Two years ago today my entire family was together, celebrating a new year.
Here's the story for my kids:
It was New Year's Day, 2010. We'd rented a huge house on the beach in Dana Point, California and had spent a week there together. My brothers were all there with their families. My parents were there, too. We'd planned that time with the distinct feeling that it would be our last time together as a family.
My dad had been struggling with his third round of cancer for more than 5 years. He was losing weight and was in constant pain.
I was 18 years old when the Army sent me to Germany. I was stationed with the 12th Engineer Battalion in the 8th Infantry Division at a remote site called "Anderson Barracks". I'd been there only a couple of months when I got a letter from my mom telling me my dad had found a lump and had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
He beat that with chemotherapy and surgery, then when my second son was born in 1998 he was diagnosed with prostate cancer.
Again, he beat it with radiation and surgery.
My dad was always good-humored about things. When he had his mastectomy we teased him that he was only "half a man" now. When he had his prostate surgery we laughed that he was only "a third of a man."
When he came home from a backpacking trip and noticed persistent migratory pain in his lower back, he was diagnosed with cancer again. This time, the breast cancer was back, but had metastasized in his lungs and on the bones of his pelvis, spine and rib cage. The doctors in 2004 gave him a 50% chance of living another 6 months and declining odds every month after that.
When he called to tell me about the cancer's return he told me, "John, this time it's going to get me." He wasn't sad or dramatic. He wasn't overly brave or cavalier. He was just telling me the truth.
But my dad had a great attitude and was a naturally happy person. I believe that God's blessing rested on him and he lived more than 6 more years after his diagnosis. By the end of 2009 we knew the end was close for him.
And so we all arranged to meet in Southern California for one last time. It turned out to be the last time we were all together.
We played in the sand and in the water. We played in the hot tub. We even went to Disneyland. It was a great vacation.
Paul was always a big hit with his fan club. My kids, Eric's kids and Dean's kids all looked at this huge, adventurous, motorcycle-riding teddy bear like he was a cross between a mystic icon and a favorite play mate. They loved, as only children can, the idea that Uncle Paul had one metal leg. He was easily their favorite because they felt safe and welcome when they were around him.
Grandpa was still healthy enough to hold the grandkids on his lap. He walked on the beach and watched them build sand castles. Although he was getting weaker, he had a smile.
One evening, when the pain was overwhelming and the medication was fogging his mind, Grandpa decided that he wanted everyone to watch a short video that he had recently seen and that had impacted him greatly. It was called "The Christmas Orange". But the grandkids didn't want to pay attention to a movie. They wanted to play with each other and talk with their aunts, uncles and grandparents.
We, Uncle Eric, Uncle Dean, Uncle Paul and I, tried to get Grandpa to forget about the movie and let the kids play. But Grandpa wouldn't let go of the idea. The pain, the medicine and the frustration worked together and Grandpa got really upset. Some of the older kids realized this and tried to start the movie, but it was too late. Grandpa was so upset he didn't want to show the movie then.
This is when I realized just how sick my dad was. This is when I think I understood that my dad was going to die. Really.
And we really enjoyed that time together. Uncle Paul and I went swimming in the cold ocean water more than once a day. We swam together, climbed on rocks together, then soaked in the hot tub or sat in the sauna to warm up together.
I think it was the best vacation I've ever been on.
I remember standing on the beach with your mom. Standing very close. And thinking to myself that this was perfect. The fresh ocean air, the sinking winter sun, the love of family, and the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the world.
I never wanted to go home. I never wanted that time to end. I never wanted to be apart from my family again.
And now life has changed. Before the next new year Uncle Paul had died. Grandpa had died. My job had changed and I was home only a few days each month. The world as I knew it - as I had always imagined it - had changed forever.
Today, as I walked in the pleasantly cool winter air of Houston, Texas, I looked at the blue sky and the red leaves on the trees and whispered out loud, "I miss you, Paul. I miss you, Dad."
And I thought I felt them close to me.
It didn't take away the missing. But it did help ease the pain. And I have hope along with the pain and the missing. I have hope because I know we'll all be together as a family again, after this life is done. And when we are, we won't have the sicknesses or the weaknesses or the demons that dog us here on earth.
We will be healthy and peaceful and happy. Together. Forever.
