injuries in the process. My stay-at-home mom entered the workforce. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have a degree, much less an advanced one that allows her to prescribe drugs.
I never felt the insecurity that kept my parents awake nights. Sure, a child can’t really understand the high rushing water of debt or cliff-edge rubble of the legal system. But a child can go hungry and know that something is wrong or feel emotionally neglected or see parents transform in desperation.
As an adult, I can’t believe my parents held things together as well as they did. Somehow, I thought my life was normal. I never imagined having a dad who went to work everyday or who wasn’t in chronic pain. My mom worked harder than most adults ever will, like a modern Rosie the Riveter who saved the day as Daddy went to war. She was a role model, but not an anomaly. My dad became a Texan Mr. Mom, which you really didn’t see much of back then and maybe not even now. (Once my piano teacher asked me, “Is there a mom?” I shot back, “Of course!” I hadn’t just wished myself there).
So my parents are good at sticking together and making things seem just fine when they are not even just.
I forgot that somehow when I first heard that there was a lump in my dad’s neck, on the inside of the same neck that’s been broken, which happens to be the same neck fostering squamous cell skin cancer. My dad said he didn’t think it was anything; my mom agreed. She gave me more details, and I wanted to ask those questions that reek of Terms of Endearment:
Is he going to die? Is he not going to see me grow up to be anything beyond what I am now? What will the world be like without him?
Anytime I get anywhere near those thoughts, though, I feel like someone has kicked me in the windpipe. Not to mention the bizarre tapioca of tears and snot that start congealing on my face. Needless to say, I didn’t seek any answers.
So my dad visited me in New York and the lump came with him. He mentioned it hurt when he swallowed, a dull reminder of his mortality. He eventually went back home and sold my childhood home, so he wouldn’t have to deal with renters anymore. His surgery was postponed.
Meanwhile, my mom occasionally told me the surgery was most likely not a big deal. Her reassurance was a favor I welcomed. It helped me focus on the insignificant crap that I usually think about, like “What time should I set the alarm for?” and “Where do I want to go on Saturday night?” and “When will I have time to explore all this stuff that interests me?”
The answers: Who cares? Doesn’t really matter. Maybe you won’t. The point is, you’re alive and healthy and probably have some time. Shut up already.
Friday was the big day. My parents went to the hospital, like in the days. Maybe not the good old ones, just the days. The surgeon was late. My dad most likely yearned for his peanut butter crackers. I checked my phone constantly, making sure to crank up the ring volume.
My mom called, and I was ready for a prognosis. Nothing. He had just been put under. It occurred to me that I heard something in her I have maybe never heard before - she was scared like she knew she might be indefinitely. Her worry lay thinly veiled by composure, like a blemish under make-up.
That’s when it fully clicked that I’d kinda been duped again.
They didn’t want me to worry, because there might not be anything worth worrying about. There were two possibilities: 1) My dad had infected lymph nodes that needed removing or 2) skin cancer had begun growing inside him and spreading roots into his muscles.
I’d heard the options, but they skewed so much on the side of the second one that I believed it. My dad would be okay, because he has become extremely good at it.
I waited a bit longer and got another call. My mom still didn’t sound normal. “He’s okay,” she said. “I am so relieved.” It was the longest short sentence I’ve ever heard her say, and we’re from the South, ya’ll.
We are all feeling much better now. I spoke to my dad the evening of his surgery, and he was chipper. “I’m glad it wasn’t cancer. I’d have been a goner!” he shared. As if I needed reminding.
My dad scraped by once again, no pun intended. He looks like Frankenstein with his neck cut open and stapled shut with a plastic tube of bodily fluids poking out. I know, because they sent me pictures that I am considering putting on Facebook. Just kidding.
I don’t know what it means that I remained so calm through this. I don’t think I’m gullible. I’m just committed to the hope that everything will be fine just like it always has been until one day - one I hope is far, far away when I am wiser and my dad has ear hair upon ear hair - it is not.
I get that from my parents.
I am glad to hear that your father is doing well. I understand the uncertainty and the fear that comes along with realizing the mortality of your parents. I had to face the same thing with my father last December and unfortunately it ended differently. It certainly makes you more aware that time is precious. My best to your family.
Though I don’t know anything about your father’s case, obviously, I just wanted you to know that squamous isn’t the really bad kind. Usually it’s not too dangerous
I second everything that colleen said. Including the part about having dad who didn’t end up being ok.
I’m so glad your’s is doing ok and you can still let him know how much you care for him.
Thank you for your kind thoughts. It was a scare, as these growths have been getting really bad and spreading everywhere. Now my dad gets to recover and enjoy some time without chemotherapy.