F*** you, cancer… a look back, six months later, at the hateful disease

On October 10^th, 2012, my father passed away. He was 79 years young. The reason given on his death certificate was “kidney failure,” but the real cause was pancreatic cancer.

Cancer… just seeing the word makes me want to run for the hills. No one wants to say it either—they just whisper it under their breath, secretly hoping if they say it softly enough, maybe it will just go away. Oh, but it doesn’t… trust me.

My dad was diagnosed and gone three weeks later. Literally. The disease had apparently started in his pancreas but “metastasized” to his liver, causing his organs to shut down. What the hell does that mean, exactly? I don’t know. Do I really care? Not a bit. My dad was no longer on this earth. THAT was what I cared about.

My father had already gone through one battle with cancer in the 90s when he developed prostate cancer. That time, he came out victorious. My dad was definitely a fighter. I like to say he was a one-of-a-kind original, but then, what daughter doesn’t feel that way? Perfect, he wasn’t, but someone you’d never forget once you met him, he was.

My dad grew up in the Italian section of the Bronx, and ultimately became a teacher and assistant principal in that same borough—a mere stone’s throw away from Yankee Stadium (which worked out well for him since he was a diehard Yankees fan). Dad said teaching was the most rewarding thing he’d ever done. When I asked him what he liked most about teaching, his face lit up and he eagerly replied, “The kids.” He instilled in me a desire to make a difference and I am proud to say my dad changed the world—one student at a time. He cared deeply about his students, inviting them over on the weekends to play pool in our basement. And they, in turn, cared about him. And in some cases… feared him. A student once thanked him for “Keeping him out of jail;” another expressed his feelings by making a “Big Bad Bill” sign for my father in shop class; still another told me that everyone would run and hide in the classrooms when my father came down the hall. My mom remembered a time when a student approached my parents on the street in NYC and said, “Mr. Laura… I was your student. I went to Harvard. Thank you.” That last one always floors me. Amazing.

Take a good look around you… Not one person has escaped being touched by this loathsome sickness.  There’s my friend’s mother, who has lymphoma and continues to fight for survival while she selflessly cares for her children and grandchildren. With all the people who lean on her for support, she still found the time to make me a beautiful afghan blanket.  Then there was my college friend who succumbed to Hodgkin’s disease, leaving behind a wife and an unborn child.  Another friend’s mother survived uterine cancer three years ago only to be recently diagnosed with cancer in both lungs. This is a woman who besides being deaf survived the loss of her son at age 25. Really, God? Universe? Hello? Is anyone out there?

When I think of such things, the evil part of me starts to wonder why this illness can’t be reserved for serial killers, rapists, pedophiles… people who have truly committed unspeakable acts against humanity. What better way to punish them? When I shared my thoughts with my mom and asked her why can’t only the bad people get “it,” i.e. cancer, my mom responded, “Why does anyone have to get it?” Sigh… she’s right. Leave it to my mom to reign in my baser instincts. Clearly she’s a much nicer person than I am.

Why did this happen… Why? That’s the question I often ask myself. The answer never comes, however. It’s hard for someone like me, who has almost a psychotic need to know “why.” It used to drive my teachers absolutely CRAZY. Knowing “why,” brings understanding and a sense of peace. But maybe it’s like that saying: “Ours is not to reason why.” Well, as it turns out, that’s NOT the saying. I looked it up and it’s actually, “Theirs not to reason why.” It’s from a poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson commemorating the Battle of Balaclava in the Crimean War and it depicts soldiers essentially going on a suicide mission. The next line of the poem reads, “Theirs but to do and die.” I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell would want to know WHY I’m going on a suicide mission. So no offense to Lord Tennyson, but I’m not going to run happily into death’s waiting arms. I plan on going kicking and screaming.

But that was not my father’s journey. There was no kicking and screaming from him. The fight had gone out of the fighter. In the end, I think he believed it was simply his time. Over the years, my dad would occasionally mention that he never thought he’d live to see his 80^th birthday. I always thought he was being silly. He seemed so vibrant and bigger than life, but in hindsight, I wonder if he knew something the rest of us didn’t. And it reminds me of something my acting teacher used to say, “Always know when it’s time to leave the party, and don’t be the last one to go.” Ironically, when it came to parties, my dad was always the FIRST one to leave. Patience was never his strong suit.

Thanks for coming to my party, Dad, and I’m sorry you had to leave so soon.

In tribute to all of us who have lost a loved one to cancer and for all of those still fighting the good fight, let’s band together. Middle fingers up, everyone! Join me in declaring, “F*** YOU, CANCER!!!” Hmmmm… that felt good. Maybe I’ll have t-shirts made…