Tell My Sons: A Father's Last Letters (7 page)

The answer was no; the procedure was too risky. “It would be better if you worked harder with those deep-breathing exercises ten times per day,” I was told.

I laughed. I could barely perform them twice per day. Doctors eventually drained a two-liter bottle of fluid out of my lungs.

*   *   *

When you’re scared, you go with what you know. As a twenty-one-year career soldier and officer, I initially recoiled at the idea
of using words like
battle, war
, or any other military term to describe the cancer experience. There’s a “war” on everything these days—drugs, Christmas, obesity, illiteracy, poverty, terror—and we never seem to win.

I also didn’t like the idea that a war reference implied an enemy and losers. Cancer wasn’t some foreign invader. It was the result of my own faulty immune system, and I sure wasn’t going to consider
myself
the enemy or a loser because of it. Plus, I had seen too many soldiers fight and lose real battles in combat with a real enemy. It just didn’t seem right to make the comparison.

And yet, my resistance to using combat-related terms was short-lived. Nearly everyone who spoke to me used the metaphor, and the reasons made sense as I gained more perspective from my own disease.

Cancer isn’t something that pops, breaks, wears out, or busts loose in your body. It
is
a war—a murderous civil war within the body. I found that families with cancer needed the metaphor, because terminal diseases like mine tap into our worst nightmares about life—the idea of a slow death and eventually a painful, miserable existence for survivors and their caregivers.

The metaphor provided a rallying point for families desperately trying to cope. And as a soldier, war-fighting language was my language.

I was once asked to describe the difference between fighting cancer and fighting in combat. Well, in combat there are bullets and bombs. But the only real difference with cancer is the scenery and the fighters, because with cancer you still have to face both an enemy and your own fears. You still have to face death. You still have to endure misery and deprivation, both trivial and severe. And you still have to sit down with family and explain the blunt reality of the possibilities.

So, if everyone characterizes cancer as civil war, and you heard that one million of your own fellow citizens (cancer cells) were moving across the country, indiscriminately killing everyone
in their path, whom would you categorize as your “friendly forces” in the fight?

Answer: Everyone who’s not with
them
.

In army-speak, my friendly forces consist of three “branches”—my body, my friends and family, and my doctors.

The only
physical
fighter in that lineup is my body. Other people can help, but the actual fighting has to be done by the body. In July 2010, the massing enemy force wasn’t at my border; the cancer already had me outflanked, outgunned, and surrounded. The engine and fuel-processing station (the digestive tract) for my entire fighting force was already destroyed. My body possessed a strong heart, mind, lungs, and muscles, but without fuel, these were just accessories. They were being robbed of their combat capability by the day.

The friends-and-family branch of my army grew by about one thousand “enlistments” in just one week via my online journal.
^*
These troops were long in motivation and spiritual support, but they could not offer any practical fighting capability against the cancer.

The last remaining branch of my army, and the one that possessed the most reason for optimism, was a small team of special forces (my medical doctors) armed with the deadliest, most advanced weapons known to human biology. The problem:

Any questions?

*   *   *

Folks who wanted to support me clearly struggled with what to say outside of “You can beat this!” and “I’ll pray for you!” It forced me to ask myself some questions about what kind of support I wanted.
I am taking this on like a soldier, but does that mean I want to be told I will be victorious, no matter what? I laugh a lot, but is there anything to laugh about here? I am a spiritual person, but will the strength of my faith dictate my survival?

I decided to tell people my thoughts about each of these subjects and suggest how they could help with each—a task I now consider a responsibility of those who are severely ill. Here’s what I told them:

Help me keep it real by talking honestly with me about what I can plainly see with my own two eyes. Don’t put me in the grave, but don’t make boastful claims about my impending victory, either. Just talk or sit with me.

With regard to humor, I laugh at myself and at life. This is what I was like before the cancer, and I have no plans to change now.

When it comes to religion—which was by far the largest offer of support—please respect my beliefs enough not to impose yours. God is my inspiration for fighting and living, but I don’t see him as a cosmic bellhop who’s going to come loosen my bowels when I can’t poop or convince my immune system to start recognizing cancer cells. Pray with me, but please don’t tell me you prayed for God to do any work for me or for the doctors. I’m satisfied with the raw materials he gave us at conception and the inspiration he has provided since. That is miraculous enough.

*   *   *

There came a time when bold talk surrendered to sober reality about the journey and the work that lay ahead. Some thoughts I
shared with very few people. Stage IV cancer is stage IV cancer. There’s no sugarcoating that, no matter how confident and positive a person seems on the outside.

Modern medicine gave me plenty of hope, but I also knew I needed to be honest with myself about the undeniable mortality of my situation. I had known too many people who had gained little or nothing in their big fights: they had spent the next six to eighteen months losing their dignity and most of their quality of life from surgical complications and had then died a slow and painful death.

Some friends and family considered this unhealthy thinking. But to me, this is what “strong enough to know you are weak” and “facing the stress and spur of challenge” really mean. I felt I needed to think long and hard about how I was going to balance my actions with my words.

My reflections and observations didn’t sap my courage; they just forced me to consider the possibilities and stay focused on what I needed to
do
, as opposed to what I might dare to hope for. The fear of such outcomes motivated me to get smart on the complications following my surgery, to brace myself mentally for things to get worse, to learn what questions to ask, to review and fully acknowledge my own responsibilities in the effort, and to help my family seek out the same perspective.

Examples of these considerations in action? I insisted on packing the open cavity in my abdomen with gauze and changed all of my own bandages. I demanded to know what medicines were being pumped into me every day. I read and I learned as much as I could so I could make independent judgments about all of it—thicker, thinner, more, less, or not at all.

