Uncommon Curiosity

We were at the garden show.  I found out when my mom broke down after a phone call.

“It’s cancer.”

“What?”

“The biopsy.  It’s cancer.”  She turned pale and we had to hold her up.

“What biopsy?”

“We didn’t want to worry you, we thought it would be routine.  The doctor wants to see us today.”

“Ok,” I said, trying to sound comforting and in control, despite the fact that my mind was reeling.  “Let’s get you home.  We can talk on the way.”

“Ok.”

****

It’s funny the way I think things should happen – I want the five-paragraph essay form of life.  Everything should be introduced clearly, expanded upon and then concluded cleanly.  There should be signposts and explanations.  I don’t want to ever have to fight my way through confusion to get to tragedy – it’s just too hard.  But, frustratingly enough, that’s the way it always seems to go.  No gentle introductions or warnings – life just happens like a windshield going 65.

In my own self-centered way, I kinda figured my life was due a little peace, given everything that’s happened this year.  I mean, I’m just a lazy dog shy of a bad country song, and I thought I was gonna take the week off from writing and focus on family and cleaning that damn garage, but, sitting here, waiting to go join them at the hospital to sit through an 8-hour surgery, it just feels too quiet not to write something.

My dad has early-stage, moderate risk prostate cancer.  By tonight he will hopefully have had all the cancerous tissue removed, and still have all his bits functioning the way they were intended.  He generously chose life over pride, and agreed to get the surgery that carries risks of incontinence or worse because, in this case, the radiation treatments that were guaranteed to preserve his manhood did not look like they would definitively save his life.

The truth is that he only found out he had cancer because he begrudged my mother and went in for a checkup, after skipping them for years.  Blood tests showed an elevated PSA level, which led to more tests and, ultimately, the surgery today.  If he had waited another year, the prognosis might not have been as good, because the cancer could had decided to spread.  He’s only 65, which used to seem really old, but now doesn’t seem nearly old enough.

I hugged him yesterday, and he told me about the netbook he filled with his favorite movies to take to the hospital.  Ever the engineer, he decided to come up with a better way to convalesce.  He told me about all the trips they’ve got planned for this summer, and the new fence that will come in next week…so I’m not gonna think about the risks of anesthesia or surgery or his high blood pressure.  I’m not gonna think about the way the surgeon pushed for the earliest possible date for the surgery, or the way that the risk level kept getting worse as they spoke with each successive specialist.

I’ll just focus on Father’s Day next month.  And the trip to Infineon Raceway to drive an actual race car we got him for his birthday a few weeks ago.  The soccer teams he coached and the field trips he drove.  The time he had to take me to buy a bra and we were both mortified for life, and the way he says very little but manages to express quite a lot.

And about tomorrow, when I’ll be laughing at myself for being so very worried today.