a legacy of love
On May 3, 1991, my father died. I was holding his hand. He'd been diagnosed with inoperable cancer just a month earlier.
Until the moment of his death, I never really believed it would happen. But there I was, kneeling on the floor beside him, whispering my goodbyes in his ear, telling him for the last time how much I loved him, hoping — praying, actually — that he could still hear me. I hated the scene, but I was powerless to change it.
I realize now that as my father lay dying, I learned about living. I saw my dad, a 74-year-old man who had become but a child, and I thought at first that he’d been stripped of his dignity and meaning. But what I've ultimately come to view is a portrait of a man who refused to relinquish his humanness and decency.
The tragedy of cancer isn’t a new topic. To date, nearly 60 million American families have survived the nightmare of losing a loved one to this disease. And as the statistics continue to multiply, so, too, does the fear that surrounds them.
I consider myself a cancer survivor. And although the disease hasn’t afflicted my body, it’s nonetheless made an undeniable and unforgettable impression on my soul. I understand that although the plight of my family is but a small fraction of the number of cancer cases reported, it forms a mosaic portrait of the face of cancer worldwide. It’s a young face, for the most part , one that shares a common loss of the best years life has to offer. It’s also a face that’s representative of a life cut short too soon, representing, almost, the death of the American family.
Seeing my father fall to cancer reminds me still that the victims are ours — our kin, our colleagues, our neighbors, and our friends. The great French writer Albert Camus, visiting America, called it “this great country where everything is done to prove that life isn't tragic.” I think the same is true across the globe. Our habit is optimism; we're unaccustomed to an illness that resists the magic of our medicine and we've too often held ourselves apart from its sufferers. But our response to cancer has in important ways defined us as a society. “No one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences,” Camus wrote in his novel “The Plague.” My father and the rest of the fallen bear silent witness to the fact that we're still hostage to cancer.
Fortunately, Dad was an extraordinary individual with a keen sense of realization. When he became ill, he began to see all sorts of things going on around him that were a reaction to and a consequence of his disease; he began to feel the pressures of a world not prepared to deal with cancer. So, as he was dying, he decided to leave a legacy for others by talking about his experiences in trying to cope with this painful reality. My father wanted people to see the human side of cancer: the faces, the emotions, the tears, and the secret doubts. He attempted to help demystify the disease by personalizing it and showing its human impact in a non-threatening and honest manner.
My family’s apprehensions regarding Dad’s disease were soon erased; the support and unconditional love he received as he grew weaker and less able to help himself were indeed impressive. But perhaps more touching was that the people involved with our struggle with his illness — those who surrounded him and shared in his last days — provided a model for compassionate care of terminal patients.
Watching my father die was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. And I know in my heart that I'll never forget what I saw and heard on the day that he died. But my father gave me life, and he gave me love. And in return, I made a promise to myself to be with him when he died. I felt as though I somehow needed to mark the end. I wanted to be there to wipe his brow, to hold his hand, and to comfort him as best I could. The funny thing is, it was he who did the comforting; it was he who tried so desperately to make sense of the situation. And it was he who gave great meaning to his life and death by reaching out to those around him. My father was a wealth of knowledge and strength. And at a time when denial and self-pity would've been both encouraged and accepted, he rose to the challenge and — once and for all — displayed the indomitable strength of the human spirit.
My dad once told me that although she had been gone more than half a century, he thought of his mother every single day. He also admitted that while he was incredibly sad to be leaving his family, he was so looking forward to seeing her in Heaven and giving her a long-overdue hug.
I still cry each time I think about that conversation, although the meaning of the tears has transformed over time. Where they were once a symbol of my immense grief, they've ultimately come to reflect a reluctant acceptance that until a cure is found, more sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, will lose an integral part of their lives to this horrid disease.
My dad was a remarkable man, full of humility and God’s grace, and I think I can safely say that nothing would’ve pleased him more than to see the living legacy of his family. He would've been thrilled beyond words to know that the spirit of his love and laughter and courage continues to weave its way through the lives of my siblings and the next generations.
So today, I'll remember my father’s deep and unabiding faith in God Almighty and his tremendous love for his family, and I'll take great comfort in knowing that I've spent the day in a way he would relish — in a celebration of life.