Here's the story for my kids:
It was New Year's Day, 2010. We'd rented a huge house on the beach in Dana Point, California and had spent a week there together. My brothers were all there with their families. My parents were there, too. We'd planned that time with the distinct feeling that it would be our last time together as a family.
My dad had been struggling with his third round of cancer for more than 5 years. He was losing weight and was in constant pain.
I was 18 years old when the Army sent me to Germany. I was stationed with the 12th Engineer Battalion in the 8th Infantry Division at a remote site called "Anderson Barracks". I'd been there only a couple of months when I got a letter from my mom telling me my dad had found a lump and had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
He beat that with chemotherapy and surgery, then when my second son was born in 1998 he was diagnosed with prostate cancer.
Again, he beat it with radiation and surgery.
My dad was always good-humored about things. When he had his mastectomy we teased him that he was only "half a man" now. When he had his prostate surgery we laughed that he was only "a third of a man."
When he came home from a backpacking trip and noticed persistent migratory pain in his lower back, he was diagnosed with cancer again. This time, the breast cancer was back, but had metastasized in his lungs and on the bones of his pelvis, spine and rib cage. The doctors in 2004 gave him a 50% chance of living another 6 months and declining odds every month after that.
When he called to tell me about the cancer's return he told me, "John, this time it's going to get me." He wasn't sad or dramatic. He wasn't overly brave or cavalier. He was just telling me the truth.
But my dad had a great attitude and was a naturally happy person. I believe that God's blessing rested on him and he lived more than 6 more years after his diagnosis. By the end of 2009 we knew the end was close for him.
And so we all arranged to meet in Southern California for one last time. It turned out to be the last time we were all together.
We played in the sand and in the water. We played in the hot tub. We even went to Disneyland. It was a great vacation.
Paul was always a big hit with his fan club. My kids, Eric's kids and Dean's kids all looked at this huge, adventurous, motorcycle-riding teddy bear like he was a cross between a mystic icon and a favorite play mate. They loved, as only children can, the idea that Uncle Paul had one metal leg. He was easily their favorite because they felt safe and welcome when they were around him.
Grandpa was still healthy enough to hold the grandkids on his lap. He walked on the beach and watched them build sand castles. Although he was getting weaker, he had a smile.
One evening, when the pain was overwhelming and the medication was fogging his mind, Grandpa decided that he wanted everyone to watch a short video that he had recently seen and that had impacted him greatly. It was called "The Christmas Orange". But the grandkids didn't want to pay attention to a movie. They wanted to play with each other and talk with their aunts, uncles and grandparents.
We, Uncle Eric, Uncle Dean, Uncle Paul and I, tried to get Grandpa to forget about the movie and let the kids play. But Grandpa wouldn't let go of the idea. The pain, the medicine and the frustration worked together and Grandpa got really upset. Some of the older kids realized this and tried to start the movie, but it was too late. Grandpa was so upset he didn't want to show the movie then.
This is when I realized just how sick my dad was. This is when I think I understood that my dad was going to die. Really.
And we really enjoyed that time together. Uncle Paul and I went swimming in the cold ocean water more than once a day. We swam together, climbed on rocks together, then soaked in the hot tub or sat in the sauna to warm up together.
I think it was the best vacation I've ever been on.
I remember standing on the beach with your mom. Standing very close. And thinking to myself that this was perfect. The fresh ocean air, the sinking winter sun, the love of family, and the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the world.
I never wanted to go home. I never wanted that time to end. I never wanted to be apart from my family again.
And now life has changed. Before the next new year Uncle Paul had died. Grandpa had died. My job had changed and I was home only a few days each month. The world as I knew it - as I had always imagined it - had changed forever.
Today, as I walked in the pleasantly cool winter air of Houston, Texas, I looked at the blue sky and the red leaves on the trees and whispered out loud, "I miss you, Paul. I miss you, Dad."
And I thought I felt them close to me.
It didn't take away the missing. But it did help ease the pain. And I have hope along with the pain and the missing. I have hope because I know we'll all be together as a family again, after this life is done. And when we are, we won't have the sicknesses or the weaknesses or the demons that dog us here on earth.
We will be healthy and peaceful and happy. Together. Forever.
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4 comments:
Thanks John...Eric
Nothing like a good cry to start of the New Year.
That was beautiful.
That really was beautiful...I love you.
That was beautiful John...thanks for sharing...Sometimes I talk to my dad too...it makes me feel close to him too...so keep doing that, its a good thing I think.
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