Tell My Sons: A Father's Last Letters (13 page)

2010, just before diagnosis

JANUARY 2011

My cancer treatment—a daily oral chemo called Gleevec—seemed to start working immediately. It slowed the cancer’s growth, and I was told to be patient and hope for the best. There were GIST patients who got ten more years out of this single medication; others got less than one.

I didn’t dwell long on the confusing mix of information or the fact that it was going to take a year or more to recover from the surgical complications. I started exercising more, got my weight back up to about 150 pounds, and let myself believe I was going to get at least two years or more from the Gleevec. I also decided that, despite the slow-growing cancer, I would try to return to my full-time job with the army as soon as I felt well enough to do so.

But why?
you might be asking.
Why not take this time and spend it with your wife and children instead of going back to work?

My answer was simple then and remains unchanged: because being an army officer, or being otherwise hard at work, is the closest thing to normal we all know. I didn’t know anything about tomorrow, but today I looked forward to the familiar feeling of coming home after a long day at work, having been gone just long enough to miss you and getting to see you all again. In fact, being home all the time felt abnormal—to all of us—and it resulted in added stress.

Kristin was not used to my constant presence. It was as if we had been suddenly thrust into involuntary retirement. Without
the churn of work to consume my energies, I turned to the environment around me. I could make runs to the grocery store, help with dinner, and organize things in the house. That’s when things got bumpy.

Helping out is one thing, but I tackled home duties as the army officer I was—in dire need of a campaign plan. I cleaned out the fridge and freezer, organized the pantry, laid out a meal chart, started tasking you boys with more chores, and proposed ideas to “streamline operations.”

Big mistake.

Upkeep of home life was Kristin’s domain, and it didn’t matter that she sometimes hated doing it. Her dislike of the daily grind of housework was not an invitation for me to take over. As much as she appreciated the help, those household chores were normal and familiar to her, and they were habits she wanted to keep.

Right around Christmas, we got into a heated argument—our first in more than six months. She kept picking at me, which told me she was itching for a fight. Within minutes, we were yelling and cursing about anything and everything. I think we both knew our anger and frustration had little to do with the subject that started it all, but we raged on all the same. Then it just stopped.

I was out of breath and light-headed. She came in and sat next to me, then broke into a soft cry.

“I’m sorry, pookie,” she said as she leaned on my shoulder. “I like seeing you feisty like your old self. It helps me see you’re still in there.”

You boys were not spared the “benefit” of my constant presence, either. I knew shared hardship brought cohesion and teamwork, so I looked for ways you could be involved in my treatment and recovery. We settled on the routine task of cleaning out my bile collection containers. That was nasty work, and just like a
trio of soldiers, you couldn’t resist bragging a bit about this grim daily drama.

The downside of this teamwork was being greeted by a hard-nosed army lieutenant colonel when you walked in the door from school. I wasn’t a slave driver, but I made sure you didn’t plop yourselves in front of the TV.

“Will you ever be going back to work, Dad?” you politely asked. More than once.

*   *   *

Based on its title, you might think this book is solely about being a man, a father, and a soldier. Not entirely. This is also a story about being a lover and a husband. It’s about the rigors of married life—complicated by the trials of army life and the tribulations of cancer treatment—between two true individuals. In fact, no other experience in my life so completely captures the essence of MacArthur’s words on living an emotionally vigorous life.

On July 22, 2010, as we sat in the waiting room at the Mayo Clinic, absorbing the complexities and breathless uncertainties of the journey with cancer in front of us, I became aware that my wedding ring was missing. Even after sixteen years of marriage, putting on that ring was a very deliberate, symbolic act every single day. But after the hustle of our 5:00 a.m. start, now I couldn’t remember if I had put it on my finger that morning.

Certainly on this day, of all days, I should remember whether I had put on my wedding ring, right?

But I couldn’t remember.

