A Year Ago Today
Love Does Not Change
Thursday, May 18th, 2023.
A year ago, today, exactly. He walked into my sister's home in Boston. He had driven from Erie to Boston for his daughter's graduation. It was a Thursday. Coincidentally, it was also the 20th anniversary of my father's death.
The day before, on Wednesday, I flew into Boston. Family reunion time. Yay!!!!! Nothing makes me happier.
We were a little somber, already toasting the anniversary of my father’s death. He came up the stairs, took the corner, and came into my view. I said, “Haba! Handsome! Why are you so skinny!! Are you losing weight again?" His 6-foot-plus frame was lean and willowy looking. Gaunt. I just saw him on a video call a few days prior and did not notice. A pang of guilt. How did I miss that? This is skinny!
He was always in tip-top shape. He was diligent about exercise and never gained weight. If he gained five pounds, he made sure he lost five pounds shortly thereafter.
His face turned red. And dark. Furrowed brows. He said, as he held his left hand up, as he often did teaching, or making a point. “I have cancer. I am going to die.” No smile. He was always smiling.
Plain. Matter of fact. Unceremonious. Facts first. Dark emotion hidden behind his expression.
Immediately, I felt my bowels panic and attempt to fail me. I ran to the bathroom.
When I came out, I said, “What did you say?”
He calmly repeated himself, cloaking the little bit of emotion he had previously shown.
Big sister, Mama Bear, said, “It does not have to be a death sentence.” Hopeful. Problem solver.
He said, “Peri, I am going to die from this.”
She said, “OK. Ok. Ok. It’s ok.” I panic. She stays calm.
I was so confused. Was I hearing things? I am partially deaf in one ear. I really need to get that damn hearing aid. But I am too young.
What did he say? No. Not us. It is not possible. Ok. He will be fine. We have had so many losses. No. No. No. Can we just catch a break????
The previous Sunday, five days earlier, the three of us Face Timed, as we often did on Sunday evenings. He hiccupped and swallowed awkwardly on that video call, and I said, “I thought you said you had eaten dinner. Are you still burping?”
He said, “I have heartburn these days. But no problem. I have a doctor’s appointment early this week.” Benign statement. No need for alarm.
From Sunday to that Thursday, I had no idea how my life would change. Forget me. How his life would change. My goodness.
He told us that the doctor found a rather large tumor in his esophagus, and it was a rare form of cancer. That is why he had problems swallowing. He said they did not know if it was Stage 3 or 4 cancer. When he got back to Erie, he would go for an oncology consult and figure out next steps. He had been referred to the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio.
Those were good folks. Pretty much the same as the Mayo Clinic. They would fix it. They would make him perfect again.
Right?
Wrong.
I asked, “How can we support you? We are here for you. What do you need?”
He said, “Nothing. But please, no panicking. Please. I cannot take it.” He told us that he did not want a bunch of fanfare or drama about it and asked us to be calm.
He said, “I am here for my daughter’s graduation. If I get to see my son graduate, I will be happy. That is all I want in my life.”
The next day, it was my Niece’s graduation. He was so proud of his daughter graduating that weekend. He stayed safely behind the lens of the camera, taking everyone’s picture. I tried to fuss over him about food and drink. He resisted.
Throughout the weekend, I kept looking at him and wondered about the cancerous cells growing in his body. I looked at his throat when I thought he was not looking at me. Could I see this growth? He told us that he felt great. He had all his energy, and he did not feel ill. The only symptom was that he had a problem swallowing.
Except this insidious cancer was taking over his innards and was stealing him away. From me. From his Akita, Obi. From my sister. From his amazing daughter. From his beautiful son. From his wife. From his own. life. From all of us.
We went to a celebratory dinner - graduation plus my sister’s birthday. We all had amazing Italian food. He ate soup. Pitifully. He is not a soup person. He has had a wonderful appetite his entire life.
I held both my breath and my tongue. The whole time.
I could not imagine my life without him and so I went into denial. There are so many advances in treatments. He had perfect blood sugar. Perfect cholesterol levels. He was in perfect health. He was my “perfect” brother. His life was perfect. He was a brilliant professor. He was married with a wife and two kids and two dogs. He had a perfect smile. He had lots of savings. And even investments. He had every tool possible in his garage. He could fix anything. He was so smart. He knew everything. He was a rock. My rock.
Every time I needed something - advice, money, decisions, wisdom, knowledge - anything - he was the first person I spoke to about it. And he was always there. And, I hate to say it, always right.
He was such a freaking pessimist; he aggravated my life with his capacity to think through all the negative outcomes. He had no damn clue what hope, serendipity, miracles, luck, fortune, prayer, coincidence, or anticipation of good was. He never did.
He died as he lived. He did not fool himself. He sobered up. He meditated. He said, “I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of suffering. I don’t want to put you through that. I don’t want to put my family through that.”
Today, a year ago.
I have always known that I love him, but I had no idea how much I loved him.
Honey, I miss everything about you. I thought we had, worst case scenario, a few years. I did not know that I would only see you one more time after that weekend and then, never again.
Rest on, my Forever Brother. Thank you for being an exemplary human. You taught me well. You are Beloved.
Daddy, 21 years later, it still hurts. I imagine the family togetherness is greater on the other side of things than on this side.
❤️❤️❤️