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.

why

When I write, especially when I write about the ones I love, I’m in charge. I control every person, every situation, and every reality on the screen.

I recall the lighting in the kitchen, the marble countertop and the cool air in the room; the firelight flickering on the dark walls; the color of their eyes; the leather seats of the living room sofa that are filled with the warmth and scent of family and friends, the crunch of the snow beneath the tires; the soft fabric of a throw tossed casually over a chair; the way he absently plays with the buttons of his coat as he talks; the headlights that cut through the falling snow, and the wet, shiny streets.

I rebuild our reality, our world, encased in the glass globe of my laptop or the soft parchment of my journal. I recreate the paths they walked throughout their lives; I recreate their trials, tribulations, celebrations, and demises. With each word I write, I create a parallel world, one in which I’m in charge.

In my mind, I see their lives, their relationships, and their daily goings on, where it plays in reverse. Where scenes of events, people and actions snap by, frame by frame; click, click, click.

On occasion, my own life weaves itself into their stories. The art imitates the life. I live their lives as they’re reborn from my fingertips. They live their lives completely, whereas many only live within the confines of limits and obstacles. Most people don't want to break the speed limit. But the ones I love? They take the risks others are too cautious to take. They say the things others are too shy to say. Fear has never been a factor for them.

The characters on the screen are merely vessels and for them, rejection is only written, never felt; heartbreak is sympathized, but never devastating. The night is only darkness, not loneliness.

I tell their stories, and I can save them of the things from which I can’t save myself.

It’s hard, playing God. It’s demanding, and at times it’s all-consuming. Quite frankly, I don’t know how He does it.

But when I turn away from the soft glow of the computer screen, or hear the distinct crackle of the journal’s spine as it closes, I’m always reminded of how grateful I am for Him and His presence.

And for that, I’m indeed very grateful.

30 / 30

Thirty minutes for thirty days.

Thirty minutes to write. Ponder. Hope. Imagine. Pray.

Thirty days to dream. Laugh. Encourage. Live. Pray.

Thirty minutes of writing for thirty days, all with the hope of donating enough money to help someone in need.

It could be your father or your mom. A sibling. A dear friend. The cashier at the market. Your mailman or dog groomer or the school crossing guard.

It could be you. Or me.

That’s the thing about life: you just never know what tomorrow will bring.

That’s why I’m supporting the American Cancer Society by participating in their 30 Minutes A Day In May Challenge. Write for thirty minutes each day for a month, and hope that some of you will support this endeavor by making a pledge to the ACS.

Cancer’s a horrible disease; we all know it. I don’t need to quote statistics, especially when I’m certain that most of the folks following along on this journey have experienced the fear and chaos on a first-hand basis.

And so I’ll simply say this: cancer stinks. Profound, I know, but there’s really no sense in trying to sugar-coat a disease that’s as pervasive and unrelenting as this one.

Feel free to join me here for the duration of May as I prattle on about life and love and family and why I am the way I am. If you feel so moved, please consider making a donation to the American Cancer Society. While I’m unsure if a cure will be found during the remainder of my life, I can and will pray that one be made available during the lifetimes of our next generation.

In the meantime, make yourself at home and comment as you see fit. Just try not to burn the place down.

And we’re off …

This begins our journey of a thousand words.

So to speak.

What this is, in reality, is our first blog post on our first website after publishing our first book and starting our first company.

It’s a lot to take in. Trust us, we know.

It’s taken a very long time for us to get to this point, but we held tight to the promises we made to each other so long ago: don’t ever give up, and never stop believing.

The truth be told, those aren’t even our promises. They’re Polly’s. We’re just blessed enough to be able to pick up the torch and carry on.

And we will. We are.

We’ve got plenty to tell you, so you’ll be hearing from us again soon. In the meantime, please know how much we value your support, your advice, and your friendship.

Welcome to the fun, folks.