I also couldn’t shake the fear that I did put it on that morning but then lost it during the day. It wasn’t likely—the ring had never fallen off my finger before. Then again, I was down ten pounds from the cancer, and if I
had
lost the ring, looking for it right then and there was the only chance of finding it. I retraced my steps
in the few hours we’d been at Mayo and soon realized there was really only one place it could have fallen off—the bathroom.

I quietly told Kristin’s dad, Ed, about my nagging suspicions. Fellow men of action, we walked straight into that bathroom and started emptying both trash bins of their paper towels—gently unfolding each nasty, damp towel. The bins were filled to the top, so it took a while, but as soon as we approached the bottom, there was a
plink
sound from Ed’s bin. We froze and gave each other a quick glance as Ed reached in and pulled my ring from the bin.

I wanted to cry.

Like so many times in our marriage, what seemed lost was found again with an instinct toward just a little more care and effort.

We have known each other for nineteen years now. In too many ways, a “successful” marriage between us still seems improbable. We’re both fiercely independent, with vastly different tastes and temperaments, and nothing about our lives together has ever been routine. Neither of us is certain that we’re reflective of a “strong” marriage. But our very survival of the difficulties of army life, infertility, deployments, and cancer must be an indication that we’ve done something worthy of taking note.

*   *   *

To understand the depth of my feelings for Kristin, it is helpful to know the order-loving personality who fell in love with her.

By the time I finally took an interest in women, around age nineteen—I was curious during my teenage years, but repelled by the work and drama girls seemed to entail—my ideas on romance could arguably be described as fussy and excessively respectable. Of course, I prefer the words
romantic
and
old-fashioned
, but let’s not split hairs.

I didn’t believe in kissing on the first date, and I disapproved
of one-night stands. I was overly sentimental in my affections, and I had a deep conviction about commitment that would find few harbors in the under-twenty-five crowd—then or now.

My first kiss came from a random girl on a dance floor at a club that my brother Mike dragged me to when I came home for a visit from college. She had had too much to drink and reeked of cigarettes. So much for “excessively respectable.”

Jenny, my first real date, kiss, and relationship, happened a year later, when I was twenty. After a brief romance of maybe a month or two, she told me something I would get used to hearing from all my female friends, including the three girls I dated between her and Kristin: “You’re a guy that girls marry, not date.”

Peggy was pretty and had an amazing body, but her personality was way too fast and loose for me, and it must have shown in my behavior. She once asked, “Are you gay or something?”

A year later, I met Kari. She was a dream of a woman—flawless complexion, striking blue eyes, incredibly toned legs and arms, and an easygoing personality. Three months into that relationship, I passed up an opportunity to have sex, because I thought she’d had too much to drink.

Hours later, she whispered into my ear what was by then an old and familiar tune, “You are a good and decent man, Mark, and you’re going to make the best husband someday.” She dumped me within a week for being too serious, but she said something that night I still feel good about: “Thank you for what you did … for me.”

Of course, the next morning when my roommates heard what had
not
happened, they weighed in on Peggy’s question about my sexual orientation.

I don’t even remember the name of the next girl I dated. I was still reeling from being rejected—three times—for being a gentleman.

*   *   *

I met Kristin Coughlin in my fourth year of college, in late September 1992. My roommates—all varsity basketball players—returned to our apartment from a local bar one night with women in tow. One of those women was wearing a dark purple leather jacket. It was hideous. But the face and figure of that hazel-eyed brunette made me sit up and take notice. The guys pulled out a deck of cards and began playing.

The girl in purple was clearly not versed in cards, and she was too shy to speak up. I moved up next to her on the couch and shyly asked if she wanted some help. I was immediately taken with her personality. Reserved but sassy and playful, and she was ready with a candid answer to a direct question.

Our interaction that first night was as common as street traffic on a busy road, and I can’t say there were romantic sparks.

But something had happened, because over the next days and weeks, we frequently noticed each other in common areas and talked like old friends. Despite a clear connection and real affection, there was no hugging, kissing, or even long looks.

