Happy Surgiversary

Two posts, one day! Will wonders never cease?

I haven't blogged about a very important anniversary that took place just three or so weeks ago.

Two years and three-ish weeks ago, I was still living at home. I came home from work to find to my dad on the phone, looking very concerned. I was on my way out of town, and sort of in a rush, but I had a feeling, that kind of thing that stops you in your tracks. I get this feeling occasionally, sometimes and it's wrong, but this time I was right.

My dad hung up the phone and told my mom and I that he had lung cancer. I almost can't describe what happened to me next. I felt like someone took my stomach and turned it inside out and brought it through my throat and squeezed the oxygen out of me. My knees felt weak. I came uncorked. Suddenly and instantly, the three of us (and more, once the news had spread) had a new wound, nerves exposed, something that would eventually scar with time, but never disappear—most literally, my dad's.

My dad quit smoking that day. He had to detoxify before they took half of his lung, two weeks from then.

I went to William's house, mostly because my mom told me to still go, and we left the next morning for our weekend trip. I cried. That's an understatement. I cry a lot. It's easy to make me cry. If I'm mad I cry. If I'm sad, I cry. I cry if I hear happy news or I get a nice gift. I cry at fictional movies, talking animals, Pedigree commercials, the national anthem, and even sometimes when reality TV people win awards. But this cry was so different. I could not stop. Completely unhinged. I barely knew his parents at that point (he was also living at home). I know I must have looked a hot mess. I acted, I hoped, like nothing was wrong. Clearly, something was wrong.

Then I went into his bedroom, and I sobbed. We had to run an errand to the bookstore. He told me I could stay there but I thought I'd stop if we went somewhere public. Nope. I cried through the bookstore looking completely insane. Then we went back to his house. I sobbed on his bed until I passed out. It took a long time. I managed to chap my face.

William was my rock during that time, he really was. I learned I could trust him with my emotions and that he loved me no matter the news. William allowed me to cry in his arms and then celebrated the victories that came our way as my dad underwent his surgery and recovery.

Eventually, I determined that I would not carry on this way. I couldn't. I had to keep going, despite the fact that I felt like I was wading through cement. I decided that I wouldn't mourn the situation—and more importantly, my dad. He was alive and had gotten the best possible news when you hear you have cancer. That it's contained, that it can be taken out, and that you may not even need radiation or chemo.

One thing that helped was the fortitude of my friends. Kilipino told me how my dad was a superhero, Superman, and that he would fight off the evil forces of cancer. She would carry on with it until I laughed, sending me emails midday at work, knowing full well I was sitting at my desk, eating my lunch, trying not to be morose. She brought my dad a gigantic mylar Superman balloon, which still resides in my parents' front closet, deflated but standing watch. My friend A. would send me emails—we could commiserate, as her mom had been diagnosed with a different kind—and I felt she really knew how it felt, which is really important when you are facing such a trial. There were also many other people who contributed thoughts, prayers, well wishes, and kindnesses during this time. To be honest, I was sometimes numb, lost in my head, and I hope I have acknowledged them all at some point.

I moved in with William in April, two years ago. Probably, actually, this week two years ago. So that's an anniversary in itself. But in 2006, spring turned to summer turned to fall. My dad managed to get away with no chemo or radiation, just a very painful and slow-healing surgery. He definitely has the strength of Superman. Truly.

Today, I was out for a walk with William and Mo—it was gorgeous here today and so we walked down by the mighty Mississip—and my mom called. It was loud where I was, so I let it go to voicemail, planning to call her back in about 15 minutes. She said, in her somewhat neutral voice, "I have some news, so could you call me back?" I knew that my dad had had a check-up scan a couple of weeks ago; he'd told me about it. I had been worrying, of course, as I always do, in this lopsided way of mine. I'd put it out of my mind. Then I'd start worrying about possibilities and when we'd hear results. Then I'd quickly shut off the worrying by saying to myself that he was FINE and only positive thoughts were allowed. No worrying. Only reinforcing.

I called my mom back, forgetting about the wind and traffic. He got his letter. There have been no changes in his scans. No cancer growths, no weird spots or darknesses or blurry areas. Unchanged. Unchanged as when he left the hospital two years ago, when cancer had been forcibly removed from his chest, open from chest to back, all the way around his shoulder blade, a scar like the trip around Cape Horn on a map. I was about two blocks from home as my mom told me this, and just like that first day when cancer became a household term for us, tears, uncontrolled, streaming down my face. William held out his hand, first thumbs-up, then thumbs down, with an inquiring look on his face, as my face and my words were not exactly matching.

I had celebrated silently a couple of weeks ago when my dad's surgiversary came up, when the doctor had told us he could be hunting and fishing still twenty years from now. But I had held my breath because I knew he had another check-up scan coming soon.

Thumbs up. My dad is healthy. Two years running. Hawaii, here we come.