In order to personalize the fight, I gave names to my wounds that I still use today. Buford was the open wound. Bullah was the drainage field inside my abdomen and the associated incision at my hip. I eventually used the term
Buford
as shorthand for the
entire ordeal. Buford evolved. Our understanding of hardships evolves, too.

When I could finally start eating and my “hot” food arrived cold day after day, I didn’t just complain; I asked to see the hospital’s kitchen manager and passionately pleaded for better service for all of us—and he delivered.

When members of my surgical team talked down to me or dismissed my explanations of what I was experiencing, I firmly reminded them I was part of the team.

Action didn’t always come easy, and that’s what teammates are for. On August 27, Kristin showed up with a towel and some soap and encouraged me to tackle my greatest fear—the shower. My first in twenty-five days. I dreaded the idea of the pain that could come from rushing water through my open wounds.

I could barely lift my arms, so I just stood there while Kristin gently washed every inch of me with a small cloth. “Okay, lift your leg for me now.” I’d imagined a moment like this might come for one of us sometime during our lives, but not now.

She patted me dry when we were done, peeled sheets of dead skin from my legs and ankles (the result of the swelling), rubbed lotion on my legs and feet, and dressed me in a clean gown. Then she crawled into my small bed for the first time since the surgery, and we cuddled. I never felt so secure and comforted in all my life.

It was our sixteenth wedding anniversary.

*   *   *

In basic training, my drill sergeant asked me if I thought I could make it through a rigorous obstacle course. “I hope so,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what, Private,” he sneered. “You go ahead and hope in one hand and crap in the other, and then tell me which one fills up first.”

Since I’ve commanded my own audiences, I’ve used a more polite way of demonstrating the power that actions can have over words. I ask them to make an “OK” sign with their forefinger and thumb and then tell them to place the circle on their chin. Ninety percent of the participants instead place the OK sign on their cheek.

Why? Because I place my own OK sign on my cheek while I explain the instruction.

People see what I do and ignore what I say. As people usually do. Like all lives, mine is filled with examples of the power of actions over words—lessons that don’t come from instruction manuals.

When I was in JROTC some twenty-eight years ago, a high-ranking senior classman with long hair and a messy uniform didn’t wield much influence with lesser-ranked cadets, no matter how competent and motivated he was.

In basic training, we had a bright and confident West Point lieutenant who faced the same dilemma. He could talk articulately and with passion about fitness, soldiering, and leadership. Yet his words were overshadowed by his obesity, and he never seemed to realize it.

It wasn’t just hypocrisy that spoke volumes. I noted many drill sergeants ate before their soldiers at mealtime. Considering their workload, no one would have faulted them for doing so. But Drill Sergeant Paradeis ate last. “When I’m done, you’re done,” he would yell daily. How could I complain about how little time I had to eat when this guy had less time than me? When we did physical training, he did it with us—as opposed to standing over us, barking orders. When we went for a six-mile road march, he went the full distance—as opposed to meeting us at the finish line. His simple acts made me want to follow him.

The influence of those decades-old memories informed my behavior throughout my life: I eat last, and I don’t ask anyone to do something I wouldn’t do myself.

*   *   *

Nothing underscores the raw simplicity of actions and words like parents and parenting—or, really, any interaction between adults and children. There’s not much sense arguing with a ten-year-old who calls you out when your actions don’t match your words. You’ve kept me humble in this regard, boys, and your kids will do the same, if you let them.

I judged my parents’ actions, too. My mom was all nurturer, and her actions as parent were the complete opposite of Dad’s. She prided herself on being there physically for us all the time and showered us with tangible expressions of affection. But when it came to consequences, she mostly just threatened. She would call out for my dad when she lost her patience, but then immediately regret the fury she had unleashed.

What my mom lacked in authority because of her familiarity, she gained in trust and confidence. We had mother-son talks—lots of them. Conversations with her were the closest thing I had to a “Dear Diary.” I felt free to share my emotions, even if I knew they were irrational. I was a “mama’s boy,” which I was less embarrassed about once I learned that Generals Patton, MacArthur, and Eisenhower all shared the same descriptor.

Love—an emotion expressed with or for people you always want to be around—came easy with Mom.

*   *   *

Love
was not a word I would have associated with my dad when I was young.

How my brothers and I didn’t end up murdered is beyond me. All indications are that we deserved it. I once heard my dad yell that we owed him at least fifteen thousand dollars for all the doors, vehicle interiors, tools, and home furnishings we damaged or destroyed.

When I was eight or nine, something snapped inside my dad that showed us he was all done with words. I don’t remember what triggered it, but I sure remember what happened.

In our Minnesota home, there was no shortage of hockey sticks. He grabbed one, cut off an eighteen-inch section, sat down at the kitchen table, and carved it into the instrument we knew forever after as “the Stick.” He even engraved our names on it—
Mike, Mark, Chris
—for added effect.

I don’t remember how many times we “got the Stick,” but if it happened five times, it happened fifty. Just the
idea
of the Stick was breathtaking. We once tried to hide it, but that didn’t work.

As a carpenter, it’s unlikely my dad was ever introduced to the academic concept known as the “prisoner’s dilemma,” but he was a natural: “The first one to find the Stick
won’t
get a swat with it,” he’d say. Or, “Tell me who hid it, or you’re all going to get it.”

Threatening to cry child abuse was fruitless. “Pack your bags. If you think this is abuse, I’ll drive you to the foster home myself,” he said, with Mom’s approval. We only played that card once, because we knew he never hit us hard enough to leave a mark.

“I love you” was neither something my dad said nor something I would have believed if he had said it. He spent most of his time in the garage working on his race car, fishing or hunting, or playing softball. He wasn’t an absent father; he was just always busy with other things. We were welcome to tag along if we wanted, but there were no fond entreaties from him.