After a frustrating month of confusion on my part, she finally made it clear she had a boyfriend. As upset as this made me, I was impressed then and still today that she meant to keep her declared commitment to him as “girlfriend” until they broke up, despite her acknowledged incompatibility with him at the time.

Mr. Prissy, meet Ms. Krissy.

It wasn’t long—but it seemed long to a lovesick boy—before Kristin “officially” broke up with her boyfriend and began dating me. Almost immediately, she invited me to her family’s home in Hastings, Minnesota, during the Christmas break for dinner with her parents.

When I pulled up to their residence, it was dusk, which made it easy to see into their house. In the kitchen window, I could see a big, burly figure that appeared to be her dad—not wearing a shirt. Did I mention it was December in Minnesota?

When we entered the kitchen, a very hairy-chested Ed
Coughlin was standing in front of the sink with a huge smile on his face, sharpening knives in dramatic fashion. I’m certain the look on my face betrayed my shock, and I’m equally certain that shock was the reaction he was going for.

After dinner, Kristin asked me to drive her around Hastings to look at the Christmas lights. The conversation during our hour-long tour was disjointed. We were both distracted and uneasy. We caught sight of a hilariously tacky nature scene painted across the width of a two-car garage door. We laughed so hard that we had to park the car. Then suddenly there was silence and tension again.

“Kristin,” I brought myself to say, “would it be all right if I kissed you right now?”

“Sure,” she replied with a smile.

My heart doubled its pace. I slowly leaned over, paused to look her straight in the eyes, and then, as gently as I could, pressed my lips to hers. It was a long, passionate kiss that felt well past due.

Two months into our courtship, Kristin turned to me in a start, looked straight into my eyes, and said, “You know … I think I could live with you forever.”

You’re a guy that girls marry
was no longer a curse. I told her I felt the same way.

Our love wasn’t blind. We both saw a clash of tastes, interests, and personalities. Though we shared a passion for work and school, she liked eighties, alternative, and new-wave music; I liked classic rock and modern pop. She liked schmaltzy Hallmark movies; I liked tough, gritty, action-packed movies. To make decisions, I insisted on deep thought and long reflection; she preferred gut instinct.

I had concerns about how she was going to do with army life. And she worried a lot about how involved my mom was going to be in our lives.

We argued a lot, even in the beginning. But we had ideals in common.

In a hundred little ways, she demonstrated integrity, loyalty, trust, dependability, and a sound work ethic. She was honest and fair about her opinions and apologies. She was slow to make friendships, but loath to break them. At work she didn’t think it was right to chatter with friends, and she never called in “sick” when her schedule got too full. And she knew how to say “I’m sorry” without conditions or “buts.”

Whatever our disagreements, she had a strong moral character, and that overruled any concern I could imagine.

I had always envisioned kneeling and proposing marriage in grand fashion and in some clever way. Instead, I popped the question over lunch and in between college classes while at the River Hills Mall in Mankato. Then we went and looked at rings together. The only deliberate “romance” on my part was that I did it on Memorial Day.

We settled on a wedding date fifteen months into the future and decided to live with each other until then. Grandpa Garofalo approved: “Better to try the shoes on before you buy them.”

But there was an elephant in the honeymoon. It was the army.

Despite my explanations, I knew she had little idea what it would be like. And neither of us could predict what life would look like six years down the road when my contractual obligation ended.

*   *   *

Few things seem more important to a bride than the particulars of her wedding ceremony, but the army quickly reminded us we would have control over very little. Right up to my commissioning, army life was little more than a topic of idle chatter. Now it was real. I was ordered to my initial training as an officer in Alabama, and the dates overlapped with our wedding.

As we scrambled to explore new options for the wedding, we discovered that the army compensated separated spouses—to the
tune of about two thousand dollars for the duration of my schooling. We decided to elope, with the army providing our first wedding gift. In that decision, I saw another opportunity.